**The Price of Abandonment**
When Emily was just five years old, her mother left her. Not in an orphanage—at her grandmother’s flat in Manchester. She simply vanished after remarrying. Her new husband wanted nothing to do with another man’s child, and Lydia had the resolve—or cruelty—to walk away without looking back. Years later, Emily shuddered at the thought: had it not been for Gran, her mother would’ve dumped her in care without a second thought.
Sometimes, Lydia still turned up—dressed smartly, bearing a gift. Emily would rush to her, cling to her slender waist, breathe in her perfume, desperate to keep her close. But Gran—stern, weary—would gently yet firmly send her off to bed.
“Gran, just a bit longer, I’m not tired yet…”
“Your mum and I need to talk, love. Off you go.”
“Will she come in to say goodnight?”
“We’ll see…”
But Lydia never did. Emily, hiding behind the door, caught fragments of their hushed conversations. Later, as a teenager, she pieced them together into something horrifying.
“You have to understand—I love him.”
“You said the same about Emily’s father. Love, promises, marriage…”
“But this is different! He’s proposed. Mum, how long will Emily live with you? Thirteen more years? Then she’ll marry. And me? Alone, no family, no man. I’m only thirty-six…”
“And you’d erase your child for that?”
“I begged him to take her… He refused. What could I do?”
“I understand the man. But you? Don’t you pity your own daughter?”
“I know you’ll raise her better than I ever could…”
Each time, Gran shut the door behind her daughter. She tucked Emily in, then worked late into the night. Her life was hard and worn thin—aching back, meagre savings for Emily’s future, no one to share the burden.
Yet she blamed herself. Where had she gone wrong? Why had Lydia grown so selfish, ruled by fleeting emotions? You can’t force love, but you can at least stay. Pretend, if nothing else.
She tried to console Emily:
“Your mum won’t come back, but it’s not because of you. She has a new family now. You and I—we’re family too. We have our own life.”
But Emily ached. At ten, she tried adding her mother on social media—useless. Private accounts. Did Lydia block her? Or was it *him*, that stranger who’d replaced her? She sobbed into her pillow, hugging it tight.
By fifteen, Emily had a plan. Fake profiles, befriending her half-sisters. Photos of Spain, family brunches—Lydia embracing her younger daughters. *Their* mum. Not hers. The jealousy gnawed at her. Why didn’t *she* deserve that love?
At eighteen, the pain turned to rage. No more tears—just fury. Her dreams turned dark: Lydia and her sisters drowning while she watched, unmoved. The nightmares repeated like a curse.
Gran pleaded,
“Emily, let it go. God will judge her.”
“No, Gran. God made the stars, life, our minds. He doesn’t waste time on punishments. That’s *our* job.”
She buried herself in studies. Gran was proud, but knew—this wasn’t ambition. It was armour against hatred.
At twenty-three, Emily graduated and moved to London, where Lydia lived. She visited Gran often.
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes. Getting into her Mercedes with her husband and daughters.”
The bitterness festered. Why was she trash to be tossed aside, while they got fairy tales?
By twenty-five, Emily earned well. Revenge would be cold, precise. She hired Daniel—handsome, charming, *expensive.*
“Film it. Make it ruin her.”
“Top-tier work,” he promised. “She’s already weary. These types crumble fast.”
And she did. Lydia, post-spin class, ordered salmon at a café. She didn’t notice the man beside her until his voice sent her pulse racing.
“Hello. You’re stunning. Let me treat you.”
She melted. His voice, his hands, his scent—everything about him was designed to conquer. She forgot her name, her children, her husband.
The video was sent—to her husband, daughters, friends. From an unknown number. From Emily.
For the first time, she slept soundly. Woke without the weight. Sang in the morning.
“You’re glowing,” a colleague remarked.
“I’m free.”
Lydia’s husband threw her out.
“The girls are in therapy. That video traumatised them. Their schoolmates, their coach—saw everything. They never want to see you again. Pay child support. This is your reckoning.”
Lydia stumbled to the house she’d once lived in.
“We bought it from the old woman. Her granddaughter handled the paperwork.”
Emily’s number was in her hands. She dialled.
“Hello, Mum. Remember me? The one you left. I sent that video. Wanted you to feel what I did. You wrecked my life for love. Now you’ve got nothing.”
Lydia was silent. There was nowhere left to go.
Emily ended the call. Tossed the SIM. Gran couldn’t know. She might suspect—but some truths are too cruel.
They say revenge has consequences. Nonsense. Unpunished wrongs rot you from within. Justice sets you free.
Now Emily truly lives. She *will* love. She’ll never abandon her child. Because she knows what it is—to grow up motherless.