Emma had finally had enough. She couldn’t figure out why James had become so distant—had he fallen out of love? Last night, he’d come home late again and slept on the sofa. That morning, as he sat down for breakfast, Emma faced him.
“James, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s your problem now?” He sipped his tea, avoiding her eyes.
“You’ve changed since the twins were born.”
“Never noticed.”
“James, we’ve been living like strangers for two years. That, you’ve noticed?”
“Listen, what did you expect? The house is a mess—toys everywhere, that stale porridge smell, the kids screaming… You think anyone enjoys that?”
“James, they’re *your* children!”
He shot up, pacing the kitchen. “Normal wives have *one* well-behaved child who plays quietly in the corner. But you? You had to go and have *two*! My mum warned me—women like you just breed and nothing else.”
“*Women like me*? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The kind with no ambition.”
“You made me drop out of uni because you wanted me to focus on the family!” Emma sank into a chair. After a pause, she added, “I think we should get divorced.”
He barely hesitated. “Fine by me. But no child support—I’ll send money when I can.” He turned and walked out. She wanted to cry, but a crash from the nursery pulled her away—the twins were awake.
——
A week later, she packed their things and left. Her gran had left her a room in a shared house in London. New tenants meant new introductions.
Next door was a grumpy bloke, early fifties, though he acted older. Across the hall lived a flashy woman in her sixties. Emma knocked on the man’s door first.
“Hi! I’m your new neighbour—brought cake if you’d like tea later?” She forced a smile. He gave her a once-over, then muttered, “Don’t eat sweets,” and shut the door.
Shrugging, she tried Margaret next. The woman agreed—but only to lecture her.
“Listen, I nap afternoons because I binge telly at night. Keep those boys quiet. And don’t let them touch *anything* in the hall!”
Emma’s heart sank. This wouldn’t be easy.
——
She enrolled the boys in nursery and got a job there as an assistant. The pay was peanuts, but James had promised to help.
For three months, he did. Then, nothing. Emma fell behind on bills.
Margaret’s complaints grew daily. One evening, as Emma fed the boys pasta in the kitchen, Margaret swept in, silk robe swishing.
“Darling, *have* you sorted your little money trouble? I’d hate for us to lose power because of you.”
Emma sighed. “Not yet. I’ll see James tomorrow—he’s forgotten his children exist.”
Margaret leaned over the table. “Pasta *again*? You’re a terrible mother.”
“I’m a *good* mother! And maybe keep your nose out of my business before someone *cuts it off*!”
Margaret screeched like a banshee. The noise brought their other neighbour, John, out. He listened as Margaret ranted, then disappeared and returned, slamming cash on the table.
“Shut it. Here’s for the bills.”
Margaret hissed at Emma, “You’ll regret this!”
She brushed it off—mistake.
The next day, James claimed he was “going through a rough patch” and refused to pay. Emma threatened court.
“Go ahead,” he sneered. “My *official* salary’s laughable. And don’t bother me again.”
Tearful, she walked home—only to find a police officer waiting. Margaret had filed a report: Emma was “neglectful” and “violent.”
An hour later, the officer left with a warning: “I’ll have to alert social services.”
That evening, Margaret cornered her again. “One more peep from those boys, and I’ll report you *properly*.”
Emma’s fists clenched. “They’re *children*!”
Later, John entered silently, stuffed her fridge with groceries, and left before she could thank him.
——
After payday, Emma knocked on John’s door. He opened it, scowling as usual.
“John, here’s £20 for the food. I’ll bring more—just tell me how much I owe.”
“Keep it.” He shut the door.
A shriek from the kitchen sent her running—Margaret was screaming over spilled tea. Emma cleaned up, fists shaking.
That night, she sat the boys down. “We’ll get through this. I *promise*.”
——
The next evening, a knock: two women, a policeman, and a stern man.
“Valerie Emma Carter?”
“Yes?”
“We’re from social services.”
They inspected the room, the fridge, the beds.
“Pack the boys’ things.”
Emma froze. “You’re *not* taking them!”
The policeman pried the sobbing twins from her arms. Their screams echoed down the hall. When the car drove off, Emma collapsed, howling.
Then she saw it—her grandad’s old axe. She hefted it, smiling like a wild thing, and marched to Margaret’s door.
Just as she swung, John wrestled it away.
“*Idiot*! You’ll only make it worse!”
Emma went limp. “Nothing matters now.”
John dragged her inside, gave her a sedative. She slept—deeply.
Later, he confronted Margaret. “Happy?”
“Oh, John… I didn’t mean—”
“Withdraw your complaint. Or *next* time, I might not stop her.”
——
For a month, Emma fought for her boys—paperwork, interviews, tests. John pushed her when she wanted to give up.
The day before the hearing, she lay awake on his sofa.
“John… what happened to *your* family?”
A long silence. Then, flatly: “Had a wife. Two boys. Took them for granted—drank, shouted. She left. By the time I went after them…” His voice cracked. “Faulty wiring. The house burned. They didn’t make it.”
Emma reached for his hand, but he pulled away.
“Sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
——
At the hearing, the woman handed her the papers. “Don’t let this happen again.”
Emma stared, numb—until the woman smiled.
“Well? Go get your boys.”
In the waiting room, Tom and Archie tackled her in a hug. Even John wiped his eyes.
——
Life settled. Margaret stayed hidden. Emma got a job at John’s factory—enough to get by. But John grew quieter.
One day, she dropped his jacket—his phone lit up. *Her* photo was his wallpaper.
Heart pounding, she knocked. He looked startled as she sat beside him.
“John… I’ve learned not to leave things unsaid.” She took a breath. “Marry me?”
He cupped her face. “I’m not good with words. Just know… I’d do anything for you three.”
