So I went to surprise my pregnant daughter, Emma and found her unconscious. Her husband, James, was out on his yacht, sleeping with another woman. I sent him just a few words, and he went pale in an instant.
The rag in my hand stood no chance against the stubborn grease stain sinking into the cheap carpet. It felt like a metaphor for my lifealways cleaning up messes I didnt make. A pile of laundry towered on the chair beside me, the sharp scent of washing powder rising from the plastic tub. That was my world: small, quiet, and always needing tidying.
Then the phone rangharsh, jarring, slicing through the afternoon silence. Emmas name flashed on the screen. My heart hammered as I wiped my hands on my apron and answered.
Her voice was weak, strained with pain:
«Mum my stomach it hurts. I dont feel right»
Before I could ask anything else, the line went dead. Just ragged breathing, then silence.
«Emma?!» I screamed, calling back immediately. No answer. Ice-cold fear gripped me. «EMMA!» I yelled into the empty house, knowing it was useless.
No time to think. I grabbed my coat, my bag, and ran out, not even stopping to lock the door.
The heat outside hit me like a wall. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I flagged down a cab.
«34 Oak Lanequick as you can!»
The driver mustve seen the panic in my eyes. He floored it. On the way, I called James.
«Emmas in trouble. Where are you?»
No reply. Straight to voicemail. My fear turned to fury. James, you bloody coward, where are you when she needs you?
When the cab stopped outside her house, the front door was ajar. My stomach dropped. I rushed inside.
«Emma! Love!»
The living room looked like a bomb had gone offshattered glass, an overturned chair, a dark red spill on the table (wine? juice?). In the corner, Emmas phone glowed faintly.
And then I saw her. My daughter, curled on the floor, pale as paper, one hand clutching her belly.
«Emma!» I dropped to my knees, shaking her gently, then harder. «Wake up, sweetheart! Mums here!»
Nothing. Her skin was cold and clammy. Hands trembling, I dialled 999.
«34 Oak Lanemy daughters unconscious! Shes pregnant! Please, hurry!»
Waiting for the ambulance was agony. I stroked her hair, whispering, «Hold on, love. Ive got you.»
When the sirens finally wailed outside, relief nearly buckled my knees.
In the ambulance, chaos. A young paramedic checked the monitor. «Babys alive, but the pulse is weak.» Another slid a needle into Emmas arm. She didnt flinch.
«Ruptured membranes, heavy bleeding. Prep for emergency C-section!» blared over the radio.
At the hospital, doors slammed open. «Crash section, now!» a doctor barked. I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me.
«Stay here. Well do everything we can.»
The doors shut. I collapsed into a plastic chair, minutes stretching into hours.
Finally, the doctor emerged. «Youre Emmas mother?» I nodded. «The babys here. A boy. Hes premature, in the NICU. Your daughter she had severe haemorrhaging. Shes in a coma.»
The words gutted me. A grandson. A coma.
Hours blurred into nightmare. I paced between the NICU and Emmas room. In the incubator, my tiny grandson fought, fists clenched. «Keep fighting, little one,» I whispered, pressing a hand to the glass. «Grans here.»
Back to Emma. Motionless, pale under harsh lights, only the beep of machines breaking the silence. «Emma, wake up,» I begged, squeezing her limp hand. «Your boy needs you.»
I called James, texted, left voicemails. «Your wifes fighting for her life. Get here NOW.» Nothing. Rage burned through me.
That night, overhearing nurses gossip about some flashy yacht party in Brighton, it felt like another universe. Until I spotted a group of girls huddled around a phone, giggling.
On the screenJames. Smug, in a sharp suit, kneeling before a woman in a red bikini. Fireworks, cheers. A bloody proposal.
My breath vanished. While Emma fought for her life, he was celebrating.
I pulled out Emmas phone from my bag. One unread message:
«Your husbands mine now.»
Attached: James wrapped around the same woman. Sent minutes before Emma collapsed.
Now it made sense. The final blow. Security footage from her living room showed it allEmma, ghost-white, reading the text, trying to call. Her whisper: «James, where are you?» Then the fall. Shattered glass. Silence.
Tears streamed down my face, but my hands were steady. I saved the footage, screenshotted everything. No longer just a grieving mothernow a soldier gathering evidence.
At Emmas house, more proof: flight tickets in James name, luxury hotel receipts, a £15,000 Rolexall paid from her account. Hed been funding his double life with her savings.
Using power of attorney Emma signed years ago, I froze every account. James blew up my phone, leaving threats: «Unlock those accounts, Elaine. Or youll regret it.» Every word recorded.
My solicitor, Arthur Clarke, scanned the evidence. «This isnt just infidelity. Its fraud. Well destroy him.»
The trial was brutal. Arthur laid it all outbank statements, receipts, the footage. The proposal video played in court. James triumph became his humiliation. When they showed Emmas collapse, the room froze.
James went sheet-white. His smirk vanished.
When the judge let me speak, I stood. «While my daughter and grandson fought to live, 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 Emma. Restraining order. Every penny returned.
James screamed Id pay, but his fiancée, Jessica, spat in his face: «I dont do losers.» Then walked out.
Left bankrupt, alone, cameras flashing like vultures.
Months later, Emmaholding baby Leolaunched our charity, «New Dawn,» helping single mothers. Her smile was back.
We survived the storm. And I knewwed never walk alone again.
