Ally grew up in an orphanage, surrounded by other children and caretakers for as long as she could remember. Life had never been sweet, but she learned to stand up for herself and protect the younger ones. A fierce sense of justice burned inside hershe couldnt stand to see the weak bullied. Sometimes she took the blows herself, but she never cried. She knew she suffered for what was right.
Her real name was Albina, but the orphanage had shortened it to Ally. The day she turned eighteen, they released her into the wide, uncertain world. At least she had a tradeshed trained as a cook and had already been working as a kitchen assistant at a café for months. They gave her a room in a hostel, but it was a grim little place, barely fit for living.
Around that time, she started seeing Victor, a lad three years older who worked as a van driver for the same café. Before long, they moved in together at his one-bedroom flat, left to him by his late grandmother.
«Albina, come live with me,» hed said. «Whats the point of that hostel room? The lock barely works, and the place is falling apart.» She agreed without hesitation.
Victor appealed to her because he seemed mature, serious. Once, over tea, they talked about children, and he shrugged.
«Cant stand the little ankle-biters. Nothing but noise and trouble.»
«Victor,» she said, startled, «but if it was yoursyour own flesh and bloodhow could you say that?»
«Drop it, yeah? I said I dont like em, end of.»
His words stung, but she pushed the hurt aside. Maybe hed change his mind if they married. There was time.
At the café, Ally worked hard. She could even cover for the head cook, Valerie, when the woman called in sickwhich usually meant shed drunk too much the night before.
«One more slip-up, and youre out,» the manager, Max, warned Valerie. But he kept her on because customers loved her cooking.
«Brilliant chef youve got there, Max,» regulars would say.
Valerie knew she was only staying on because of her skill. She also noticed how quick Ally was, how the girl cooked with heart. And Max had started watching Ally, too.
One day, Ally overheard him talking to the floor manager.
«If Valerie skips again, shes done. Allys young, but shes got talent. Shes not spoiled, shes reliable.»
She didnt hear the restthey walked away.
So Max had been keeping an eye on her. Poor Valeriekind, but her habit was ruining her. Ally decided not to tell anyone, not even Victor.
Time passed. Valerie vanished for a whole week. Ally took over, and not a single customer complainedno one even noticed the switch. When Valerie finally returned, she was a wreck: shaking hands, dark circles under her eyes, barely able to lift her head.
Max walked into the kitchen.
«Valerie. My office. Now.»
She was sacked. Later, Max announced to the staff,
«Starting today, Allys our new head cook. I know youll step up. Youve got potentialroom to grow.» He smiled. «Good luck.»
«Thank you,» she said, nerves fluttering. It was a big responsibility.
Still, she was thrilledthe pay was good, and at her age, she was already running a kitchen. She vowed to prove herself.
That evening, Victor brought home a bottle of bubbly.
«Lets toast your promotion. Well done, Ally. Youve made it.» His grin was smug.
Theyd lived together for years, but hed never mentioned marriage.
Time rolled on. Ally worked hard, earning the occasional praise from Max. She had a gift for cooking. Her and Victors life settled into quiet routineno drinking, no real fights. But no ring, either.
Sometimes she wondered.
«Weve been together ages, and he wont even talk about marriage. Maybe if I got pregnant»
She remembered his words about children. But things had been peaceful since then. And she wasnt readyshe was only just finding her feet.
Then, one day, she knew. A trip to the clinic confirmed itshe was expecting. She traced a hand over her still-flat stomach, glowing with quiet joy.
Victor came home that evening and frowned at her smile.
«Whats got you so happy?»
«I saw the doctor today. Were going to have a baby.»
His face darkened. He stared at the floor, voice flat.
«I dont want it. Either get rid of it, or get out. I told youI cant stand kids. You knew. Now live with the consequences.»
He never shouted, but his tone turned her blood cold. Hed never hidden his feelings, but shed hoped
He clenched his jaw, turning away. Then, harshly:
«Youre an orphan. Where will you go, pregnant? Think about it. Get rid of it. Well carry on like before.»
The next day, after her shift, Ally packed her things and left for the hostel. She stood before the peeling doornumber thirty-five, scrawled in marker over the faded sign. With a sigh, she shoved it open. The hinges screeched.
Home. If you could call this damp, dusty box a home. The ceiling plaster was crumbling, dead flies littered the grimy windowsill. A rusty bed stood against one wall, its stained mattress barely covered. A rickety table, a broken wardrobe with its door propped against it.
She set down her baga few clothes, some books, plates, and cups. Her hand drifted to her stomach. Still flat, but someone was there. Someone loved.
«Well manage,» she whispered.
Next door, a drunken voice roared obscenities before a door slammed. She flinched.
«Welcome home, Ally,» she murmured.
The shared kitchen was worsea greasy stove, a fridge that hummed too loud. Cockroaches scattered near the bin.
Back in her room, she locked the flimsy door. The ache in her chest threatened tears, but she swallowed them. Instead, she felt strangely free.
Victors words echoed: *Where will you go?*
Well, here. To this room. Hers. Shed make it work.
She crossed to the grimy window. Shed scrub it till it shone. Outside, the sky was greysummer had been wet and cold.
«Well manage,» she repeated. Because she had to. Because shed chosen this. Because she wouldnt do what her parents had done to her.
She had work. She wouldnt starve. She had savingsthank God shed tucked money away. Shed turn this room into a home.
No time to waste. She cleaned the window until it gleamed, then scrubbed the floor on her hands and knees, the rhythm steady, soothing. That night, she cooked a simple meal on the rickety stoverice, onions, a beaten eggand ate it slowly, savoring each bite. The rain tapped softly against the glass. She opened her notebook and began to write: *Babys Room Ideas*, then laughed at the absurdityno room, not yet, but one day. She folded the page gently, tucked it into her recipe book. In the morning, shed call the social worker from the orphanage, the one whod always said, *Ally, if you ever need anything.* And for the first time in weeks, she slept deeply, one hand resting low on her belly, dreaming not of loss, but of soup on the stove, tiny socks drying on a line, a childs laughter rising like steam from a pot.
