Helplessness and Confusion
Emily stepped out of the church with a heavy heart, though a flicker of hope still lingered. She had wept before the altar, begging God for a child. Ten years of marriage to William, and still no baby. Doctors only shrugged, insisting there was nothing wrongjust patience was needed.
“How long must we wait?” she whispered, staring at William. “A family isnt complete without a child.”
William ached for an heir too. His business thrived; they lived comfortably in their London townhouse, wanting for nothingexcept the pitter-patter of little feet.
“Em, maybe we should adopt,” he suggested gently.
“No,” she shook her head. “I want to carry our child. Why wont it happen?”
Then, as if heaven relented, Emily fell pregnant. Joy flooded their lives, though the pregnancy was difficult. She endured every ache, every fearuntil little Oliver arrived, frail and sickly. They coddled him, shielding him from drafts, from other children, from any whisper of harm.
By four, he had the latest tablet. By seven, a smartphone for school. Oliver wanted for nothingyet the more he received, the more insufferable he became.
William worked long hours; Emily doted, cooking only his favourite meals. If she dared serve something else, Oliver sneered, “This is rubbish. I wont eat it,” dumping salt into the bowl, demanding his preferred dish.
At thirteen, Oliver was a storm. Emily pleaded with William, who dismissed it: “Its just a phase, love. Hell grow out of it.”
One evening, William returned with a gift. “New phone, son.”
Oliver snatched the boxthen threw it against the wall. “This is trash! Only peasants use these. You want me to be laughed at?” He stormed off, slamming his door.
The parents exchanged weary glances.
Clothes, shoesnothing was bought without his approval. Then the school called.
“Mrs. Hartwood,” the teacher began, “Oliver insults staff, disrupts lessons, smirks about his rights. He lends his phone to classmates, then extorts money. Others do his homework under threat.”
Emily burned with shame.
That evening, Oliver kicked off his designer trainers, scattering them in the hall. “Schools a joke. And Mumstay out of my room!”
She bit her tongue, exhaustion weighing her down.
Later, she found him in his room, methodically slicing his leather jacket with scissors, grinning at her horror.
“Like it? Buy me a better one. Or Ill wreck the next thing you love.”
Something snapped. She struck himoncethen froze, regret twisting her stomach.
Olivers eyes gleamed. He dialled 999. “Police! My mum hit me!”
The officer frowned at the lavish flat, the well-dressed boy. “A family tiff?”
“Arrest her,” Oliver demanded.
Two days later, social services arrived. They listened, then turned to Oliver. “Pack your bag. Youre coming with us.”
“What? Where?”
“Residential care. Since youre abused here.”
Emily collapsed onto the sofa as the door shut.
Oliver called the next day, whining about the food, the confiscated gadgets.
“We cant fetch you,” Emily said quietly. “Weve lost our rights for two weeks.”
When William visited, Oliver was meek. “Take me home, Dad.”
Back in Chelsea, Oliver exhaled. “Im sorry. I was horrible.”
Emily smiled faintly. “Dinners ready.”
The social worker had warned them: spoiled children grow cruel. But perhaps, at last, Oliver had learned.
