“I Don’t Want to Go to Dad’s…”
“I don’t want to see Dad… Aunt Lottie said he doesn’t love me anymore,” Max hugged his knees and buried his face in them, perched on the edge of his bed.
Emily froze. Everything looked the same—his rumpled dinosaur pyjamas, the toy-filled backpack in the corner, his jacket slung over the chair. The room was warm, familiar. But her son wasn’t racing around like usual. Instead, he’d curled into himself, small and silent.
He was supposed to visit his father today, but suddenly, he was begging to stay home. Lately, he’d lost all enthusiasm for these trips. She’d tried coaxing him, until he blurted the truth—that Lottie, James’ new girlfriend, had been cruel to him.
“Max,” Emily lowered herself beside him, voice careful. “Please tell me what happened.”
He was silent at first. Then he lifted his head just enough to look up at her. He didn’t seem five years old anymore. His eyes held a quiet sadness, like someone much older who’d given up being heard.
“I was just playing… She got mad because my toy was loud. That robot one, remember? She took it and said—” His breath hitched. “She said they’re having a baby soon, and Dad won’t care about me anymore. And that I’m… in the way. And if I tell anyone…” He exhaled shakily. “No one will believe me. Because Aunt Lottie’s a grown-up. They’ll listen to her.”
His words came haltingly, thick with unshed tears. Inside Emily, fury and guilt twisted together, sour and suffocating. Max turned away, picking at the bedsheet. She reached for his hand.
“I believe you. Know why? You never lie. Well—except about sneaking sweets.”
He huffed, but didn’t smile.
“Dad picked her instead of me.”
“He just doesn’t know the truth yet,” Emily said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “But he’ll understand. I promise.”
Later, after tucking Max in, she sat alone with her tea. The quiet brought back memories—like the day she’d first met Lottie. If you could even call it a meeting.
A year ago, an anonymous message had appeared in her inbox: *”Hello! No need for introductions—just know I’m a friend. If you’re curious where your husband spends his evenings, come to The Oak at seven on Monday. Window table.”*
Back then, Emily had wondered who hid behind the “friend’s” mask. Now she knew: Lottie. A *friend* with poison in her smile.
That night, she’d seen it all—James across from Lottie, their fingers intertwined, the kiss on the cheek. He’d stammered excuses later—*business meeting, old friend, nothing serious*. But Emily wasn’t one to forgive betrayal.
They divorced. But Max remained. And so did Lottie, who’d soon become James’ wife.
She’d played the part flawlessly—sweet as syrup, endlessly patient, the perfect stepmother. She’d even shower Max with gifts: puzzles, dinosaur kits, once a giant stuffed turtle.
But those presents were never for him. They were for James. Lottie wasn’t courting a child’s love—she was securing a man’s devotion. Her kindness was a tool, her smiles were traps. And now, with her patience expired and her own baby on the way, the act had slipped.
She’d made one mistake: Emily would surrender a husband. But never her son.
The fridge held tomorrow’s to-do list, but she didn’t care. There was one thing left tonight. One call.
She hesitated before pressing *dial*. The ringing stretched. When James answered, irritation edged his voice. “It’s late. Something wrong?”
“Yes. We need to talk. About Max.”
He tensed instantly. “Is he hurt?”
“No. He refuses to visit you. Says Lottie’s been telling him awful things—that you don’t love him anymore. That you’ll replace him with your new baby.”
Silence. Then James bit out a laugh. “Seriously? You expect me to believe this rubbish? You’re still bitter, so now you’re using him to—”
“I’m his *mother*,” Emily cut in. “And I listen. You clearly don’t. He was terrified to tell you. Proves how right he was.”
“You’re twisting him against us!” James snapped. “This is pathetic, Em.”
She clenched her jaw. James wasn’t a bad father—just blind. Gentle with Max, until Lottie was mentioned. Then logic vanished.
“She’s poisoning him,” Emily said coldly. “But all you hear is *your* drama. She told him he’s *in the way*. Is that normal to you?”
“Lottie would never—”
“She *has*. To me, too. All smiles when you’re around, but alone? ‘He chose *me*.’ ‘You couldn’t keep him.’ ‘Single mum with baggage.’ Sound familiar?”
James scoffed. “She’s not like that.”
“Oh, she is. You just refuse to see it.”
A memory surfaced—a chance encounter at the shopping centre months ago, just her and Lottie. No James. Lottie had raked her with a smirk. *”No wonder he moved on. You dress like a dishrag.”*
Back then, it seemed petty. Now, she knew better.
James kept ranting, but Emily stopped listening. The call dropped—a mercy. She sat in the dark, decision clear: Max wouldn’t suffer this again.
The next morning, she texted James: *”No more visits at your place. Neutral ground only. And she doesn’t come.”* He ignored it. But two days later, he asked to take Max to the cinema.
Reluctantly, she agreed.
James arrived with chocolate for her and jelly sweets for Max, forced cheer in his voice. Emily stayed civil—for Max’s sake.
“Just the cinema, yeah?” James said as Max fetched his coat. “No Lottie. Just me and him.”
She nodded stiffly. “Back by seven.”
Max glanced back at the door. She mustered a smile.
On the way, James’ phone rang—his mate Charlie, needing help moving a sofa. Promise of pizza and beer. A quick detour.
“Dad, the film—?”
“Half an hour max. Don’t tell Mum, alright?”
Max said nothing.
At the flat, Lottie greeted them with her signature grin. “Max! Missed you! Hungry? Juice and biscuits? Your favourite!”
Her voice was sickly sweet. Max followed silently. James lingered, then left—but paused on the stairs. Something nagged at him.
He crept back.
Inside, Lottie’s voice had turned to ice.
“Sit. And stop snivelling. You’re nothing to him. He’ll have a *real* son soon. You’ll be stuck with your washed-up mum.”
James stepped inside. Lottie spun, sugarcoated smile snapping back.
“Playing wicked queen and prince! He’s a natural actor!”
James didn’t speak. Just rested a hand on Max’s shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
Max looked up—startled, teary, but hopeful.
Lottie babbled about taking biscuits for the road. James didn’t glance back.
He never divorced her. But after that, visits changed—cinemas, soft-play centres, his mum’s house. Lottie was never there. He didn’t apologise, but the accusations stopped.
Emily never learned what happened. But she sensed the shift.
Months later, she bumped into James at Max’s nursery. He carried a bag with a plush rabbit peeking out. They exchanged nods.
They weren’t a team anymore. But they were on the same side—his.
