When Lauren said she was marrying Elliot, her mum just threw her hands up in despair, her gran cursed her rotten, and her best mate Becky tapped her temple and called her a daft cow.
But Lauren was in love—proper, heart-aching, tear-spilling, mad love. And she was dead certain no one else understood what that felt like except her.
She was twenty-one, naïve but stubborn. Elliot, though? Thirty-two, a “finance guy”—smart, charming, funny on the surface. Yeah, he could be sharp sometimes, acted like a big kid now and then, but with her? Soft, caring, attentive.
She refused to drop out of uni—her mum threatened to cut her off, not a penny for rent. Elliot grumbled but held his tongue; he was itching to get out of their dingy little flat on the outskirts of town. Besides, he really did fancy her.
After the wedding, he turned into a different bloke—carried her around like a princess, helped with chores, picked out furniture together, paint colours, the whole lot. But then he started vanishing. “Out with the lads,” or “meeting investors.”
When Lauren got pregnant, it all fell apart. Horrible morning sickness, loneliness, constant dread.
He’d bring money home, then disappear. Never properly explained what he did—just waved her off:
*”The less you know, love, the better you sleep.”*
Her mum smelled trouble:
*”Either he’ll get nicked, or he’ll vanish. Don’t play with fire, Lauren.”*
But she shoved the doubts aside—they had a daughter now, little Elsie, and for her sake, they tried. Sometimes they even felt like a proper family: picnics, presents, cosy nights in.
Other times? They couldn’t even afford groceries. He’d flip—generous and laughing one minute, cold and distant the next.
Ten years in, Elliot suddenly announced he’d landed a *”proper job”*—corporate, steady pay, room to climb. For two years after that, life was golden. Holidays, laughter, even got a dog.
Then—like they’d been jinxed—Elliot started drifting, snapping, shutting down. In the end, he packed Lauren and Elsie off to her mum’s:
*”It’s for the best. I’ll explain later.”*
Two months later, he got nicked. Bribery. A week after that—dead. *”Heart attack in custody,”* they said.
*”His own lot sorted him,”* the detective said flatly. *”You seriously knew nothing?”*
Lauren stayed quiet. She *hadn’t* known. Or maybe she hadn’t *wanted* to.
All that was left of Elliot? Memories, a banged-up car, and the flat—his share, by some miracle, signed over to Elsie.
His mum, Irene, was wild with grief:
*”You ruined him! Never bloody satisfied!”*
Lauren didn’t argue. Widowed, skint, with a kid and a mountain of pain—she was barely holding it together.
Six months later, Irene reached out—for Elsie’s sake. The girl visited often; Lauren didn’t stop her. Elsie needed family, and Lauren? She was working herself to the bone.
Then Nate showed up. An old uni mate—kind, steady, divorced. At first, Lauren just talked to him—about life, the mess, the past. Then they started seeing each other.
But she didn’t tell Elsie. Not until she finally took the plunge:
*”This is Nate. We’re together.”*
*”You’ve forgotten Dad already?!”* Elsie screamed. *”Gran was right!”*
Lauren’s heart shook. She didn’t know how to move forward either. But she knew one thing—she *had* to.
*”He won’t replace your dad. But he’s a good man.”*
Elsie didn’t buy it. She and Irene had been talking. Irene wept, whispered, *”You’re the only one who can stop this madness.”*
Elsie tried—ignored Nate, refused his gifts, made her disgust clear. But Nate never pushed. Never snapped.
He brought flowers. Played with the dog. Made Sunday roasts. He was just—*decent.*
One day, he took them horseback riding. Elsie cracked—tried to keep her scowl, but the joy leaked into her voice.
Then Irene said:
*”If you want rid of him—you know what to do.”*
The plan? Fake an advance. One little lie—Mum would chuck Nate out for good.
Elsie played her part. Tight top, hair down, walked into the kitchen while Nate baked a cake.
When Lauren walked in, Elsie shrieked:
*”He tried it on with me!”*
Nate froze. Lauren went pale. Elsie panicked.
But instead of anger in his eyes—there was pity. Understanding. And that wrecked her. She sobbed, properly.
*”Gran told me…”* she stammered, torn between shame and fear.
Lauren listened. Silent. Then:
*”It’s your call whether you keep seeing Irene. You’re old enough.”*
Elsie hasn’t decided yet. But she acts different now.
She’s trying—to be a daughter. A proper one. Not ’cause she has to. But because she *wants* to.
