**A Knock of Fate**
I’ll never forget the evening when everything changed. In our little seaside town, where seagulls wheeled and cried over the crashing waves, Emily had spent the whole day in the kitchen, fussing over dinner. The smell of baked cod, rosemary potatoes, and a freshly made Victoria sponge filled the house. Tired but pleased, she smoothed out the white tablecloth, set the table, and waited for me to return from work. I could tell from the way her hands fidgeted that something weighed on her mind. When my key finally scraped in the lock, I found her sitting there, tense but determined.
“Evening, love!” I grinned, hanging up my coat. “Special occasion?” I nodded at the spread, my stomach growling.
“John, we need to talk,” she said softly, but her voice was steady. “It’s about our family.”
My smile faded. The look in her eyes made my chest tighten.
—
Later, I overheard her arguing with her sister, Alice.
“How could you even consider this?” Emily’s voice cracked with fury. “He’s your *son*!”
Alice just shrugged, flipping her hair. “It’s only temporary, a few months at most.”
“Are you serious? Your own flesh and blood!” Emily’s eyes were wet with tears.
“Listen, Em, I *told* you—Victor needs time to adjust. If you’re so bothered, take Jack yourself!” Alice snapped, pushing back her chair. “End of discussion. He’ll be fine, and once we’re settled, I’ll bring him home.” With that, she stormed out, the door slamming behind her.
Emily stood there, stunned. She couldn’t believe her own sister would abandon her boy, even temporarily, to a children’s home. But taking him in wasn’t simple.
We lived with my mother, Margaret, in her cramped two-bed flat. She’d never warmed to Emily, tolerating our twin girls only for my sake. Margaret adored me—her only son—and often muttered that Emily had “bewitched” me into marriage. At first, she’d held her tongue, but once Emily fell pregnant, the jabs began. Snide remarks when I wasn’t around, little digs about Emily’s background. My wife never complained, but I knew she suffered.
Now, though, she had no choice. Emily and Alice had grown up in care, their parents leaving them nothing but a derelict country cottage. When they aged out of the system, they had nowhere to go. Emily clawed her way up, meeting me, building a life—but Alice had struggled. She drifted from one rented room to another, raising Jack alone after his father (whom she refused to name) left.
Jack was a year younger than our girls, and Emily adored him. Alice had too, or so we’d thought—until Victor came along. Some self-important bloke who insisted Jack be sent away “for now.” Alice, blind with infatuation, agreed.
Emily begged her to reconsider, but Alice was adamant. “Victor will come around,” she insisted. Emily knew better. Jack would end up like them—rootless, unloved—and Alice didn’t care. But Emily couldn’t let that happen.
Bringing Jack home wasn’t an option. Margaret barely tolerated us as it was. Still, Emily wouldn’t stay silent. That evening, as I sat there full of her food, she laid it all out.
What happened next still shames me. Instead of standing by her, I sided with my mother. We shouted, accused her of biting the hand that fed us. Margaret screeched about gratitude, called Jack a “stranger’s brat,” and I—God help me—nodded along.
We gave her an ultimatum: drop it or leave.
The next morning, she took the girls and walked out.
For days, I told myself she’d come crawling back. But she didn’t. A week later, I tracked her down at a women’s shelter, my pride in tatters. I begged her to return, swore I missed her—then stupidly let slip the neighbours were gossiping about us kicking her out.
Her face hardened. “So that’s it,” she said flatly. “Not me you want—just your reputation.” She shut the door in my face.
The truth hit me like a brick. I *had* loved her. But I’d loved my mother’s approval more.
Emily moved on. A shelter worker, Mrs. Thompson, helped her relocate to a village nearby, found her work. Alice showed up just long enough to sign Jack over, sneering, “Should’ve left him in care.” They fought; she left. Jack stayed.
A year later, Emily married a bloke named Stephen—a decent man who loved her and the kids without hesitation. She’s happy now, expecting twins.
As for me? I pay child support, see the girls on weekends. Margaret still grumbles about Emily “stealing” her son. But the truth is, I let her go.
Some lessons come too late. Pride, family duty—none of it matters if you lose the person who truly loved you.
I learned that the hard way.
