– “Emily, please come home, I beg you…”
– “Mum, you know I wont.”
– “Darling, please, hes not well…”
– “Dont ask me. Im not coming.”
“I hate him!” Emily flung the phone across the room in frustration. She stormed to the fridge, yanked the door open, and grabbed a bottle of gin. Pouring a shot, she hesitated before dumping it down the sink. Slumping onto a stool, she burst into tears.
It had been ten years since shed last set foot in her childhood home.
Back in sixth form, Emily had fallen in love. Her friends often sneaked off to university parties or local clubs, and one night, swayed by peer pressure, she joined them. There, she met *Him*. He played in a band, sang beautifully, and was the son of a diplomat. Girls trailed after him, dreaming of his attentionso why had he chosen *her*? But she didnt question it. She fell hard, skipping classes, neglecting chores, lying to her parents just to see him.
The whirlwind romance ended when she got pregnant. He started avoiding her, then vanished entirely. Soon after, his mother appeared, offering to arrange a “private appointment” with a specialist. “We never wanted a reckless girl like you for our son,” shed said coldly.
Emily delayed telling her mother, but when her bump became impossible to hide, she confessed.
“You disgraceful little slut!” her father roared. “Is this what I raised? Shaming us like this? Get out! I never want to see you again!”
Her mother wept silently. She had long surrendered to her husbands temper, his iron grip on the household. Defiance was pointless.
With a backpack stuffed with a few tops and jeans, Emily left.
At first, she crashed with friends, but their patience wore thin. Borrowing money from a mate, she took a train to Manchester, where an auntbarely remembered from her mothers rare storieswas supposed to live. But when she arrived, neighbours said her aunt had moved away years ago, married now, whereabouts unknown.
Starving and desperate, Emily wandered back to the station. Elderly women sold homemade pasties to travellers. She eyed one, stomach growling, and in a moment of shameful hunger, tried to snatch one. The stall owner grabbed her wristthen froze, noticing her swollen belly.
Between mouthfuls of the pity-given pasty, Emily spilled her story. The woman, a widow, took her in.
Until the birth, Emily sold baked goods at the station, clinging to hope shed earn enough to return home, that her father might soften. But Manchester became her life for a decade.
She had a daughter. The widow became “Gran,” minding the baby while Emily workedfirst as a cleaner, then filling in as a shop assistant. Hard work earned her promotions: supervisor, then department manager. When the shop was replaced by a supermarket, she climbed higher. Now, she oversaw multiple sections, respected, her opinion valued.
After her daughters birth, shed called her mother, longing to return. But her mother warned against ither father had erased her from his life.
When Gran passed, leaving Emily her terraced house, she called again. She needed help; work consumed her, her daughter often alone. “Mum could escape that tyrant,” she reasoned. But her mother refused. Contact faded.
And nowthis call.
For ten years, shed ached to hear, “Come home.” But *now*? What did he want? An apology? “*Sorry, Dad, I was wrong*”?
The rage had dulled, replaced by sorrowfor the lack of understanding, the pride that cost her so much.
But shed built a good life. A stylish home. A daughter in a top grammar school. A fiancé who adored her.
“Would I even be this strong if he hadnt thrown me out?” she wondered. Forgiveness wasnt for himit was for *her*. To move on.
Emily phoned work, explained, then packed her suitcase.
Sometimes, letting go of the past is the only way to step into the future.
