Would she spend her whole life trying to prove she wasn’t to blame…
Emily was watching telly while her husband, Oliver, sat at the computer when her mother called.
“What’s happened, Mum?” Emily asked warily, muting the television.
“Nothing’s happened. Just wanted to ring.”
But Emily knew her mother never rang without reason.
“Come on, Mum, out with it. Has Sophie been up to something again?”
Her mother sighed.
“She’s been nagging me nonstop about coming to stay with you. Says she wants to go to university. Never studies, always out partying. What university? We’ve got a decent college here, and the nursing school. Won’t hear a word about either.”
“But Oliver and I only have a one-bed flat. I’m not sure it’ll be comfortable for her to stay with us,” Emily said.
“I understand. Worry is, she’ll just run off to you anyway. That’s why I rang—best you know beforehand. Maybe you could talk her out of it? She won’t listen to me. Absolutely wild, she is.”
“Mum, she won’t listen to me either. Once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no shifting it. You know that. I’ll try Uncle James. Maybe he’ll take her in.”
“Talk to him, love. Though he’s got his own family now. Awkward, isn’t it?”
“Why awkward? She’s his daughter, after all. Alright, Mum, I’ll ring him and call you back.” Emily set the phone down.
“Was that your mum?” Oliver glanced up from the monitor.
“Yeah. Sophie wants to come stay, reckons she’s off to uni.”
“So? If she gets in, they’ll give her a dorm.”
“She won’t get in, and there’s a college here anyway. Doubt she’d even manage that. Wants to get married, that’s what. I’ll speak to her dad—he ought to take her in. She’s his own flesh and blood.” Emily frowned.
No, she’d have to persuade Uncle James. Oliver was handsome—if he hadn’t been, she’d never have married him. And with Sophie, anything was possible. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him at their wedding.
Emily and Sophie had different fathers. Emily’s dad had drowned when she was six—gone fishing with his mates, had a few too many, then tried to unhook his line from a snag and went under. His friends were too drunk to pull him out in time.
Her young, beautiful mother was left alone with Emily. She kept suitors at arm’s length until, in Emily’s fifth year at school, a new maths teacher arrived—handsome, rumoured to have fled London over a broken heart.
He became Emily’s form tutor, met her mum at parents’ evening, and fell head over heels. Soon he was round theirs all the time, helping with homework—not just maths. Emily’s grades shot up, and whispers started.
Then her mother fell pregnant. She hadn’t wanted to marry, but James White persuaded her. At school, Emily called him Mr. White; at home, it was Uncle James. They married, and when Sophie was born, Emily became the big sister—proud of the responsibility. Her mum trusted her to run errands, push the pram, even mind Sophie if she had to go out.
They lived like that for two years. Then Uncle James got a post at a grammar school in the city. No surprise—he was a good teacher, well-liked.
Her mother refused to go with him. Never said why, but Emily was old enough to guess. Mum was embarrassed he was younger. Afraid he’d leave her in the city, so she let him go first.
Uncle James left, and the three of them stayed. He paid child support after the divorce—even sent a little extra for Emily, knowing it was hard on her mum.
The sisters were nothing alike, inside or out. Emily did well in school—quiet, determined. Left for university without a hitch.
Sophie? Couldn’t care less. Knew she was pretty and played it for all it was worth.
At uni, Emily once bumped into Uncle James at the shopping centre—with his wife and little boy. He stopped, asked after her mum and Sophie, even seemed pleased to see her. Gave Emily his number and address, told her to call if she needed anything.
She visited a couple of times when money was tight, but his wife’s vibes made her stop. He never rang.
The day after her mum’s call, Emily rang Uncle James.
“Emily!” He sounded glad. “How are you? How’s your mum? Been ages.”
“I’m married now, Uncle James. Got a job. All fine. I’m ringing about Sophie.”
A pause—she imagined him tensing.
“Mum rang yesterday. Said Sophie wants to come here for uni. Oliver and I don’t have space. Thought maybe she could stay with you?”
“I’ll talk to my wife, Olivia, and ring you back. Which uni’s she applying to?”
“Honestly? No idea. Doubt she’ll even get in. If she does, she’ll get a dorm. If not… reckon she’ll slink back to Mum.”
“Right. And you—no little ones yet?”
“Not yet. Thanks.” She was relieved he’d taken it so well.
Three weeks later, Sophie turned up with her leaving certificates.
“We’ve arranged for you to stay with your dad. I rang him—he’s expecting you.”
“Who asked you?” Sophie flared. “I’m not going. Thought I’d be with you.”
“Where? The kitchen?”
“So? I’ll manage. Or are you scared for dear Oliver? Too old for me, anyway. Though…” Sophie smirked.
Emily fought down panic.
“Tomorrow we’ll go to admissions. Where are you applying?”
“As if. I’ll handle it myself.”
“Fine. Term doesn’t start for a month. No lazing about here. Apply, then go back to Mum till you hear. Non-negotiable. Now, we’re off to your dad’s.”
Olivia made no secret of her feelings about her husband’s daughter. Two days later, Sophie was back home. But by late July, she reappeared.
“Why aren’t you at your dad’s?” Emily asked coldly.
“He’s on holiday—Cornwall,” Sophie chirped.
Gritting her teeth, Emily let her stay. Couldn’t turf her own sister out.
It was a sweltering summer, the flat stuffy, the fan useless. Sophie pranced about in tiny shorts and a crop top—no bra. Emily bit her tongue, eyeing Oliver, who seemed oblivious.
“Results are out in a week. Then she’ll go,” Emily told herself.
Next day, her boss asked her to dash to London—urgent paperwork with a client, draft a project plan. His deputy was on paternity leave, and Emily was the only one who knew the details. No choice. She agreed, though her stomach knotted at leaving Oliver alone with Sophie.
She left, forcing herself not to imagine the worst.
At half past midnight, Oliver shut down the computer. No sign of Sophie. He rang—no answer. An hour later, her giggling voice cut through club noise.
“Coming home? Do you know the time?” he snapped.
“Ooh, daddy’s worried,” she slurred.
“Emily will be. What do I tell your mum if something happens? Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”
“Really? Come on, then—Bleu Bar…”
“Who’s leaving? I’m not done with you. Dance with me…” A man’s voice crackled through.
“Which bloody club?” Oliver yelled.
“Piss off, I’m not—” The line went dead.
Still in his jeans, Oliver shoved on trainers and ran. In the car, he tried to recall the city’s clubs—doubt she’d gone far. Probably central. He’d have to check them all. Sophie wasn’t picking up. If she wasn’t in trouble yet, she was heading there fast.
He found her in the first place—swaying against some greasy-haired bloke with glassy eyes. Oliver tried to steer her off the dance floor, but the lad squared up.
“Easy, grandad.” His pupils were huge.
“Want trouble? One call to the cops, and you’re stuffed. She’s underage.” Oliver thumbed 999. “Calling now?”
The lad vanished. Oliver bundled Sophie into the car.
All the way home, she simpered, chuffed he’d nearly fought over her. Inside, he shoved her into the bathroom.
“Clean up. You look like a tart.”
“Who’re you—my jailer?” She hammered the door. Oliver braced against it until the shower ran.
Four a.m. Three hours’ sleep if he was lucky. He dropped into bed.
But as the years passed, the memory of that summer faded, and though the shadow of doubt sometimes flickered in Emily’s eyes, Oliver learned to live with it, knowing some wounds never fully heal.
