Emma
The house was quieter than usual that evening. The twins were upstairs, listening to the radio; Teddy was out somewhere with his friends and Zoey was already tucked into bed, hugging her favourite teddy close.
I stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing the last of the dinner plates, my thoughts still caught on the afternoon — the way Tommy's arms had felt around me, the steady beat of his heart when everything inside me had fallen apart.
I'd cried until there was nothing left. And even then, he hadn't let go.
I swallowed hard, drying my hands on a towel, when I heard Mum's voice behind me.
"Emma, love — come sit with me a minute."
She was standing by the table, a cup of tea cooling beside her, her expression soft but serious. I hesitated for a second, then crossed the room and sat opposite her.
"You've been quiet lately," she said gently. "Quieter than usual. I know you, Em. You carry things until they start to crush you."
I opened my mouth, but she lifted a hand. "Don't tell me you're fine. You always say that."
Her voice wavered slightly and for a moment she looked past me — not at the kitchen, but somewhere far away.
"When Zoey was born," she said slowly, "I thought I'd fall in love with her straight away. Like I had with you and the others. But I didn't. Not because of her, but because something in me just… broke. I didn't understand it then. I only knew I was so tired I couldn't think straight, and everything — the noise, the crying, even the sunlight — made me want to scream."
I blinked, unsure what to say. Mum had never talked about this. Not once.
She gave a small, humourless laugh. "Everyone thought I was managing. But I wasn't. I was angry all the time and I didn't know why. It's called post-natal depression. The doctor said I should take some tablets. But I didn't want to accept that I was sick. I started drinking. But your dad… he never got mad at me, never shouted. He never made me feel ashamed. He just… picked up the pieces. Looked after the twins, did the washing, cooked dinners. Quietly. Without making me feel worse."
Her voice softened. "And then there was you."
I frowned. "Me?"
"You were only twelve," she said, shaking her head. "But you stepped in like you'd been doing it your whole life. You'd get up when Zoey cried in the night. You helped the twins with their homework. You cooked. You… held this family together without anyone asking you to."
Her eyes shimmered, her tears looked like they came from somewhere deep. "You shouldn't have had to, love. I should've seen what it was doing to you. But you never complained. You just kept going, kept helping. You were my quiet little soldier."
My throat tightened. I didn't know what to do with her words. All those years, I'd thought I'd just done what I needed to. I hadn't realised she'd noticed.
She reached across the table and took my hand, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "You've always been the steady one. The giver. The one who holds everyone else up. But, Emma…" she took a breath, "you deserve to be held too."
I looked down at our joined hands, blinking hard.
"I see how that boy looks at you," she said softly. "Tommy."
A tiny smile touched her lips. "He looks at you the way your dad looks at me, even when I was falling apart. With patience. With love that doesn't waver, no matter how hard things get. He's your rock, love. He's your Ben."
I shook my head, the words scraping raw against my chest. "I don't deserve him, Mum. He's… he's good and kind and I keep making things heavy. He deserves light."
Her fingers tightened around mine. "He doesn't want light without you in it."
I looked up, startled, and she smiled — the kind of smile that told me she'd walked through her own darkness and found her way back.
"Ben carried me through when I couldn't carry myself," she said. "Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. Because love isn't about earning your place in someone's life; it's about choosing to stay, again and again."
I swallowed, my eyes stinging.
"He's your Ben," she repeated softly. "Your anchor. You've spent so long being the one who holds everyone else steady; it's time you let someone do that for you."
The kitchen was still except for the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock. I wanted to say something — to thank her, to tell her how much it meant — but the words tangled in my throat.
Instead, I stood, moved around the table, and wrapped my arms around her. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I just held her — my mother, who I'd once had to be strong for, now holding me in return.
When she finally drew back, she cupped my face in her hands. "You deserve to be happy, Emma. You hear me? You don't have to earn it. You've always deserved it."
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
Later, when I went upstairs to bed, I sat by the window, the streetlight casting a pale glow over my bed. My mother's words still echoed in my head He's your Ben. Your anchor.
For the first time in weeks, I felt something shift.
The fear was still there, yes, the uncertainty too, but beneath it, something steadier stirred. Something that felt like hope.
I looked down at my hand — at the promise ring glinting faintly under the light — and felt something shift inside me.
Tommy's words from that afternoon echoed in my head: You're my heart. My soul. Everything in the world that matters.
And Mum's voice layered over it, warm and certain: He's your anchor.
I realised then that maybe love wasn't about being someone's responsibility. Maybe it was about being someone's home — the place where the storms could finally rest.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the small wooden box on my nightstand — the one where I kept my letters, old ribbons, tiny scraps of memory. Inside was a folded note Tommy had given me months ago, the paper worn soft at the edges.
For when you forget how brave you are, it said in his messy handwriting. Love forever, T.
I ran my thumb over the words, smiling through the tears that threatened again.
Then I reached for a pen and a clean page from my notebook. The words came slowly, but they came:
Dear Tommy,
Thank you for today. For never giving up on me, even when I make it hard. For loving me in all the quiet ways you do. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I promise I'll try to believe I do.
Love, Emma.
I folded the letter and slipped it into my pocket, a promise kept in paper and ink.
Then I lay down, listening to the soft hum of the house and the faint distant sounds of the sea.
And for the first time in a long while, I wasn't afraid of tomorrow.