“You’re a bad mum. I’m going to live with Dad.”
Every day, young people pass each other without a second glance—no spark, no flicker of attraction. But one winter afternoon, as snowflakes dusted the ice rink, Emma’s gaze accidentally locked onto James’, and suddenly, her heart pounded, her stomach fluttered. And he felt it too. That was it. After that, being apart was unthinkable. Life without each other lost all meaning. There was nothing to do but surrender to fate and walk forward, together.
That’s how Emma fell for James.
One frosty Sunday, she went skating with her friends. Emma wasn’t graceful on the ice—she inched along cautiously, stopping often. Her friends grew impatient weaving around her and sped ahead, leaving her stranded. She was in the way of the confident skaters, forced to swerve around her unsteady figure.
Her legs ached from tension. She decided to shuffle toward the barrier to wait for her friends. Just two more metres—then someone crashed into her.
The impact sent her sprawling onto the ice, her hip and knee throbbing from the hard landing.
“Sorry! Are you hurt? Can you stand? Let me help.” A voice above her, warm and steady. Then strong hands lifted her onto her feet.
Her knee burned, and she gasped, nearly toppling again—but James caught her, pulling her close. Their faces were inches apart, so near she could see her own reflection in his eyes. For a heartbeat, the world disappeared.
“Alright?” he asked.
Emma blinked. The noise rushed back—the scrape of blades, laughter, voices—but she still clung to his jacket sleeves.
“Will you fall if I let go?”
“Dunno,” she whispered, not looking away.
He released her, and she stayed upright.
“Good. Now let’s get you to the barrier. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
With him guiding her, she glided instead of stumbling.
“Maybe we should leave. There’s a bench by the exit.”
Emma nodded. Leaning on him, she flopped onto the bench with relief.
“Hurt badly?” James sat beside her. “You alone? Need me to walk you home?”
“I’m with friends.”
“Call them, let them know. Give me your ticket—I’ll fetch your shoes.”
“No, I’ll wait.” She resisted weakly.
“You’ll freeze.”
A chill had already seeped through her coat. She handed him the ticket and pulled out her phone. While he retrieved her boots, she rang her friends.
They walked home, chatting. After the slippery ice, the solid pavement felt safe—yet Emma kept grabbing James’ arm, as if the ground might vanish beneath her. He was four years older, already working. She told him about her final year at university, about living with her mum. The attraction was instant. When he asked her to skate again next weekend, she shook her head.
“Let’s go to the cinema instead.”
“Deal. I’ll call.”
But James didn’t wait. He rang the next day and took her to a café. Winter kept them indoors, but something—fate, perhaps—had hurled them together, and after that, they were inseparable.
Emma fell hard. Life without James? Unthinkable. How had she even existed before him? It felt like they’d known each other forever. Spring arrived, and James’ parents began spending weekends at their country house, leaving the flat to the young couple.
Summer raced past. Autumn brought rain and frost. His parents stopped leaving, and suddenly, the lovers had nowhere to meet.
“What now?” Emma asked, pressing against him.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said.
One evening, Emma’s mum confronted James outright: “How long do you plan to string my daughter along?”
“I was going to propose at New Year’s. I don’t even have the ring on me. But to put your mind at ease—” James took Emma’s hand. “I’ll ask for it now.”
Emma flushed with joy.
“That’s more like it. Give her the ring at New Year’s. Living together, and I’m left guessing!” Her mum huffed, satisfied.
They married in spring, as the snow melted and birdsong filled the air. James had saved for a flat, and wedding gifts covered the mortgage deposit. Happily, they agreed—children could wait.
Years passed. Emma graduated, found work. But she kept bringing up babies.
“We’ve still got the mortgage. Why rush? We’ll manage—but why make it harder? Let’s clear the debt first. I’m right, aren’t I?” James argued.
She wasn’t asking to conceive tomorrow—pregnancy took nine months! By then, the mortgage could be—
“Enough. No more arguing,” he cut her off.
It was pointless to push. But her friends pushed prams now; one had a second baby, though Emma had married first. Finally, she brought it up again.
“Fine, have a baby if you’re so desperate,” James gave in. “But don’t ask me to help. Nappies, night feeds—that’s on you. I earn the money; you handle the kid. Don’t complain later. Agreed?”
She almost snapped back—then softened. “You’re scared I’ll love the baby more than you, aren’t you?”
“Drop it. Have the kid if you want.”
Emma stopped her birth control. Two months later, the test showed two lines.
James didn’t share her joy. Then came the nausea, the exhaustion—he went out with mates while she lay miserable. A wall rose between them. He never touched her belly, never acknowledged it. “He’ll change when the baby’s here,” she told herself.
But after Sophie was born, nothing changed. He never held her, grimaced at her cries. When Emma asked for nappies or shoes, he transferred money silently.
“Spare me the details,” he’d say.
One day, he eyed a stain on her dressing gown. “You used to take care of yourself.”
The next evening, she dressed up—light makeup, jeans—but he didn’t even notice.
Sophie grew, toddled, babbled. She’d run to greet him—
“Go to Mum. Let me get changed,” he’d brush her off.
Emma’s heart shattered. “Just hug her. She’s your daughter!”
“I never asked for her. Don’t expect me to love her.”
She bit her tongue, honoring his rule—no involving him. His only question: “You back on the pill?”
Friends envied her. A sober husband, a home, financial security—so what if he ignored the kid? Few men helped with childcare anyway.
When Sophie started nursery, Emma planned to work.
“Stay home. I earn enough,” James said. “I want a clean house, dinner ready.”
Arguing was futile. Besides, Sophie kept falling ill at nursery.
Then, one day, shopping alone, Emma saw James with another woman leaving a café. That evening, she confronted him.
He didn’t deny it. “I provide for you both. I’m entitled to a little fun.”
Emma snapped. “I won’t tolerate this. I’m leaving for Mum’s.”
“How will you live? You’re used to comfort. Think carefully,” he said, turning up the TV.
“I have.”
He ignored her.
The next day, she packed their things, called a taxi, and left.
“Want Daddy!” Sophie wailed in the unfamiliar flat.
Even Emma’s mum urged her to return. James sent money—but refused to see Sophie.
“Why doesn’t he love her? Is she even his?” her mum pressed.
“Don’t be ridiculous! He never wanted her. I had Sophie for myself—while he was out with others!” Emma wept.
They stayed with her mum. Sophie switched schools, grew more like James—stubborn, commanding. When refused a toy, she’d snap, “Dad lets me!”
She barely remembered him—he’d never taken her sledging, never gave gifts.
“What’s so great about him? If I’m so awful, go live with him!” Emma shouted—then froze at her own words.
“I will!” Sophie shot back.
Pleading didn’t help. “He lives with another woman—she’ll never love you like I do!” But Sophie stayed silent.
“Leave her be,” her mum said.
But the next day, Sophie didn’t come home. Emma called her friend—”Her dad picked her up.”
She dialed James.
“Yeah, she asked to stay. What kind of mum drives her own kid away?”
“I’m coming to get her.”
“She won’t go back. She’s happy here.”
“What about school?”
“Zoe will drive her.”
Emma crumpled. “Mum, I raised her—he did nothing! Now I’m the villain?”
“Wait. She’ll come back.”
But weeks passed. Sophie stayed. Then, one afternoon, her mum called: “She’s home. Crying. Hurry.”
Emma rushed back.
“What happenedEmma pulled her daughter into a tight embrace, whispering, “No matter what, I’ll always love you,” as Sophie clung to her, finally understanding where she truly belonged.
