The Dutiful Daughter
When Laura announced she was marrying Ethan, her mother threw up her hands in despair, her grandmother cursed her with every ill wish imaginable, and her best friend Becky tapped her temple and called her a fool.
But Laura was in love—achingly, tearfully, madly in love. And she was certain no one understood love the way she did.
She was twenty-one, naive but determined. Ethan, at thirty, was a so-called “finance man”—clever, charming, and full of life. True, he could be sharp-tongued at times, even childish, but with her, he was tender and attentive.
She refused to drop out of university—her mother threatened to cut off all financial support for their living expenses. Ethan grumbled but held his tongue. The cramped rented flat on the outskirts of London was hardly ideal, and besides, he truly fancied her.
After the wedding, he seemed transformed—he doted on Laura, helped with chores, and together they picked out furniture, paint, and kitchen fittings. But soon, he became scarce. Either he was “out with mates at the pub” or “meeting with investors.”
When Laura fell pregnant, everything crumbled. Terrible morning sickness, loneliness, constant worry.
He brought home money but vanished often, never explaining his work in full. He’d only wave her off:
“The less you know, the better you sleep.”
Her mother grew suspicious:
“They’ll either lock him up or he’ll disappear. Don’t play with fire, love.”
But Laura pushed the dark thoughts aside—they had a daughter now, little Emily, and for her sake, they tried. Sometimes, they almost felt like a family: trips to the countryside, gifts, cosy evenings.
Other times… there wasn’t enough even for groceries. He’d shift—generous and cheerful one moment, distant and irritable the next.
Ten years on, Ethan suddenly declared he’d found a “proper job”—working for a corporation, with fixed hours, a salary, prospects. The next two years were the best of Laura’s life. They laughed, travelled, even got a dog.
Then—as if cursed—he began slipping away, growing withdrawn, snapping. Finally, he sent Laura and Emily to her mother’s:
“It’s for the best. I’ll explain later.”
Two months later, he was arrested—caught taking bribes. A week after that—dead. The official word: a heart attack in his cell.
“His own lot did him in,” the detective said darkly. “You really knew nothing of his dealings?”
Laura stayed silent. She truly hadn’t known. Or hadn’t let herself know.
All that remained of Ethan were memories, an old car, and the flat—his share, by some miracle, signed over to Emily.
His mother, Evelyn, wild with grief and rage, lashed out:
“You ruined him! Nothing was ever enough for you!”
Laura didn’t defend herself. A widow, penniless, with a child and a mountain of pain—she was already drowning.
Six months later, Evelyn reached out—for her granddaughter’s sake. Emily often visited her grandmother, and Laura didn’t interfere. The girl needed family, and Laura—well, she worked day and night just to survive.
Then came Oliver. An old university friend—kind, attentive, divorced. At first, Laura just talked to him—about life, loss, the past. Then they started seeing each other.
But she didn’t tell Emily—not until she finally gathered the courage:
“This is Oliver. We’re together now.”
“Have you already forgotten Dad?!” Emily shrieked. “Gran was right!”
Inside, Laura trembled. She didn’t know how to move forward either. But she knew one thing: she had to.
“He won’t replace your father. But he’s a good man.”
Emily didn’t believe her. She and Evelyn had talked it over. Evelyn wept, whispering, “You’re the only one who can stop this madness.”
Emily tried—ignoring Oliver, refusing his gifts, letting her disdain show. But Oliver was patient. He didn’t push. Didn’t argue.
He brought flowers, played with the dog, cooked supper. He was—kind.
Once, he took them horseback riding. Emily couldn’t help herself. Though she fought to stay cold, joy crept into her voice and eyes.
Then one day, Evelyn said:
“If you want him gone—you know what to do.”
The plan was simple: fake an advance. Just once—and Mum would throw Oliver out for good.
Emily did as instructed. She wore a tighter top, let her hair down, walked into the kitchen as Oliver baked a pie.
When her mother entered, Emily screamed:
“He came onto me!”
Oliver froze. Laura stood stunned. Emily—panicked.
But instead of anger, in Oliver’s eyes was… pity. Understanding. And it shattered her. She broke down, weeping in earnest.
“Gran told me…” she whispered, torn between fear and shame.
Laura listened. Silent. Then she said:
“Decide for yourself if you’ll keep seeing Evelyn. You’re grown enough now.”
Emily hasn’t decided yet. But since then, she’s been different.
She’s trying—to be a daughter. A proper, dutiful one. Not because she must, but because she wants to be.
