**”You’re Not My Real Mum, That’s All”**
“Mind your own business!” Emily shrieked, waving her hands frantically. “She’s *my* daughter, not yours!”
“I just wanted to help,” Claire replied quietly, gripping the frying pan tighter. “Katie’s ill—she has a fever…”
“*Help*,” Emily mocked, rolling her eyes. “Oh, right. Trying to play the perfect stepmum now, are we? So Dad will think you’re *amazing*?”
“Emily, stop,” James cut in, but his daughter didn’t even glance at him.
“You keep out of it! You *always* defend her!” She jabbed a finger at Claire. “*You’re not my real mum—that’s all!* You traded your own daughter for *her*… for *this*—”
She didn’t finish, storming out of the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door so hard the china rattled in the cabinet.
Claire set the pan down and sank into a chair, hands shaking, tears welling up.
“Don’t take it to heart,” James said, squeezing her shoulder. “She’s upset about uni—didn’t get the grades for a scholarship. Angry at the world.”
“James, she’s right,” Claire whispered. “I *am* just the stepmum. I’ll never be her real mother.”
“Rubbish. Time fixes everything.”
Claire gave a bitter smile. *Time.* They’d been married four years, and things with Emily had only gotten worse. First, it was icy indifference. Then sarcastic remarks. Now? Open warfare.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have offered to pay her tuition?” Claire murmured.
“Why not? You meant well.”
“She took it like I was *buying* her affection.”
James sighed and sat beside her.
“Claire, I get it’s hard. But Emily lost her mum at fourteen. She’s terrified someone’s replacing her.”
“I’m *not* trying to replace her. I just want peace.”
“I know. And she’ll realise that—sooner or later.”
Claire nodded, though she doubted it. Every day in this house was a battle—Emily found fault in *everything*. Dinner was wrong. Her things were moved. Claire breathed too loudly on the phone.
Now, Emily’s music thumped through the walls. The neighbours had complained twice already.
“Ask her to turn it down,” Claire said.
“You ask her. You two *need* to talk.”
“After *that* argument?”
“*Especially* after. Letting things fester won’t help.”
Reluctantly, Claire knocked on Emily’s door.
“Emily? Can I come in?”
The music got louder. She knocked harder.
“Emily, please—we need to talk.”
The door flew open. Emily stood there, eyes red-rimmed.
“What?”
“Could you turn the music down? The neighbours—”
“I *don’t* care about the neighbours.”
“Emily, I know you’re upset—”
“You know *nothing*!” Emily exploded. “You think throwing money at me means I’ll love you? *Dream on!*”
“I don’t *want* you to love me. I just want us to stop fighting.”
“Then *leave*. This is *our* house—Dad’s and *mine*. You’re *nothing* here.”
The words stung. Claire forced herself to stay calm.
“Emily, your dad loves me. And I love him. We’re family now.”
“NO!” Emily shouted. “*We* are family—me and Dad! You’re just… *here*! Bet you only married him for the *house*!”
Claire went pale.
“Who told you *that*?”
“Grandma! Mum’s mum. She *knows* you’re just after Dad’s money! Said you *targeted* him when you found out he was a widower with a *three-bed semi*!”
“That’s *not* true—”
“*It is!*” Emily stepped closer, eyes blazing. “You were *forty*, living in a *shared flat*. Then—*bam*—bloke with a house? *Obviously* you jumped at it!”
Every word felt like a slap. Claire’s cheeks burned.
“I *love* your dad—”
“Yeah, *sure*. You *love* his salary and his mortgage-free place. You just *tolerate* him.”
“ENOUGH!” Claire snapped. “You *don’t* get to say that!”
“I *do*! This is *my* home! You’re *nobody* here!”
Emily slammed the door in her face. The music blared louder.
Claire stood there, shaking—half from anger, half from hurt. Emily’s words *had* hit a nerve. Yes, she *had* been forty when she met James. Yes, she’d lived in a cramped flat. But she’d married for *love*, not convenience.
James found her in the bathroom, splashing water on her face.
“What happened? Emily’s yelling bloody murder.”
“She said I married you for the house.”
James frowned. “*Where* did that come from?”
“Your ex-mother-in-law. Apparently, *Margaret’s* been feeding her this nonsense.”
“Right,” James muttered, clenching his fists. “Margaret *never* liked me. And when I married you? Pure spite.”
“James… maybe I *should* leave?” Claire said softly. “Look how Emily’s hurting. I don’t want to wreck your relationship.”
“You’re *not* leaving,” he said firmly. “You’re my *wife*. If others can’t accept that? *Their* problem.”
“But *Emily*—”
“Emily needs to learn the world doesn’t revolve around her. People *deserve* happiness.”
Claire leaned into him. His arms were always safe. But alone with Emily? War.
Next morning, Emily skipped breakfast, stomped out for uni. Claire exhaled—a few hours’ peace.
She cleaned, cooked, then sat at her sewing machine. She worked from home—tailoring brought in steady money.
The doorbell rang. A stern-faced older woman stood there.
“Margaret?” Claire blinked.
“Yes. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Margaret swept in, sitting uninvited.
“Tea?” Claire offered.
“No. I’m not here for *pleasantries*.”
“Then why *are* you here?”
Margaret eyed the room.
“Done well for yourself,” she said at last. “From a *lodger* to a *three-bed*?”
Claire flushed.
“If you’ve come to insult me—”
“I’ve come to *negotiate*.”
“*Negotiate*?”
Margaret pulled an envelope from her handbag.
“£5,000. *Cash*. In exchange for divorcing James and vanishing.”
Claire gaped.
“You’re *insane*.”
“*Practical*,” Margaret corrected. “You’re wrecking this family. Emily’s *miserable*, James is *changed*. He used to *dote* on her—now? Just *you*.”
“James *loves* me—”
“James is *blind*. And while *you’re* here, that girl *suffers*. Have you *no* pity?”
Claire stared at the envelope, nauseous. So *this* was what people thought of her.
“Keep your money.”
“Think *hard*. £5K buys a *studio flat*. A *fresh start*.”
“I’m *not* for sale.”
“Everyone’s for sale. It’s just the *price*. £7K?”
“*Leave*,” Claire hissed.
“£10K. Final offer.”
Claire marched to the door.
“I said *GO*.”
Margaret stood slowly.
“You’re making a mistake. Emily will *never* accept you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Suit yourself. But my offer stands.”
She left, leaving the envelope on the table. Claire stared at it—then tossed it in the bin.
That evening, James came home, grim-faced when Claire told him.
“She offered you *money*?”
“Ten grand. For a *divorce*.”
James went white with rage.
“How *dare* she? I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“Don’t. It’ll make things *worse*.”
“Claire, I *won’t* let her—”
“What *can* you do? Ban her from seeing Emily?”
They both knew that’d backfire.
Emily came home late, ignored them all next morning. Days passed, tension thickening.
Then, one night, Emily didn’t come home. James called—straight to voicemail.
“Where *is* she?” Claire fretted.
“Probably at Margaret’s.”
But she wasn’t. James drove over.
“Is she here?”
“Yes. And *staying*—untilAfter months of strained silence, Emily finally called Claire—just as rain began to fall—and asked if she could come home, her voice cracking on the last word.
