**Diary Entry**
I didn’t want to go to Dad’s… Aunt Lucy said he doesn’t love me anymore.
Oliver hugged his knees and buried his face in them, curled up on his bed. Emma froze. Everything looked normal—rumpled pyjamas with little football prints, a backpack of toys in the corner, his jacket slung over the chair. The room still felt warm and familiar. Only now, her son wasn’t racing around like a whirlwind. He was hunched in the corner, smaller than she’d ever seen him.
Today was his weekend with his father, but for some reason, he begged to stay home. Lately, these visits hadn’t excited him like they used to. Emma tried to coax him, but then he dropped the bombshell: Lucy, his dad’s new girlfriend, had been cruel to him.
“Ollie,” she murmured, sinking onto the bed beside him. “Talk to me. What happened?”
He stayed silent for a long moment before lifting his head just enough to glance up. He didn’t look like a five-year-old anymore. There was something hollow in his eyes—like a weary adult who’d given up on being heard.
“I was just playing… She got mad ‘cause the toy was loud. That robot, remember? She took it and said Dad’s having a new baby now. That he’d forget about me. Said I was… in the way.” His voice wobbled. “And if I told anyone, they’d think I was lying. Because Aunt Lucy’s a grown-up. They’d believe her.”
The words spilled out in a shaky rush. A mix of rage, guilt, and dread twisted inside Emma. Oliver turned away, picking at the bedsheet. She reached for his hand.
“I believe you. Know why? Because you’ve never lied to me. Well, except about sneaking biscuits.”
He huffed, but didn’t smile.
“Dad picked her instead of me.”
“He just doesn’t know the truth yet,” Emma said, forcing confidence into her voice. “But he’ll understand. I promise.”
After tucking him in, she brewed a cup of tea. As she sat in the quiet, her mind drifted to the first time she’d met Lucy. If you could even call it that.
A year ago, an anonymous message had popped up on her socials: *“Hello! No need for introductions—just know I mean well. If you’re curious where your husband spends his evenings, stop by The Crown Inn on High Street Monday at seven. Window table.”*
Back then, Emma had wondered who the “well-wisher” was. Now she knew: Lucy. A do-gooder with an agenda.
That night, she’d seen it all—James across from Lucy, their fingers entwined, the kiss on the cheek. Later, he’d mumbled excuses—meeting an old friend, just catching up, *nothing serious*. But cheating was a line Emma wouldn’t overlook.
They split. Oliver stayed in both their lives. So did Lucy, who soon became James’s wife.
She’d played the part perfectly—sweet as syrup, polite, *so good* with kids. She even lavished Oliver with gifts: puzzles, dinosaur sets, a giant plush turtle once. But those weren’t for him. They were for James. Lucy wasn’t vying for a child’s affection—she was curating an image. Now, with a baby of her own on the horizon, the act had dropped.
She’d made one mistake, though: Emma would surrender a man, but never her son’s heart.
The to-do list on the fridge could wait. There was one last thing tonight. She stared at her phone before hitting *call*. The rings stretched longer than usual. When James answered, irritation laced his voice. Late for a chat.
“Something urgent?”
“Very. We need to talk. About Ollie.”
He tensed—she could *feel* it through the line.
“What’s wrong? Is he sick?”
“No. He refuses to visit you now. Says Lucy tells him awful things—that you don’t love him anymore, that you’ll forget him once the new baby comes.”
Silence. Then James snapped, defensive as ever—as if *he* were the one accused.
“Emma, come *on*. You actually expect me to buy this rubbish? You’re starting again—using him to meddle in my life!”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m his *mother*. And I listen.” Her voice hardened. “He was terrified to tell you. Guess he was right.”
“You’re manipulating him!” James shot back. “You want him to cut us off so I come crawling back. It’s sick, Emma. Just sick.”
She bit back fury, refusing to let this devolve into a shouting match. That was James—decent enough father, but forever stuck in some teenage drama where everyone was out to get him.
“I’m talking about our *son* being hurt. And all you hear is *you*.”
“Lucy would *never* say that. She’s trying *so hard*—but you hate her. Still bitter I left.”
“Bitter?” Emma scoffed. “To your face, she’s all smiles. Alone? Different story. ‘*He chose me.*’ ‘*You couldn’t keep him.*’ ‘*Single mum with baggage.*’ I’ve heard it. Repeatedly.”
He hadn’t. Of course not. Even if he had, he’d spin excuses.
Her mind flashed to a run-in at the shopping centre months back—just her and Lucy, no James. Lucy’s eyes had raked over her, smirking. *“No wonder he moved on. You dress like a grey moth.”* Petty, but telling. At the time, Oliver had adored Lucy, begged to see Dad, swore everything was fine. Emma had trusted it.
James kept spewing denials, but she’d stopped listening. The call dropped. A mercy.
She wouldn’t let this continue. She couldn’t cut James from Oliver’s life—but she wouldn’t let him or Lucy poison it either.
The next morning, she texted: *“From now on, visits are neutral ground. Without her.”* He read it. Didn’t reply. Two days later, he asked to take Oliver to the cinema.
Emma hesitated but agreed.
James arrived for lunch, bearing a bar of Cadbury for her and jelly babies for Oliver. His smile was stiff—trying too hard to smooth things over.
Emma was icy but civil. For Ollie’s sake.
“Look, just the cinema, yeah?” James said while Oliver fetched his coat. “No Lucy. Just me and him.”
She nodded, slow. Doubt lingered, but she’d meet him halfway.
“Home by seven.”
“By seven,” he confirmed, leading Oliver away by the hand.
Her son glanced back at the door. Emma forced a smile—for him. Then watched from the window as they left.
On the way, James’s mate Dave rang. He put it on speaker. Dave needed help hauling an old sofa, promised pizza and beer.
James took a detour.
“Dad, what about the cinema?”
“Quick stop at ours. Just half an hour. Don’t tell Mum, alright?”
Oliver sighed, staring out the window. Too scared to argue. Or maybe just hoping.
When they walked in, Lucy greeted them with her trademark grin. She cooed, ruffling Oliver’s hair.
“Ollie! Missed you! Hungry? Juice and biscuits? Chocolate ones—your favourite!”
Her voice was cloying as the treats she offered. Oliver shuffled to the kitchen, silent. James lingered, exchanged hushed words, then headed out.
“Back soon. Half an hour, tops.”
“Of course, darling,” Lucy simpered. “We’ll be fine. Storytime or cartoons!”
James nodded and left. But on the stairs, he paused. Something gnawed at him. Emma’s warnings echoed. Maybe… just to check.
He crept back, key turning softly. The door swung open without a sound.
Lucy’s voice carried from the kitchen—no sweetness now. Just icy contempt.
“Sit there and *stay quiet*. Think anyone wants you here? Dad just pities you. He’ll have a *real* son soon—one who doesn’t whinge. You’ll be dumped back with your mum.”
James stood frozen, face ashen. He stepped inside. Lucy spun around, sugar-coating her tone instantly.
“Oh! We’re *playing*! Aren’t we, Ollie? The wicked queen and the prince. He’s *so* talented—future actor!”
James didn’t respond. His expression said enough. He placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
Oliver looked up—eyes wet, *stunned*. He hadn’t expected Dad to return. The fear was still there, but so was something else: hope.
He followed without a backward glance. Lucy called after them, offering biscuits to take. James ignored her.
He didn’t divorce Lucy. But after that, things changed. Cinema trips. Soft play. GrandmaThe days grew brighter, and though the past still lingered like a shadow, Oliver’s smile returned—little by little—as he learned he was loved not by halves, but wholly, by both parents who finally chose him first.
