“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!”
After college, Emily left her quiet provincial town for London to continue her studies. One night out with friends at a club, she met Jack—a charming Londoner whose parents were away on a year-long business trip abroad. She fell for him completely and soon moved into his place.
They lived lavishly, thanks to his parents’ generous allowance. Every night was either clubbing or throwing wild parties at home. At first, Emily loved it. But before she knew it, she had racked up debts and missed so many lectures that she failed her winter exams. She was at risk of being kicked out.
Emily swore she’d turn things around and retake the exams. She buried herself in books, locking herself in the bathroom whenever Jack’s mates came over. She managed to scrape through—barely. Then she tried convincing Jack to grow up. His final year was ending; he’d graduate soon.
“Lighten up, Em. We only live once. Youth doesn’t last. If not now, when?” he’d say carelessly.
She was too ashamed to tell her mum she was living with a boyfriend—no ring, no vows. When she called home, she lied and said they’d married in a registry office, planning a proper wedding once Jack’s parents returned.
One day during lectures, Emily felt dizzy, nauseous. She couldn’t remember her last period. A pregnancy test confirmed her worst fear.
It was early days, but Jack pushed her to have an abortion. Their first real fight exploded—Jack stormed out and didn’t come home for two days. Emily sobbed, pacing the flat, sick with waiting. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone. A tipsy blonde clung to him, barely standing. Exhausted and furious, Emily screamed at Jack, shoving the girl toward the door.
“She’s not leaving. If you don’t like it, *you* get out!” he snarled—then slapped her hard across the face.
Grabbing her coat, she fled. She walked all the way to student housing, face swollen, mascara streaked. The porter took pity and let her in.
The next day, Jack came begging—swore he’d never hit her again, pleaded for her to come back. For the baby’s sake, she believed him.
Somehow, she passed first year. Too scared to go home—what would her mother say? But staying in London terrified her too. Jack’s parents would return soon, and there she’d be—pregnant, a wreck.
When his parents arrived, his father took one look at Emily—small-town, barely into second year—and offered her a cruel deal. Take the money, leave their son alone.
“Be realistic. Is he father material? All he cares about is partying. Hell, how do we even know it’s his? Take the cash. Go home. It’s better for everyone.”
Humiliated, Emily refused—though later, she wished she hadn’t. Jack stayed silent. She packed up and left for her mum’s.
The moment her mother saw her pregnant on the doorstep, she knew.
“Where’s your husband?” she snapped, blocking the door. “Guessing there isn’t one. Got yourself knocked up by some London boy, eh? Did he at least pay you off?”
“Mum, how can you—? I don’t want his money!”
“Then why come here? We barely scraped by just us two. Thought you’d won the lottery, marrying a posh lad. Now you’re back, belly out. Where’s this baby supposed to sleep? We’re already cramped—four of us soon!”
“Four?” Emily whispered.
“While you were off gallivanting, *I* found someone. What? I’m not dead yet. Raised you alone—never had a life. Now it’s my turn. He’s younger. I won’t have him staring at you.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Emily choked out.
“Back to the father. He made that baby—let him provide.”
No pity. No warmth. Their relationship had always been strained, but now her mother might as well have been a stranger.
Emily took her bag and left. She sat on a bench and wept. Where could she go? If even her mother wouldn’t care, who would? For a second, she thought of stepping into traffic—but the baby kicked, as if protesting. She couldn’t do it.
“Emily?” A girl stopped in front of her. Blinking through tears, Emily barely recognized her.
“It’s me, Sophie Wilson. We went to school together. Why are you—?” Sophie’s gaze dropped to her belly. “You’re pregnant?”
The story spilled out between sobs.
“Come stay with me,” Sophie said. “Parents are at the cottage till autumn. Better than the streets.”
Emily had no choice. Her legs buckled from exhaustion; she was starving.
Sophie’s flat was warm, safe. “Rest,” she said, nudging Emily onto the sofa. “I’ll make food. I’m working at the hospital over break—studying to be a nurse. Heard you were at uni in London?”
“*Was*,” Emily murmured, eyes closing.
Days later, Sophie burst in, excited. An elderly stroke patient at her ward needed a live-in carer—her daughter refused to take her.
“I thought of you. No one else wants the job.”
“But—I’m due soon!”
“You’ll manage. I’ll help. *Please*, Em. It’s a roof.”
Terrified but desperate, Emily agreed.
The daughter—a brash woman dripping in gold—barely glanced at Emily. “Pregnant? You’ll cope?”
Sophie jumped in: “She will. I’ll help. Her boyfriend threw her out.”
“Not my problem. No wages—just room and board. Mum’s pension covers her needs. Spend it wisely. I’ll check receipts.” She shoved a card at Emily. “Call only if it’s serious.”
And just like that, Emily became Mrs. Whitaker’s carer. The old woman barely spoke, just wept silently. Emily fed her, wiped her tears, told her everything—her mistakes, her fears.
A month later, contractions hit. Sophie took over while Emily gave birth to a tiny girl—Lily. Back home, she juggled newborn cries and Mrs. Whitaker’s murmurs. One day, she left Lily in her pram by the bed—returning to find the old woman humming, the baby drifting off.
From then, Mrs. Whitaker helped—Lily slept to her soft sounds, freeing Emily’s hands.
Time passed. Lily learned to stand; Mrs. Whitaker faded. She died peacefully in her sleep.
Her daughter arrived for the funeral, coldly ordering Emily out. “Warned you—no claim to the flat. Selling it.”
“Please, just till it’s sold—I’ve nowhere—”
“Not my problem.”
While sorting paperwork, the daughter found a will—the flat was Emily’s. She screamed, accused her of foul play.
Sophie stepped in. Mrs. Whitaker had sent for a solicitor, sound of mind. “No court will evict a single mother. The neighbours’ll vouch—you never visited. Emily cared for her.”
And so, Emily stayed. Lily started nursery; Emily took a receptionist job, picking up care shifts.
Just as life steadied, her mother turned up—crying on the doorstep. She’d had major surgery, sold her flat to cover bills. Now she’d come to live out her days.
Against her better judgment, Emily relented. She was still her mum.
One sunny afternoon, walking with Lily and Sophie, Emily realised she’d forgotten her phone.
“Leave it,” Sophie said.
“What if Mum needs me?”
She rushed back—and overheard her mother on the phone:
“…She’s out… I hardly touch my money, saving rent… Soon I’ll have enough… Me? Oh, darling, I could’ve been an actress… Just strap this padding down—”
*”Mum!”*
Her mother spun, phone clutched to her chest.
“You *lied*? No surgery? You’re *renting* your flat? Paying off some man? After throwing me out pregnant? You’re a *monster*! Women like you shouldn’t *have* children!”
“It’s not—”
“Be gone by the time I’m back.”
Outside, Sophie took one look at Emily’s face. “Your mum?”
“She *used* me. No illness—just funding her lover. All that *acting*—groaning, limping—while I waited on her!”
“What’ll you do?”
“I *can’t* forgive her. Remember what she put me through? That old woman’s *smell*, the nappies—I nearly broke. And now *this*? Some mothers deserve nothing.”
Sophie sighed. “We don’t choose them. Mine died young—that’s why I became a nurse. But… I’d forgive anything to have her back.”
Emily walked home dreading the confrontation—onlyWhen she opened the door, she found only silence—her mother was gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of perfume and a crumpled note on the table, the ink smudged with what might have been tears.
