She Would Manage
Alison, or «Ally» as everyone called her, had grown up in a council-run children’s home. Life had never been kind, but it had made her toughsharp enough to stand up for herself and fierce enough to protect the younger ones. Fairness mattered to her, deeply. She couldnt stand watching the weak being bullied, even if it meant taking a few knocks herself. But she never cried. She wore her bruises like badgesproof shed fought for what was right.
Her name had been Alison at birth, but the care home had shortened it, just like theyd clipped the wings of every kid who passed through. At eighteen, they turned her loose into the world with little more than a council flat in a grim part of Manchester and a job as a kitchen assistant at a local café. The flat was grimpeeling walls, a front door that barely lockedbut it was hers.
Then there was Vince. Three years older, a delivery driver for the cafés van, solid in a way that made her feel safe. He had a small flat left by his nan, and when he said, *»Move in with me, Ally. This place is a dump, and I could use the company,»* she didnt hesitate.
She liked that he was steady. Serious. Until one night, over tea, he said, *»Kids? Cant stand the little buggers. Noise, messjust a hassle.»*
*»Vince,»* she frowned, *»but if its yoursyour own bloodhow could you say that?»*
He shrugged. *»Not changing my mind. Dont want em, full stop.»*
It stung, but she pushed the thought aside. Maybe hed come around.
At work, she threw herself into cookingcovering for Val, the head chef, whenever she called in «sick.» Everyone knew Vals real problem: the bottle. The café owner, Mr. Thompson, had warned her before. *»One more no-show, Val, and youre done.»* But Val was goodtoo good to fire outright.
Then, one week, Val vanished. Ally took over, and not a single customer complained. When Val finally dragged herself back inshaking, dark circles under her eyesMr. Thompson pulled her into his office. Fired her on the spot.
*»Ally,»* he said later, *»youre head chef now. Youve got the hands for it. Just keep pushing.»*
She couldve cried with relief. The pay bump meant securityreal security.
That night, Vince brought home cheap champagne. *»To the new chef,»* he smirked. *»Knew youd land on your feet.»*
But as months passed, he never mentioned marriage. Never even hinted. Then, one day, the test turned positive.
She told him that evening, glowing. *»Vince were having a baby.»*
His face went flat. *»Not what I want. Get rid of it, or get out. Your choice.»* His voice was calm, icy. *»Where you gonna go, eh? Back to that shithole flat?»*
She worked her shift the next day in a daze. Went home, packed her things. The council flat was exactly as shed left itdamp, the ceiling flaking, dead flies on the sill. The bed had a stained mattress; the wardrobe door hung crooked.
She set her bag down. Touched her stomach. *»Well manage,»* she whispered.
The kitchen down the hall was a horrorcracked tiles, a fridge that hummed like it was dying. Back in her room, she jammed the latch shut. The anger came sharp, then faded. For the first time, she felt free.
*»Where you gonna go?»* Vince had sneered.
Well. Here.
She scrubbed the floors, washed the windows until they shone. Bought a new lock, paid the handyman, Terry, a fiver to fit it. Slowly, the flat became hers.
At work, a new waiter, Tom, started. Quiet, kind. One night, walking her home, she invited him up for teajust to be polite. But the way he looked at her
*»Ally,»* he said one evening, hands rough from his second job, *»marry me. Ive got no one. Youve got no one. Lets be each others someone.»*
She glanced down at her bump.
*»I know,»* he said softly. *»Thats my kid too, if youll let me.»*
The day she gave birth, Tom was there, pacing. When they came home, the flat was transformedfresh paint, a crib in the corner. Balloons everywhere.
She stood in the doorway, her son in her arms, and finally believed it:
She *had* managed.
