**”You won’t get another penny from me, Mum…”**
Emily had met Christopher on the street. She’d been rushing to the gym, but the traffic lights refused to change. Glancing around, she spotted a gap between cars and bolted across the road.
At that moment, a speeding car rounded the corner. The amber light flickered, and the driver accelerated, but he managed to slam the brakes and swerve at the last second. Miraculously, no one was hurt. The lights turned red, and the traffic froze.
The screech of tyres sent Emily staggering, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for impact—but instead, she heard the furious yell of the driver storming towards her.
“Have you lost your bloody mind? Throw yourself under a car if you like, but think of others first! Couldn’t wait five seconds?”
She opened her eyes to a man in his forties, face twisted with anger.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Emily pleaded, clasping her hands. “My son has a match today—he’d be heartbroken if I missed it. He trained so hard. My boss wouldn’t let me leave early. Every second counts—” She stopped abruptly.
The man’s rage faltered. Without the shouting, he was surprisingly handsome. Emily flushed.
The lights changed. Cars lurched forward. The man grabbed her arm and yanked her onto the pavement.
“Rushing to the gym?” he asked, calmer now.
“Yes. How’d you guess?” She steadied herself, pulse still racing.
“You just said it. Get in. I’ll drive you.”
“Oh, no, really—”
“Get. In.”
She scrambled into the car. Three minutes later, they pulled up outside the gym. The man got out too.
“I’ve got it from here—” Emily stammered.
“Not here for you.”
“Daddy!” A teenage girl with a backpack sprinted towards him.
They hugged, then climbed into the car. Emily watched, dazed, before shaking herself and bolting inside.
That was how she and Christopher met. Sometimes love grows from near misses and traffic lights.
—
Emily made it just as her son, James, was called to the mat. He took third place.
“Café? Celebrate your win?” she asked when he emerged, sweaty and glum.
“Didn’t win. Just third.”
“‘Just third’?” She rolled her eyes. “How many boys competed? Only three medalled—and you’re one. I’m proud. Next time you’ll take gold.” She nudged him. “Nervous?”
“A bit. Let’s go home. Thought you weren’t coming.”
—
Three days later, Christopher was waiting outside the gym.
“You? Picking up your daughter again?”
“Christopher. No—her session ended hours ago. I was waiting for you.” He hesitated. “Wanted to know if James won. Did you make it?”
“Yes, thanks to you. He came third.”
“Brilliant! So, nearly dying was worth it.” They laughed.
James approached. “Your son?”
“Yes, James. This is Christopher—”
“No need for formalities. Just Christopher.” He shook James’s hand firmly.
As they walked home, Christopher invited them to a weekend championship.
“Mum, say yes!” James grinned.
“Not really my thing,” Emily demurred.
“Here’s my card. Save my number so you know it’s me calling.”
“I don’t have one.” She dialled the number on the spot.
“Cheers. Saved.” He ended the call.
“Who was *that*?” James asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Remember me almost being late to your match? He drove me. Also almost ran me over.”
“You *never* mentioned that!”
“But he didn’t. And I saw you win.”
—
They started dating. Emily stayed late after work; on training nights, they’d meet James together.
“Mum… is he in love with you?” James asked once.
“What, I’m not lovable? Too old? Ugly?”
“No. You’re proper fit.”
“Good. I’m thirty-two. To you, I’m Mum. To him? A woman. You mind?”
“No. Do you like him?”
“…Yeah.” She pinked.
“Will his daughter be my sister now?”
“Too soon. But—would you want that?”
“Dunno,” James admitted.
He barely remembered his father, who’d left when he was two. The other lads bragged about phones and tablets—”Dad got it”—and James burned with envy. Not for the gadgets, but the dads.
When Christopher gave him a top-tier phone for his birthday, James stopped eyeing him warily. They became mates.
—
Three months later, Christopher proposed and asked them to move in.
“Enough hiding. We’re adults.”
“Are we rushing? James gets it, but living together? And—what if your ex-wife comes back?”
“We’ve talked. Would *you* take back a husband who left? She ran off with some banker, took our daughter. When he dumped her, she came crawling back. Uses our girl as leverage. Should’ve thought of that *before* leaving.” His voice hardened. “And Mum’s bad enough. Wrings my sanity dry. I love *you*.”
Emily agreed. James switched schools to avoid the cross-town commute.
“My *friends*,” he whined.
“See them weekends.”
“…Fine.”
—
Emily hadn’t travelled in years. They planned a summer trip—not to Brighton, but the Med. Christopher covered most costs, but between alimony (more than required), his mum’s endless “ailments,” and their expenses, Emily started a holiday fund.
Before New Year’s, she got a bonus and rushed home to add it to the stash—only to find the money gone. Who’d take it? Guests were rare. James? Christopher didn’t need it.
Her mind spiralled: was James being bullied? Blackmailed? On *drugs*? By the time he got home, she was frantic.
“What money? No one’s threatening me! Try it!”
“Our holiday savings. Gone.”
“I didn’t even know where you kept it! You think I’d *steal*?”
“Who else?”
“Maybe *Christopher*! Or you hid it and forgot! I’ll lie about grades or torn jeans, but not *this*! If you think that little of me—!” He bolted.
“James!” She chased him, but he was already out the door, trainers pounding down the stairs.
“*What have I done?*” She grabbed her coat—just as Christopher walked in.
“Where are you—?”
“James ran off!”
“*What?*”
“No time! I accused him of stealing!”
They scoured the streets by car.
“Call his old mates,” Christopher urged.
“What if he’s hurt? I didn’t mean—”
Christopher frowned. “Mum has a key.”
Emily’s stomach dropped.
Then—”*There!*” Christopher braked hard, sprinting after James’s shadow.
“James! Stop! We know it wasn’t you!”
The boy froze.
“It’s sorted. Come home,” Christopher said, catching up.
“Who took it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“*Mum*…” James whispered.
Emily hugged him tightly.
“Last week,” James mumbled in the car, “our flat felt… off. Like someone had been there.”
Christopher’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Drop you two home. I’ve got somewhere to go.”
“Don’t,” Emily begged.
“Won’t take long.”
—
Margaret Whitmore opened her door, startled.
“You might’ve called first,” she sniffed. “Since *she* came along, you’ve no time for me.”
“Mum, did you take money from our flat last week?”
Her face twitched. “How *dare* you? That woman—”
“*Emily*. And James ran off because of *this*.”
“Good! Guilty conscience. Spent it all by now, I’ll bet—”
“Where’d the new sofa come from, Mum? Or that fur coat? Sandra’s never been generous—she buys *short* coats to save the leather in cars.”
Margaret clutched her chest. “I—I feel faint—”
“Spare me the act.” Christopher headed to the hall, yanked her keys from her handbag.
“*Give those back!*”
“You won’t be tempted again. And you’ll get *nothing* more from me.”
“You *owe* me! I *raised* you!”
“And that lets you lie, steal, and wreck my life? You *disgust* me.”
Margaret’s mask cracked. “Sandra *loves* you! She’s sorry! This *harlot*—”
“Enough.” He turned away.
“*Son!*”
Christopher didn’t look back.
—
Emily waitedYears later, as they watched James and Christopher’s daughter cheering side by side at a school match, Emily squeezed Christopher’s hand, realising that sometimes the family you choose is worth every storm you weather.
