I went to surprise my pregnant daughter only to find her unconscious. Her husband was off on his yacht, sleeping with another woman. I sent him just three words, and he turned pale as a ghost.
The rag in my hand stood no chance against the stubborn grease stain sinking into the cheap carpet. Staring at it, I couldnt help but think it was a perfect metaphor for my lifeconstantly cleaning up messes I didnt make. Piles of laundry towered on the chair beside me, the sharp tang of washing powder rising from a plastic bucket. This was my worldsmall, quiet, and forever in need of tidying.
Then the phone rang. A harsh, jarring sound that sliced through the afternoon silence. The screen flashed: *Emily*. My daughter. A mix of love and dread washed over me. 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, I heard only a panicked gaspthen silence. The line went dead.
«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 pointless.
I didnt hesitate. Grabbing my coat and purse, I bolted out the door, not even bothering to lock it.
The summer heat hit me like a wall. Sweat beaded on my brow as I flagged down a cab. «Cherry Tree Lane, number 12hurry!»
The driver mustve seen the panic in my eyes. He floored it. As we sped off, I dialled *James*my son-in-law.
*»Emilys ill. Where are you?»*
Nothing. Straight to voicemail. My fear twisted into anger. *Where are you when she needs you, James?*
When the cab pulled up, her front door was ajar. My stomach dropped. I rushed inside.
«Emily! Love!»
The living room looked like a bomb had hit it. Shattered glass, an overturned chair, a dark red stainwine or juicepooled on the table. Emilys phone lay in the corner, screen still glowing.
Then I saw her. My daughter, curled on her side, pale as chalk, one hand clutching her swollen belly.
«Emily!» I dropped to my knees, shaking her gently, then harder. «Wake up, sweetheart! Mums here!»
No response. Her forehead was clammy, her skin ice-cold. Hands trembling, I dialled 999.
«Cherry Tree Lane, number 12. My daughters unconsciousshes pregnant! Please hurry!»
The wait for the ambulance was agony. I stroked her hair, whispering, «Hold on, darling. Ive got you.»
When the sirens finally wailed outside, relief crashed over me.
Inside the ambulance, chaos. A young paramedic eyed the heart monitor. «Babys alive, but pulse is weak.» Another slid a needle into Emilys arm. She didnt stir.
«Ruptured membranes, severe bleeding. Prep for C-section!» crackled over the radio.
At the hospital, the OR doors slammed open. «Emergency C-sectionnow!» a doctor barked. I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked my path.
«Wait here. Well do everything we can.»
The doors shut. I collapsed into a plastic chair. Minutes dragged like hours.
Finally, the doctor emerged. «Youre Emilys mother?» I nodded. «The babys here. A boy. Premature, in the NICU. Your daughter she haemorrhaged badly. Shes in a coma.»
The words tore through me. A grandson. A coma.
Hours blurred into nightmaresracing between the NICU and Emilys bedside. My tiny grandson fought in his incubator, fists clenched. «Fight, little one,» I whispered, pressing a hand to the glass.
Back in Emilys room, she lay motionless, her face ghostly under the harsh lights. «Wake up, love,» I begged, squeezing her limp hand. «Your boy needs you.»
I called James. Texted him. *Your wife is fighting for her life. Get here.* Silence. Rage burned in my chest.
That night, eavesdropping on nurses, I overheard gossip about some lavish yacht party in Brighton. A different universe. Then I spotted a group huddled around a phonelaughing at a video.
There he was. James. Grinning, in a sleek suit, kneeling before a woman in a red bikini. Fireworks. Cheers. A proposal.
My vision blurred. While my daughter fought for breath, he was *proposing* to someone else.
Shaking, I pulled out Emilys phone from my bag. One unread message:
*»Hes mine now.»*
Attached: James, arms wrapped around the same woman. Sent minutes before Emily collapsed.
The security footage confirmed it. Emily, reading the text, whispering, «James, where *are* you?» Thencollapse. Glass shattering. Silence.
Tears streamed down my face, but my hands were steady. I saved the footage. Screenshots. I wasnt just a grieving mother anymoreI was gathering evidence.
At home, I found more: flight tickets in his name, receipts for a five-star hotel, a £15,000 Rolexall paid from Emilys account. Hed been funding his double life with her savings.
Using an old power of attorney, I froze everything. James blew up my phonethreats, rage. «Unlock the accounts, Margaret. Or youll regret it.» Every word recorded.
My solicitor, Charles Whitmore, reviewed the evidence. «This isnt just infidelity. Its fraud. Well ruin him.»
The courtroom was a spectacle. Bank statements, receipts, the proposal videoall laid bare. When the footage of Emilys collapse played, the room held its breath.
James turned sheet-white.
When the judge let me speak, I stood. «While my daughter and grandson fought for life, this man was proposing to another woman. He stole her money, her trustalmost killed her. I dont want mercy. I want justice.»
The verdict was brutal: full custody for Emily, a restraining order, every penny returned.
James screamed Id payuntil his fiancée, *Amber*, spat in his face: «I dont do losers.» She walked out, cameras flashing like vultures.
Months later, Emilyholding baby Oliverlaunched *»New Dawn,»* a charity for single mothers. Her smile was back.
Wed survived the storm. And I knewwed never walk alone again.
I went to surprise my pregnant daughter only to find her unconscious. Her husband was off on his yacht, sleeping with another woman. I sent him just three words, and he turned pale as a ghost.
