**No Joy Without Struggle**
*»How on earth did you land yourself in this mess, you foolish girl? Wholl take you now with a baby on the way? And how dyou expect to raise it? Dont look to me for help. Ive raised you onceI wont do it again. Pack your things and get out of my house!»*
Emily kept her head bowed, silent. The last flicker of hopethat Aunt Margaret might let her stay, even just until she found workvanished like smoke in the wind.
*»If only Mum were still here…»*
Emily had never known her father. Her mother was struck by a drunk driver at a zebra crossing fifteen years ago. Social services were moments from sending the girl to a childrens home when a distant cousin of her mothers, a woman with a steady job and a tidy semi-detached in Sheffield, unexpectedly took her in.
Aunt Margaret lived on the edge of town, where summers were lush and winters damp. Emily was always fed, clothed, and put to work. The house had a garden, and there were always choreshoovering, weeding, mending. Warmth and affection were scarce, but who missed what theyd never had?
She did well in school and studied teaching at college. Those carefree years slipped by too fast. Now exams were over, and shed returned to the place she called homeonly to be met with fury.
*»Enough. Get out of my sight.»*
*»Please, Aunt Margaret, just let me»*
*»Ive said my piece!»*
Emily picked up her suitcase and stepped into the street. Had she ever imagined returning like this? Shamed, cast out, and carrying a childstill early days, but shed confessed it. She couldnt hide it any longer.
She needed somewhere to stay. Lost in thought, she wandered past hedgerows heavy with blackberries, past gardens where roses drooped in the heat. The air smelled of cut grass and Sunday roasts. Thirsty, she stopped at a gate where a woman stood by a greenhouse.
*»Excuse me, might I have some water?»*
Margareta stout woman in her fiftiesturned. *»Come in, if you mean no trouble.»* She filled a mug from the tap and handed it over. Emily drank greedily, then sank onto a wooden bench.
*»Mind if I rest here awhile? Its sweltering.»*
*»Suit yourself. Wherere you headed with that suitcase?»*
*»Finished college, hoping to teach. But Ive nowhere to stay. You wouldnt know anyone renting a room?»*
Margaret studied herneat but weary, eyes shadowed with worry.
*»You can stop with me. Wont charge much, but pay on time. If that suits you, Ill show you the room.»*
A lodger meant extra coin, and her son rarely visited from Manchester. Company would be welcome on long winter nights.
Emily barely believed her luck. The room was small but cosya bed, a wardrobe, a view of the garden. They agreed terms, and after changing, she hurried to the council offices.
Days blurred into weekswork, home, work. Calendar pages turned like leaves in the wind.
She and Margaret grew close. Evenings were spent over tea in the conservatory, the scent of lavender drifting through the open window. The pregnancy was smoothno sickness, just the steady swell of her belly. She told Margaret everything.
A common enough tale: in her second year, shed fallen for Oliver, the golden boy of university. Charming, clever, bound for academia. Hed chosen quiet Emilyperhaps for her gentle smile, her quiet strength. Theyd been inseparable. Then, one morning, the nausea, the missed cycle. A test. Two lines.
Oliver had taken her to meet his parents that same night. The memory still burned. *»Terminate it,»* theyd said. *»He has a future. Youre not part of it.»*
The next day, Oliver left an envelope of cash on her desk and walked out without a word.
She kept the baby. It was hers. Hers alone.
Margaret had clasped her hand. *»Youre doing right. Every childs a blessing.»*
But Emily couldnt forgive Oliver. The betrayal festered.
Time rolled on. She waddled like a penguin, counting kicks, wonderingboy or girl? The scan was unclear. Healthy was all that mattered.
In late February, her waters broke. Margaret drove her to hospital. The birth was quick. A boy. *»Little Henry,»* she whispered, stroking his downy cheek.
The other mothers told her a story: two days prior, the partner of a Royal Navy officer had given birth to a girl. They werent married. *»Fuss he made! Champagne, roses for the midwives. Then she left a notenot readyand vanished.»*
*»What happens to the baby?»*
*»Bottle-fed, but the nurse says shed thrive on breastmilk.»*
When the nurse brought the tiny girl in, Emily didnt hesitate. *»Ill feed her.»* She cradled the child*»Little Grace,»* she murmuredand offered her breast. The baby latched weakly, then slept.
Two days later, the nurse said Graces father wished to meet her.
Thats how Emily met Lieutenant Oliver Hathawaybroad-shouldered, blue-eyed, his uniform crisp.
What happened next became hospital legend, then town gossip, because the ending was worth retelling.
On discharge day, staff gathered at the entrance. A Land Rover idled at the kerb, ribbons and balloons tied to the antenna. Oliver helped Emily inside, where Margaret waited, then handed her Henryand little Grace.
With a toot of the horn, they drove off, vanishing round the bend.
Lifes funny like that. You never know what consequences your choices will bring. Sometimes, the surprises are stranger than dreams.
