I set my mug down on the kitchen table just as my mobile began to ring. The number was unfamiliar, but the insistence was notlong, determined rings, as if whoever was calling was positive I owed them a reply. I glanced at the screen and, oh, fabulousit was him. Victor. The ex-husband, the one whod left for another woman five years ago and, for his troubles, acquired a child.
I didnt answer at once. Instead, I lingered at the window, watching children playing in the communal garden below, and wondered: What now? Why again?
The phone grew silent. And then, inevitably, started again.
With a sigh, I gave in.
Emma, hello, Victors voice was subdued, shading towards guilty. I really need to talk to you. Urgently.
What about? I perched on the windowsill, pressed the phone to my ear, bracing myself for another one of his asks. Victor had always possessed a remarkable talent for requestsdelivered so you felt impossibly compelled to acquiesce.
Could we meet? Not on the phone, please you understand
No, actually, I replied, peacefully. Say what you need to now, or not at all.
Silence. Then his familiar, heavy smokers sigh.
Sarahs got cancer. Stage four. The doctors are saying two months, if were lucky. Three, tops.
Sarah, the woman for whom hed so dramatically abandoned our marriage, the one whod given him a son. And here it wasthe chill up my spine, not sympathy, but dread. I just knew he was winding up to ask for something that would make my blood run cold.
Im sorry to hear that, I said, evenly. But why are you telling me?
Emma I need your help. Theres no one else I can ask.
I said nothing. Beyond the glass, a crow landed atop the old sycamore and regarded me sternly, as if to say, Dont be daft.
Please, Emma. Meet me. Ill explain everything. Its importantits about Harry. My son.
Your son, I corrected him silently. Not mine. Never mine.
All right, I answered crisply. Tomorrow. Three oclock, Pembertons Café, on High Street.
I hung up and stared at nothing for a while. My tea was tepid, the cucumber slices for my salad had curled into themselves. There was still that old photo on my fridgeVictor and me in happier times at the seaside, grinning, holding hands. Id meant to bin it ages ago. Maybe I just couldnt face that the cheerful woman in the photo had long since vanished.
Next day, I arrived at the café early, ordered a pot of tea, and settled in by the window. Victor arrived ten minutes later, looking astonishingly aged, with thinning hair and an air of someone who hadnt smiled properly in years. He sat opposite, offered the waitress the ghost of a nod, and looked at me like forgiveness itself was a lottery ticket hed forgotten to buy.
Thank you for coming, he murmured.
Go on, I wrapped my hands around my cup, warming my fingers. I havent got all afternoon.
I dont know where to begin
Try the part about why Im here.
He ran his hands down his face.
Sarahs dying. Its a matter of weeks. The treatments arent working; surgerys not an option now. Shes got no familyher mum died years ago, her dad was never in the picture. Harrys only five. Hell have no one.
I sat in silence, a knot forming somewhere in my chest, but I kept my face still.
I need to ask you he trailed off. Could you help us? Financially. We need money, for the care home, the hospital bills, the lot. Ill repay you, I promiseIm just skint.
How much? I asked.
About sixty grand. Maybe more.
I set my cup down. The tea sloshed. A brown spot bloomed on the white tablecloth.
Sixty thousand pounds, I repeated. Do tell, Victor, where exactly do you think Ive stashed that kind of money?
You could sell your flat. The one on Maple Crescent. You always said you didnt really use it You could
Ah yes, the Maple Crescent flat. Tiny, dreary, a starter place my parents had given me when I first moved out. Years ago, in a fit of naïve generosity, I gifted it to Victor for his birthdayback when I believed we were in it for the long haul. Hed rented it out since, pocketing the cash. Now he wanted me to sell it.
You cannot be serious! I glared at him. You want me to sell the flat I once gave you?
Emma, I realise how this sounds, but
No, I said, firm as granite. It was a gift. Not a lifelong mortgage on your happiness.
He blanched.
But Sarah and Harry will be left all alone!
Harry has a father, I said, rising, gathering my bag. That would be you. This is your responsibility.
Emma, wait
I didnt. Out the door I went, phone clutched tightly, hands trembling. Was I right to refuse? Or just an icy-hearted cow?
At home, I rang my oldest friend, Harrietwise, dry-witted, and the sole person never to scold me for not martyring myself for the sake of a broken marriage.
He asked you to sell your flat? Harriet snorted in disbelief. Emma, hes off his trolley.
But, you knowtheres a dying woman. And a child.
Doesnt matter. Its not on you. You dont owe him a penny. Not a sausage.
I just feel so awful, I confessed. Like Im refusing a dying wish.
You have every right to say no, even if it feels rubbish, Harriet insisted. Remember that. His consequences, not yours.
I lay on the sofa and closed my eyes, Victors wounded tones repeating in my head: my voice, his new woman, a child Id never met. Was I meant to turn into Florence Nightingale just because hed mucked up his own life?
No. Absolutely not.
Two days later, Victor called again. No requests for another chummy coffee; straight to the point, blunt with desperation.
Emma, I get that youre upset with me. But think about Harry. Hes innocent.
