**Bad Blood**
Emma stepped into the flat, dropped the heavy shopping bags onto the floor, and let out a loud sigh.
“Is anyone home?” she called toward the living room. “Two grown men in the house, and I’m the one lugging these bags,” she muttered. “Everyone’s happy to eat, but when it comes to helping, no one’s around.” She said it louder this time, making sure they heard.
She made a racket taking off her coat, sighing and groaning until finally, her son appeared in the doorway.
“Take these bags to the kitchen. Is your dad home?”
James lifted the bags from the floor.
“Watching telly,” he tossed over his shoulder. He could’ve left that bit out—she hadn’t asked what his father was doing. But why should he bear the brunt of her mood alone? His dad could take some too.
“What’s all the shouting?” His father appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing. Just tired,” Emma snapped. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll make dinner. All by myself. Couldn’t even manage to boil some pasta?” She shoved her feet into slippers and flicked off the hallway light.
“You never asked. We would’ve done it, right, Jim?” His father, sensing trouble, quickly recruited James to his side.
Only the rustling of bags and the fridge door closing came from the kitchen. James chose neutrality—it was safer.
“So you didn’t boil any,” Emma sighed. “If I had a daughter, she’d know what to do. But you two—useless,” she grumbled, shuffling past her husband to the kitchen.
“Em, I get you’re tired, but why take it out on me and James? I’m not psychic. Tell me what you want, and we’ll cook it—even go shopping. I just got home from work too, you know. Tired as well. And—” He chopped the air with his hand and vanished into the living room.
“That’s what I mean. Easier to loaf on the sofa,” Emma grumbled, though without real bite. She hadn’t wanted a row—she was too worn out. She just needed a moment to wind down.
“Thanks, love. Go finish your homework. I’ll handle the rest.”
James bolted straight to his computer. Emma opened the fridge and shook her head, rearranging the shelves. After venting, she’d settled. She adored her husband and son—today had just been one of those days. Cooking wasn’t a man’s job anyway.
After dinner, she scraped the leftover pasta into a container and added a meatball. She nearly put in another but stopped.
“Taking that to the Millers again? Don’t spoil them—you’ll be the one complaining when they walk all over you,” her husband jabbed, revenge for her earlier nagging.
“Not the Millers—Sophie. Probably nothing at home. Her mother drinks it all away. Poor girl. Saw her dragging her mum home drunk the other day. Woman could barely stand. Bright girl, but rotten luck with parents.” Emma slipped on her shoes in the hallway.
Her husband said nothing.
Emma went downstairs to the third floor and knocked on the peeling door that looked like a shoulder shove would break it. Not that anyone would—nothing worth stealing, not even the cockroaches stuck around.
“Who is it?” a small voice called from inside.
“Sophie, it’s Auntie Em. Open up—I’ve brought you food.”
The lock clicked, the door cracked open, and Emma saw the keen eyes of nine-year-old Sophie peering out.
“Here, eat. Your mum asleep?”
The girl opened the door wider, took the container, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll go then. You eat up. Skin and bones, you are.” Emma looked at her pityingly. “Don’t leave any for your mum.”
Sophie nodded again and shut the door.
“I’d love a daughter like her,” Emma sighed, climbing back to her flat.
She went to her son’s room. He hurriedly shut his laptop, but she’d already seen the game.
“Don’t hide it. Homework done?” she asked, walking to his desk.
“Ages ago.”
“Tomorrow after school, invite Sophie over and give her some soup. Her mum drinks away their food—lucky if they have bread. Girl’s always hungry, thin as a rake.”
“Alright, Mum,” fourteen-year-old James agreed without question.
“Don’t stay up late.” Emma left, shutting the door.
“Okay.” He reopened his game, eyes glued to the screen.
The next day, passing the Millers’ door, James rang the bell.
“Go away, Mum’s not home,” Sophie called through the door.
“Oi, kiddo. Mum told me to bring you up.”
“Why?” A long pause.
“Come and see,” James said.
The door creaked open. Sophie eyed him warily.
“You coming or not? Suit yourself.” He turned toward the stairs.
“Wait!” She ducked back inside, returning seconds later with the empty container.
“There’s soup in the fridge. Can you heat it?” James asked, mimicking his mother’s tone.
“I’m not a baby,” Sophie huffed, following him.
“Warm two bowls.” He unlocked the flat. “Go to the kitchen. I’ll change.” He disappeared into his room.
When he returned, steaming bowls sat on the table, spoons and bread beside them.
“Good job. Race you.” James wolfed his down while Sophie ate slowly, watching him. After, she washed up. He didn’t offer to help—she’d eaten, she could clean.
“Come on, I’ll show you a game,” he said as she hung the towel neatly.
“Better show me how to make money online,” Sophie said.
James laughed. “You’re sharp. You got a computer?”
“Course not.”
“How’re you planning to earn then?”
“You show me.”
“Honestly? Dunno. But I’ll ask Tom. He brags about it.”
From then on, James brought Sophie up most days after school. They’d eat, and he’d teach her tech tricks. She picked it up fast, blushing at his praise.
One day, her mum answered the door, Sophie peeking behind her.
“Bit young for boys, ain’t ya?” Her mum’s voice was rough, eyes drilling into James.
“I help her with homework,” he lied.
Sophie looked between them, terrified.
“Fine, go on. Not too long.” Her mum swayed like a ship deck as she walked away.
“You didn’t grab your key. How’ll you get back? She doesn’t seem drunk today,” James said on the stairs.
“She will be.” Sophie pulled a string from her dress—a key hung around her neck.
“Right. Runaway key,” James smirked.
Sometimes his mates came over, and Sophie reluctantly left.
“What’s she always hanging around for? Fancy you?” she heard as she left.
“Shut it. She’s a kid. Teaching her computers,” James said.
“I’m not a kid,” Sophie muttered, sticking her tongue out.
Summers, James went to camp or his gran’s, and Sophie moped. Seeing Auntie Em, she’d ask when he’d return.
“By school time,” Emma promised.
Years passed. Sophie matched James’s tech skills. Lessons ended. Now she came just to use his laptop. He let her. Then he got into uni, received a new one, and gave her his old one. She hid it behind her wardrobe or took it to school—her mum mustn’t sell it.
They barely saw each other now. Sophie had grown, but James still saw her as the neighbor kid. Only a blind man wouldn’t notice her longing when they crossed paths. Emma wasn’t blind.
“James, we need to talk. Does Sophie still come over when we’re out? She shouldn’t,” Emma said one day.
“Why?”
“She’s in love with you. Can’t you see?”
“Mum, come off it. She’s still a kid,” James scoffed.
“She’s grown. And you’re a looker,” Emma said proudly. “Her dad drank himself to death, her mum’s a mess. Miracle she’s still employed—who else scrubs stairwells? But sooner or later, that bad blood will show. I won’t have you suffer. I want healthy grandkids. Find a proper girl. Cut her off. She’s hoping for something—I see how she looks at you.”
“Whatever. She’s like a sister. Doesn’t even come by. Besides, I’ve got a girlfriend,” James added.
“Really? Why haven’t we met her?” Emma brightened.
“You will. You’ll love her,” James promised too eagerly.
That weekend, James brought home Alice—pretty, poised. Emma dubbed her “Ice Queen.” She sat stiffly, barely ate, answered in monosyllables. “Shy, well-raised,” Emma reasoned.
Alice visited often, shutting herself in JamesEventually, James realized that love wasn’t about bloodlines or expectations, but about the quiet moments that felt like home—the way Sophie’s laugh crinkled her eyes, the warmth of her hand in his, and the certainty that no matter what life threw at them, they’d face it together.
