The cloth in my hand stood no chance against the stubborn oil stain sinking into the cheap carpet. It felt like a metaphor for my lifeconstantly cleaning up messes I didnt make. A pile of laundry towered on the chair beside me, the sharp scent of detergent rising from a plastic bucket. This was my world: small, quiet, and always needing tidying.
Then the phone rangsharp, jarring, slicing through the afternoon silence. The screen flashed: *Emily*. My daughter. Love and fear twisted in my chest as I wiped my hands on my apron and answered.
Her voice was a whisper, weak and strained.
Mum my stomach it hurts. I dont feel right
Before I could reply, the line went deadjust a panicked gasp, then silence.
Emily?! I shouted, dialing again. No answer. My heart turned to ice. EMILY! My scream echoed uselessly through the empty house.
I didnt stop to think. I grabbed my coat, my bag, and ran, leaving the door wide open.
Outside, the suns heat hit me like a wall. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I flagged down a cab.
34 Oak Lane. Quickly, please!
The driver must have seen my paniche slammed the accelerator. En route, I called James, my son-in-law.
*Emilys unwell. Where are you?*
No answer. Voicemail. My fear curdled into rage. *James, you bastard, where are you when she needs you?*
When the cab stopped outside her house, the front door was ajar. My heart stopped. I rushed inside.
Emily! Love!
The living room looked like a bomb had hit. Broken glass littered the floor, a chair was overturned, a dark red stainjuice or winespread across the table. In the corner, Emilys phone glowed on the floor.
Then I saw her. My daughter lay curled on her side, pale as wax, one hand clutching her swollen belly.
Emily! I dropped to my knees, shaking her gently, then harder. Wake up, sweetheart! Mums here!
Nothing. Her forehead was damp and cold. Hands trembling, I called 999.
34 Oak Lane. My daughters unconsciousshes pregnant! Please, hurry!
The wait for the ambulance was agony. I stroked her hair, whispering, Hold on, darling. Im here. I wont leave you.
When the sirens wailed, relief crashed over me.
Inside the ambulance, chaos reigned. A young paramedic eyed the heart monitor. Babys alive, but pulse is weak, she muttered. Another slid a needle into Emilys arm. She didnt flinch.
Premature rupture, massive haemorrhage. Prep the OR! crackled over the radio.
At the hospital, the doors burst open. Emergency C-section, now! a doctor barked. I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me.
Stay here. Well do everything we can.
The doors slammed shut. I collapsed onto a plastic chair in the hall, minutes stretching into hours.
Finally, the doctor emerged. Are you Emilys mother? I nodded. The babys here. A boy. Hes premature, in the NICU. Your daughter she had severe blood loss. Shes in a coma.
The words tore through me. A grandson. A coma. Critical condition.
Hours blurred into nightmare. I raced between the neonatal unit and Emilys bedside. In the incubator, my tiny grandson foughthis fists clenched, machines humming. Stay strong, little one, I whispered, pressing a hand to the glass.
Back in Emilys room, she lay motionless, pale under cold hospital lights, the only sound the steady beep of machines. Emily, wake up, I pleaded, gripping her limp hand. Your boy needs you.
I called James, texted, screamed into voicemail. *Your wife is fighting for her life. Get here.* Silence. Rage burned in my chest.
That night, in the corridor, I overheard nurses gossiping about a lavish yacht party down at the marina. It felt like another worlduntil I saw a group huddled around a phone.
On screen: James, grinning in a white tux, kneeling before a woman in a red bikini. Fireworks. Cheers. A proposal.
The air left my lungs. While my daughter fought for life, he was toasting his new future.
Shaking, I pulled Emilys phone from my bag. A single unread message:
*Hes mine now.*
Attached: James embracing the same woman. Sent moments before Emily collapsed.
I understood. This was the blow that broke her. The security footage showed it allEmily, ghostly pale, reading the text, dialing with trembling fingers. Her whisper: *James, where are you?* Then the crash, the silence.
Tears fell, but my hands were steady now. I saved the footage, screenshotted everything. No longer just a grieving motherI was a soldier gathering evidence.
At Emilys house, I found more: flight tickets in his name, receipts for five-star hotels, a £15,000 Rolexall paid from her account. Hed funded his double life with her savings.
Using power of attorney Emily signed years ago, I froze every account. James called, furious, leaving threats: Open the accounts, Helen. Youll regret this. Every word recorded.
My solicitor, Martin Hayes, reviewed the evidence. This isnt just adultery. Its fraud. Well destroy him, he said, voice like steel.
The trial was brutal. Martin laid it bare: bank statements, receipts, the yacht proposal video. When the footage of Emilys collapse played, the courtroom gasped.
James paled, his smug grin vanishing.
When the judge gave me the floor, I stood. While my daughter and grandson fought for life, this man proposed to another woman. He stole her money, her trust, and nearly killed her. I dont want mercy. I want justice.
The verdict was swift: full custody to Emily, a restraining order, every penny returned.
James screamed threats, but his fiancée, Rebecca, stepped forward. I dont date losers, she spat, walking out.
He stood alone, ruined, as cameras flashed like vultures.
Months later, Emilyholding baby Leolaunched our charity, New Dawn, supporting abandoned mothers. Her eyes shone again.
Wed survived the storm. And I knew wed never walk this road alone.