Im not angry, I replied, calm as a chilly dawn. I just dont want to be part of this.
Then, well, Ive got one more favour If Sarah diescould you become Harrys guardian? Just for a while. Until I get on my feet.
It took me a moment.
You what?
You know kids. You raised Sophie. Harry needs a mother, I cant cope alone
Victor, I cut across him, ice creeping into my tone, you want me to mother your child? The one born while you were cheating on me?
Emma, I know this is
No, I said, every bit of me certain. Absolutely not. Cross me off your rescue list. Im not part of your new life.
I hung up and ended up on the hallway floor, heart pounding, mind in uproar.
The nerve.
That evening, Sophie arrivedmy daughter: twenty-eight, bright, clever, flitting through life with enviable confidence. Advertising job in the city, renting a miniature flat, barely home, always reliable.
Mum, Dad called, she announced the second she stepped over the threshold. He told me about Sarah and Harry.
I nodded, clicked on the kettle.
And what did he tell you?
That you refused to help. That youre cold.
I spun round. Sophie stood arms folded, disappointment in every line.
Cold? I echoed. Charming.
Mum, how can you be like this? Its a child. Hes not to blame.
Youre right, I poured the boiling water, set out the mugs. Harrys not to blame. But he isnt my responsibility, either.
But you could help! Even a little bit!
Im not selling my flat. And Im not becoming guardian to someone elses child. This isnt my mess. Its your fathers.
Youre being selfish, Sophie muttered, hurt flickering across her face.
That stung. I didnt defend myself.
Maybe. But Im allowed.
Sophie left soon after, leaving her tea untouched in a pale ring on the table. The flat was suddenly as silent as a cathedral after evensong.
The week that followed was grim. Victor texted, called, sent messages that swerved between pleading and guilt-tripping. Threatened legal action, told me I was callous, predicted that Sophie would hate me, claimed Id driven him to despair.
I didnt reply. Just deleted, deleted, deleted.
One evening, Sarah herself turned up. Gaunt, pale, scarf knotted over invisible hair, eyes old with exhaustion.
May I come in? she murmured.
I let her in and made her teathough she only peered into the cup, lost in her own world.
Im not asking you to love Harry, she whispered, just please, give him a chance. Hes little. He needs someone, when Im gone.
And his father? I asked.
Victor cant cope. You know what hes like.
I did. Victor had always crumpled under pressurecharming but, in the end, dependable as a chocolate teapot.
Im sorry, I said gently. I truly am. But I cant.
She nodded, left her chair, paused at the door.
Youre a very strong woman, she said, barely above a whisper. Victor always said so. But now I see that strengththats coldness, too.
And then she was gone.
Coldness inside, shed said.
That night, I barely slept. Images of Harry, Victor, Sarah, Sophie whirled through my head. Had I grown frosty? Once, Id been soft, forgiving, willing to sacrifice myself for others.
Then Victor left. Cheated and left. I learnt that giving up everything only left you emptyand betrayed.
Butwasnt I in the right?
I got up, headed to the window. The street was quiet, foxes snooping near the bins. Somewhere, a dog barked.
Im allowed to say no, I repeated Harriets words to myself. Even if it hurts, even if they judge me.
Im not obliged to pay for other peoples problems. I dont have to be the martyr in someone elses panto.
The next morning, I rang Victor.
Meet me. Same café. Today.
He turned up hopeful, folded hands on the table between us.
Emma, I knew
Let me speak, I interrupted. Im not selling the flat. That gift was closure, not a shackle. And Im not mothering your child. This is your tangle. Not mine.
But
You made your choices, I continued, steady and clear. You left, you built your life elsewhere. Time to take responsibility for your decisions. It isnt my place to fix it.
He went grey.
So you want Harry to suffer?
I want you to stop using him to pull my heartstrings, I said, as gently as I could muster. You have family. Sarah had friends. Turn to them. But not me.
Youre cruel, he breathed. Heartless.
I grabbed my bag and stood.
Maybe. But its my life. And you dont get to rewrite my part in yours.
Outside, I walked away with lighter steps and my chin up. I didnt even look back.
Two weeks passed; Victor stopped calling. Sophie was silent. Harriet dropped round, made tea, filled the kitchen with talks of anything except Harry or Sarah.
Life resumed. I went to work, cooked my suppers, read paperbacks. In the evenings Id perch by the window, watching the children in the garden below.
Sometimes I thought of Harry. What did he look like? Did he take after Victor? The thoughts drifted in and out, as aimless as a grey English cloud. I never tried to net them.
Then, one morning, a message from Sophie: Mum, Im sorry. I get it. Youre right.
I smiled. Replied: Thank you, sweetheart. Love you.
I settled by the window with my tea and looked around my little flat, sunlight slanting through the curtains. This was my place. My life.
I hadnt become the saviour of somebody elses disaster. I hadnt given myself away.
But Id kept myself whole. And that, in itself, felt like a real victory.
A quiet one. No orchestra. But real.
I sipped my tea and picked up a book. Beyond the glass, the world kept turning, and for once, I felt no guilt at allfor choosing me.
