Late Reckoning
When Ella was just five years old, her mother left her. Not in an orphanage—in her grandmother’s flat. She simply vanished, as soon as she remarried. Her new husband had no interest in another man’s child, and Lydia had just enough resolve—or cruelty—to walk away without looking back. Years later, Ella would shudder at the thought: if not for Gran, her mother would’ve packed her off to a care home without a second thought.
Sometimes Lydia did show up—dressed to the nines, bearing some trinket. Ella would fling herself at her, press her face into the slim waist, breathe in the perfume, try to cling on. Then Gran—stern, weary—would gently but firmly usher her off to bed.
“Gran, just five more minutes, I’m not tired!”
“Your mother and I need to talk. Go on, love.”
“Will she come say goodnight?”
“We’ll see…”
But Lydia never did. Ella would eavesdrop from behind the door, catching fragments of grown-up talk. Later, as a teen, she pieced together the ugly truth.
“You don’t understand—I love him.”
“That’s what you said about Ella’s father. ‘I love him, he’ll marry me…'”
“But this is different! He’s proposed. Mum, how long will Ella live with me? Thirteen years? Then she’ll marry. And me? I’ll be alone, no family, no man. I’m only thirty-six!”
“So you’ll just erase your child?”
“I begged him to take her… He refused. What was I supposed to do?”
“I understand the bloke. You? Not a bit. Don’t you feel anything for 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 Ella in, then went back to work—her life a grind of exhaustion. She saved every spare quid for her granddaughter’s future, expecting no help from anyone.
Still, she blamed herself. Where had she gone wrong? Why had Lydia turned out so selfish, ruled by whims, not sense? You can’t force love, but you could at least not betray. Even pretend.
She tried to comfort Ella:
“Mum won’t come, but it’s not because of you. She’s got a new family. You and me? We’re family too. We’ve got our own life.”
But Ella ached. She clung to hope. At ten, she tried adding her mum on social media—no luck. Private accounts. Mum kept her out. Or was it him—that stranger—blocking her? She sobbed into her pillow at night.
By fifteen, Ella understood. She made fake profiles, friended her half-sisters. Scrolled through photos—Spain, Barbados, cosy cafés. Lydia, arms around her younger girls. *Their* mum. Not hers. Ella burned with jealousy. Why didn’t she deserve that?
By eighteen, she’d learned to live with the hurt. She didn’t cry—she seethed. The dreams started: her mother and sisters drowning while she watched, doing nothing. They repeated like punishment.
Gran fretted.
“Let it go, love. She’ll get hers.”
“No, Gran. God built the universe, invented organisms, gave us brains. He’s not micromanaging revenge. That’s *our* job.”
Ella studied, prepped for uni. Gran beamed at her grades but knew—this was just armour against the rage.
At twenty-three, degree in hand, Ella moved to her mother’s city. Worked, visited Gran.
“Seen her?”
“Once. Getting into a car with her husband and daughters.”
The fury festered. Why was she the stray puppy, tossed aside? Why did some get love, others the bin?
At twenty-five, flush with cash, Ella plotted. Cold, calculated. She hired Charles—charming, devastatingly handsome. He cost a fortune. A *king’s* ransom.
“Make a video. Something that’ll haunt her.”
“Top-tier work,” Charles promised. “She’s already weary. Those crack fast.”
True enough. Lydia, post-gym, ordered sea bass in a café. Never noticed the man sliding beside her—until one look made her pulse stutter.
“Hello. You’re stunning. Let me treat you.”
She melted. His voice, his hands, his scent—all engineered to mesmerise. She forgot herself. Forgot her kids. Husband. Everything.
The video went out: husband, daughters, friends. Sent from a burner. From Ella.
For the first time, she slept soundly. Woke light. Sang in the shower.
“You’re glowing,” a colleague remarked.
“I’m free.”
Lydia’s husband kicked her out.
“The girls are in therapy. That video traumatised them. Coach, classmates—*everyone’s* seen it. They never want to see you. Get a job—you’ll pay child support. This is karma.”
Lydia turned up at the house she’d once lived in.
“We bought it. From the old woman. Her granddaughter handled it all.”
Ella’s number burned in her hand. She called.
“Hi, 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 get nothing.”
Lydia said nothing. Suddenly, there was nowhere left to go.
Ella ended it. Tossed the SIM. Gran mustn’t know. She might suspect—but some truths are better unspoken.
Revenge has no consequences? Rubbish. Unpunished wrongs gnaw you hollow. Justice? It sets you free.
Now Ella really lives. For the first time. She’ll love. She’ll never abandon her child. Because she knows what it’s like—to grow up motherless.
