The cloth in my hand stood no chance against the stubborn oil stain sinking into the cheap carpet. Staring at it, I couldnt help but see it as a metaphor for my lifeconstantly cleaning up messes I hadnt made. A pile of laundry towered beside me, the sharp scent of detergent rising from the plastic bucket. This was my world: small, quiet, and always in need of tidying.
Then the phone ranga shrill, jarring sound slicing through the afternoon silence. The screen flashed: *Emily*. My daughter. A mix of love and dread tightened my chest. I wiped my hands on my apron, my heart hammering as I answered.
Her voice was faint, strained with pain.
«Mum my stomach it hurts. I dont feel right»
Before I could reply, the line went deadjust the ragged sound of her panicked breath, then silence.
«Emily?!» I screamed, redialling instantly. The phone rang and rang. No answer. Ice-cold fear gripped me. «EMILY!» I shouted into the empty house, knowing it was useless.
I didnt hesitate. Grabbing my coat and bag, I bolted outside, leaving the door wide open.
The summer heat hit me like a wall. Sweat prickled my forehead as I flagged down a cab. «24 Oak Lane, please. Hurry!»
The driver mustve seen the panic in my eyeshe slammed the accelerator. On the way, I called *James*, my son-in-law.
*Emilys ill. Where are you?*
No reply. Straight to voicemail. My fear twisted into fury. *James, you cowardwhere are you when she needs you?*
The cab screeched to a halt outside her house. The front door was ajar. My heart stopped. I rushed inside.
«Emily! Love!»
The living room looked like a storm had torn through itshattered glass, an overturned chair, a dark red spill (wine or juice?) staining the table. Her phone glowed in the corner, discarded.
Then I saw her. My daughter lay curled on the floor, pale as paper, one hand clutching her swollen belly.
«Emily!» I dropped to my knees, shaking her gently, then harder. «Wake up, sweetheart! Mums here!»
Nothing. Her skin was clammy, cold. With trembling fingers, I dialled 999.
«24 Oak Lanemy daughters unconscious! Shes pregnant! Please, hurry!»
Waiting for the ambulance was agony. I stroked her hair, whispering, «Hold on, darling. Im here. Ive got you.»
When sirens finally wailed outside, relief nearly buckled my knees.
Inside the ambulance, chaos. A young paramedic eyed the monitor. «Babys alive, but the pulse is weak.» Another slid a needle into Emilys arm. She didnt flinch.
«Ruptured membranes, heavy bleeding. Prep for emergency C-section!» crackled over the radio.
At the hospital, the doors burst open. «Get her to theatrenow!» a doctor barked. I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me.
«Wait here. Well do everything we can.»
The doors slammed shut. I collapsed into a hard plastic chair. Minutes dragged like hours.
Finally, the doctor emerged. «Youre Emilys mother?» I nodded. «The babys here. A boy. Hes premature, in the NICU. Your daughter she haemorrhaged badly. Shes in a coma.»
The words gutted me. A grandson. A coma.
The next hours were a blurracing between the NICU, where my tiny grandson fought in his incubator, and Emilys bedside, her face ghostly under the harsh lights. «Wake up, love,» I begged, gripping her limp hand. «Your boy needs you.»
I called James. Texted. *Your wife is DYING. Get here.* Silence. Rage burned through me.
That night, I overheard nurses gossiping about some lavish boat party down at the marina. A different worlduntil I saw a group huddled around a phone, giggling.
There he was. *James*. Grinning, in a white blazer, on one knee before a woman in a red bikini. Fireworks. Cheers. A proposal.
My breath left me. While Emily fought for her life, he was*proposing* to someone else.
Shaking, I pulled out Emilys phone from my bag. One unread message:
*Hes mine now.*
Attached: James embracing the same woman. Sent minutes before Emily collapsed.
The security footage showed it allEmily, pale, reading the text, whispering, «James, where *are* you?» Then the fall. The silence.
Tears streamed down my face, but my hands were steady. I saved the video, screenshotted everything. No longer just a grieving motherI was gathering ammunition.
At her house, I found more: flight tickets in his name, a receipt for a £15,000 Rolexall paid from *her* account. Hed been funding his double life with Emilys savings.
Using the power of attorney shed signed years ago, I froze every account. James blew up my phone with threats: «Undo it, Margaret. Or youll regret it.» Every word recorded.
My solicitor, *Thomas Wright*, studied the evidence. «This isnt just infidelity. Its fraud. Well destroy him.»
Court was a spectacle. Thomas laid it barebank statements, receipts, the proposal video. When they played the footage of Emily collapsing, the room gasped.
James paled, his smirk vanishing.
When the judge gave me the floor, I stood. «While my daughter and grandson fought to live, this man was proposing to another woman. He stole her money, her trustand nearly killed her. I dont want pity. I want justice.»
The verdict was brutal: full custody to Emily, a restraining order, every penny returned.
James screamed Id «pay for this,» but his fiancée, *Charlotte*, spat in his face: «I dont date losers.» She walked out without a glance.
Cameras flashed as he stood alone, ruined.
Months later, Emilycradling baby *Oliver*launched our charity, *Second Chances*, for single mothers abandoned in pregnancy. Her eyes shone again.
Wed weathered the storm. And I knew wed never walk this road alone again.
