“I’m taking my keys back. You won’t get another penny from me, Mum…”
Emily had met Christopher on the street. She was rushing to the gym when the traffic lights refused to change. Glancing around, she spotted a gap between the cars and dashed across—only for a speeding car to round the corner. The driver slammed the brakes just in time.
The screech of tyres froze Emily in place, eyes squeezed shut—but instead of impact, she heard the driver shouting, “Have you lost your mind? Risk your own neck, not mine! Couldn’t you wait a second?”
She opened her eyes to a furious forty-something man. “God, I’m sorry,” Emily blurted, wringing her hands. “My son’s got a competition—he’d be gutted if I missed it. My boss wouldn’t let me leave early…” She trailed off as the man’s anger faded into concern.
The lights changed. He hauled her onto the pavement. “Heading to the gym?” he asked calmly.
“How’d you know?”
“You just said. Get in—I’ll drive you.”
Three minutes later, they pulled up. As Emily hesitated, a teenage girl sprinted past her—”Dad!”—and hugged him. They drove off, leaving Emily staring before she bolted inside.
That’s how she met Christopher.
—
Emily made it just as her son, Oliver, was called for his sparring match. He took third.
“Let’s grab a bite to celebrate,” she said afterward.
“Celebrate what? It’s just third place,” Oliver muttered.
“Just? Out of how many lads? You’ll nail first next time.” She ruffled his hair. “Nervous?”
“A bit. Thought you weren’t coming.”
Three days later, Christopher waited outside the gym. “Oliver win?” he asked.
“Third, thanks to you.”
“Worth nearly flattening you, then.” They laughed.
Oliver joined them, shaking Christopher’s hand when introduced. Over time, Christopher joined them for training days. One evening, Oliver asked, “Mum, is he into you?”
Emily flushed. “What if he is?”
“D’you like him back?”
“…Yeah.”
“Would his daughter be my sister now?”
“Let’s not jump ahead. Though—would you mind that?”
Oliver shrugged. He’d never known his dad, who’d left when he was two. The other boys flaunted gadgets—”Dad got it”—and Oliver burned with envy, not for the things, but the fathers. When Christopher gifted him a top-tier phone for his birthday, the wariness melted.
—
Months later, Christopher proposed.
“Aren’t we rushing? What if your ex comes back?” Emily fretted.
“She chose her millionaire. Now he’s chucked her, she’s playing our daughter against me.” He grimaced. “Mum’s bad enough—always on my case since you came along.”
They moved in. Oliver switched schools, grumbling about friends. They saved for a Mediterranean holiday, Christopher covering most costs despite alimony and his mother’s “endless” health crises.
Then Emily’s bonus—stashed in her jewellery box—vanished. Only Oliver or Christopher could’ve taken it.
“You think I’d steal?” Oliver yelled when confronted. “Maybe it was him!” He fled.
They searched the neighbourhood in Christopher’s car. “Call his old mates,” he urged. Emily dialled, guilt gnawing at her.
“He wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this,” she whispered.
Christopher stiffened. “Mum has our keys.”
They found Oliver lurking by a bus stop. “It wasn’t you,” Christopher assured him. Back in the car, Oliver mumbled, “Last week… felt like someone’d been in our flat. Clothes were moved.”
Christopher dropped them home. “I’ll handle this.”
—
Margaret Archer opened her door, lips pursed. “No warning? That woman’s made you a stranger.”
“Did you take our money?” Christopher cut in.
“How dare—”
“A new sofa. A fur coat. Your pension cover that?”
Margaret clutched her chest. “I feel faint—”
“Spare the theatrics. Was it Cassandra’s idea? Plant the cash gone, pin it on Emily, split us up?” He yanked his keys from her handbag. “You won’t set foot in my home again—or my wallet.”
“You’ll regret this!” she shrieked.
Back home, Emily waited up. “Your mum?”
“And Cassandra. Wanted you blamed.” He exhaled. “Oliver alright?”
“Yes. We talked.” She hesitated. “Maybe we—”
“It’s done.”
Mothers often cling to sons. Even if the first wife wasn’t ideal, surely better than some single mum. How could her boy be happy? She knows best.
Blind love breeds ruin.
But this time, the damage was mended. Margaret would come round—eventually.
