«Right, heres the deal. Either you help me strip Vicky of her parental rights, or Im walking out, and you lot can sort this mess yourselves.»
«Natasha, for heavens sake! Shes your sister! My daughter!» Mum threw her hands up before clutching her chest in dramatic fashion.
«And what am I? Chopped liver?» Natashas voice cracked with hurt. «Sometimes I think Im not even a person to you. Cant you see whats happening? Ive grown attached to little AlfieI love himand you lot just… Either help me, or Ill handle it alone. But Im not backing down.»
Mum looked away, torn between her daughters. Dad just scowled into his mashed potatoes, stirring them like he might find answers in there. Natasha, realising shed lost this round, stood up and marched to her room.
Well, that settled it. Her parents had chosenand it wasnt her. Or Alfie.
She started packing, which didnt take long. Her heart ached, but she knew this had to be done.
Then came the hardest part: a small boy clinging to her legs, sobbing.
«Mummy, dont go» Alfie begged, watching her stuff clothes into a bag.
*Mummy.* That word stabbed her heart every time. Natasha sighed, knelt down, and forced a smile.
«Im not leaving *you*, Alfie,» she whispered, hugging him tight. «Im leaving so things can be better someday. Ill come back. For good. Promise.»
Alfie wailed, not understanding why his favourite auntthe one hed called «Mum» for yearswas abandoning him. He clung to her jumper so desperately she couldnt leave until hed cried himself to sleep. Only then did she tiptoe out into the chilly London night.
At that moment, Natasha *loathed* Vicky. This was all her fault.
…Vicky had started going off the rails at sixteen. First, it was just late nights, then «sleepovers at a friends»though everyone knew what kind of «friends» those were. Shed stumble home smeared with mascara, reeking of cheap perfume, sometimes crying. And Mum and Dad would fuss over her like she was some delicate porcelain doll.
A pregnancy was inevitable. At seventeen, Vicky got knocked upcouldnt even name the father, just some bloke from a party.
Alfie arrived. Vicky quickly realised motherhood wasnt her calling. First, she left him overnight. Then she vanished entirely.
«Im still young. Im not throwing my life away,» shed told Natasha over the phone when pressed for answers.
So the «throwing away» fell to Natasha. Grandpa couldnt be bothered beyond the occasional rattly toy. Granny helped, but she worked full-time.
Natasha was eighteen. She switched to distance learning to care for a newborn. Soon, she was more his mother than Vicky ever waseven christened him herself.
It was brutal. Night feeds, sleepless study sessions, hauling a pram up council estate stairs. She juggled nappies and exams, all while running the household.
By six months, shed found a rhythmthen Vicky waltzed back in, sobbing, begging forgiveness.
«I was such an idiot. Ill do better now,» she sniffled.
They all believed her. Even Natasha *wanted* to. And for a month, Vicky played mumuntil the novelty wore off. Then she bolted again, this time nicking Mums jewellery on the way out.
«Shes struggling,» Mum insisted. «Shell come back. She just needs time.»
Natasha stopped believing. Once was a mistake. Twice? A pattern. But what choice did she have? Her parents lived in a fantasy where Vicky got infinite chances.
So Natasha carried onstudying, raising Alfie, dragging him to nursery and doctors appointments. She prayed Vicky wouldnt return.
No such luck. Four years later, Vicky reappeared on the doorstep.
«I thought he loved me. Was gonna take Alfie, start fresh. Turned out he just used me,» she sniffed, batting her lashes at their parents. «I was strandedno job, no friends, not even train fare!»
«Mustve been *starving*,» Natasha deadpanned, eyeing Vickys new curves.
Mum shot her a look. Conversation over.
But the worst? When Natasha brought Alfie home from nursery, Granny pushed him toward Vicky. He burst into tears, hiding behind Natasha.
«Whats wrong? This is your *mummy*,» Granny cooed.
«*Shes* not Mummy! *She* is!» Alfie clung to Natasha.
«Natashas just your aunt. Vickys your *real* mum,» Granny corrected.
Natashas heart shattered.
And of course, history repeated.
Vicky mooched off them for two months, refusing work. «Whod hire me with a kid? Im basically on maternity leave,» she scoffed when Natasha asked her plans.
Then*poof*gone again. This time, Instagram revealed her new «beau,» a bloke twice her age.
«Right. Another barfly,» Natasha muttered.
Hope died. What now?
She vented to her mate, Nina.
«Easy. Strip her of rights. Social servicesll see shes never been around,» Nina shrugged. «Or wait till she wrecks Alfies head *again*. Your call.»
Natasha hesitated. «What if they take *him*? And Mumll lose it.»
«Then keep suffering. But ask yourselfwheres *your* life in all this?»
Natasha hadnt dated in years. Guys bolted when they heard she had a «kid.» Only Alex, a uni mate, stuck aroundbut shed brushed him off.
Until now.
With Alex, she felt *normal*. He listened. Helped. So when she stormed out after her ultimatum, she went to him.
«Move in with me,» he said simply.
«I cant. Alfie»
«So well be a trio.»
Natasha gaped. «But hes not even yours»
«Nat,» Alex cut in, «Im not daft. If hes family to you, hes family to me.»
For the first time, hope flickered.
The next six months were hellsocial workers, paperwork, court. Worse, she couldnt take Alfie straight away. He cried, begged, waited.
«You *stole* her child!» Mum screamed.
«Like she ever *wanted* him,» Natasha shot back.
Her parents disowned her. Only Alex and friends stood by.
But after the storm comes the calm.
…Years later, Natasha watched Alfie teach his little sister, Daisy, to kick a ball. Alex squeezed her shoulder. She smiled.
Vicky? No idea. Probably still partying, still playing victim.
Her parents never forgave her. Fine.
*Let them coddle Vicky forever,* Natasha thought. *Ill look after the ones who matter. The sun warmed the back garden as Daisy shrieked with laughter, chasing the ball into the net. Alfie, all elbows and grin, high-fived her like shed scored in the final. Natasha leaned into Alex, breathing in the quiet joy of a life built not from blood, but from choice. Inside, the kettle whistledan ordinary sound, a steady rhythm. This was her home. Her family. And no ghost from the past could take that away.
