Emily had finally had enough. She couldn’t understand why James had become so cold—had he fallen out of love? Last night, he’d come home late again and slept in the guest room.
That morning, when he finally emerged for breakfast, Emily sat across from him.
“James, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s your problem?” He sipped his tea, avoiding her eyes.
“Ever since the twins were born, you’ve changed.”
“Have I?”
“James, we’ve been living like strangers for two years. Have you even noticed?”
“Listen, what did you expect? The house is a mess—toys everywhere, the place smells of baby food, the kids never stop screaming. You think anyone would enjoy that?”
“James, they’re your children!”
He stood abruptly, pacing the kitchen.
“Normal wives have one well-behaved child who plays quietly in a corner. But you—you had to have two at once! My mother warned me, but I didn’t listen. Women like you only know how to breed!”
“Women like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Women with no ambition, no purpose.”
“But you’re the one who made me drop out of university! You wanted me to stay home, to focus on the family!”
Emily sat back. After a pause, she whispered, “I think we should get a divorce.”
He shrugged. “Fine by me. Just don’t come after me for child support—I’ll send money when I can.”
He walked out. She wanted to cry, but a noise from the nursery cut her off—the twins were awake and calling for her.
For the next week, she packed her things, took the boys, and moved into her grandmother’s old flat in a shared house. The other tenants were strangers, so Emily decided to introduce herself.
One neighbour was a sullen man in his thirties, the other a sharp-tongued woman in her sixties. She knocked on the man’s door first.
“Hello! I’m your new neighbour—thought I’d say hi. Brought cake if you’d like some with tea?”
She forced a smile. The man gave her a once-over, then muttered, “Don’t eat sweets,” and shut the door in her face.
Undeterred, she went to Margaret next door, who agreed to tea—but only to deliver a speech.
“Listen, I nap in the afternoons because I watch telly at night, so your boys better not make a racket. And keep them out of the hallway—no running, no touching, no breaking anything!”
Emily’s heart sank. Life here would be far from easy.
She enrolled the twins in nursery and took a job there as a teaching assistant—convenient, since she finished just in time to collect Oliver and Charlie. The pay was pitiful, but James had promised to help.
For the first three months, while the divorce was finalising, he sent money. But after the papers were signed, nothing. Two months passed, and Emily still hadn’t paid rent.
Margaret’s hostility grew. One evening, as Emily fed the boys in the kitchen, the woman swept in, wrapped in silk.
“Dear, have you sorted your finances yet? I’d hate for us all to lose power over your negligence.”
Emily sighed. “Not yet. I’ll visit my ex tomorrow—he’s forgotten his children exist.”
Margaret tutted, eyeing their meal. “Pasta again? You know you’re a rubbish mother, don’t you?”
“I’m a good mother! And you’d do well to keep your nose out of it—unless you want it broken!”
Margaret shrieked like a banshee. The noise drew the sullen neighbour—Simon—from his room. He listened, stone-faced, before disappearing briefly and returning to toss money at Margaret.
“Shut up. Here’s for the rent.”
When Margaret slunk off, she hissed, “You’ll regret this!”
The next day, Emily confronted James.
“I’m in a rough patch—can’t spare a penny,” he said.
“You’re joking! They need food!”
“Then feed them—I’m not stopping you.”
“I’ll file for child support.”
“Go ahead. My official salary’s peanuts. Don’t bother me again.”
Tears stung her eyes as she walked home. A week until payday, and nothing left. But worse awaited—a constable at the door. Margaret had filed a complaint: Emily had “threatened” her, and the children were “neglected”.
After an hour-long interrogation, the constable said, “I’ll have to report this to social services.”
“But I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Procedure. A complaint’s been made.”
That evening, Margaret cornered her again.
“If your boys disturb me one more time, I’ll call social services myself!”
“They’re children! They can’t sit still all day!”
“If you fed them properly, they’d sleep instead of running wild!”
The twins clung to Emily, terrified.
“Eat up, loves. She’s just joking—really, she’s kind.”
She turned away to hide her tears—and didn’t notice Simon enter, arms full of groceries. He loaded the fridge without a word.
“Simon, you’ve got the wrong fridge—”
He left before she could finish.
Later, she knocked with payment. He opened, scowling.
“Here’s £200—I’ll bring more when I can. Just tell me what I owe.”
“Forget it.” The door shut.
Margaret’s screams cut through the flat—the boys had spilled tea. Emily cleaned up, defeated. That night, she hugged them close.
“Don’t worry, loves. We’ll get through this.”
The next evening, a knock. Two women, the constable, and a stern man stood there.
“Emily Whitmore?”
“Yes?”
“We’re from social services.”
They inspected the flat, the fridge, the beds.
“Pack the boys’ things.”
“What? No! You can’t take them!”
Oliver and Charlie wailed as they were pulled from her. She fought, but the men pinned her.
“Mummy! Don’t let them take us!”
She watched, helpless, as they were carried off, their screams fading into the night.
When they were gone, she collapsed. A fire burned in her chest—until her eyes landed on an old axe, once used for firewood.
She stood, gripping it, and marched to Margaret’s door.
Just as she raised it, Simon wrenched it from her hands.
“Idiot! What are you doing? You’ll ruin everything!”
“I don’t care anymore—”
He dragged her to his flat, pressed a sedative into her palm. She slept.
The next day, he confronted Margaret.
“Happy now?”
“I never thought—I just wanted her gone!”
“Withdraw that complaint. Pray this blows over—or I won’t stop her next time.”
A month of assessments followed—endless forms, interviews, drug tests. Emily nearly gave up, but Simon pushed her on.
When hope flickered—that they might get the boys back—she whispered, “Simon… this is because of you.”
For the first time, he smiled. Bitterly.
“I had kids once. Couldn’t help them—they’ve been gone five years. But yours… yours I can save.”
The night before the final decision, neither slept.
“Simon… tell me what happened.”
His voice was hollow.
“Had a wife. Two boys. Took them for granted—drank, shouted. One day, she left. Moved to her parents’ cottage. I waited a month, too proud. Then I went to them… but I was too late.”
A pause.
“House burned down. Faulty wiring.”
She reached for his hand, but he pulled away.
“Sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
The verdict came.
“Whitmore?”
Emily froze as the social worker handed her papers—then smiled.
“Go on. Fetch your boys.”
Simon steadied her as they waited. Then—
“Mummy!”
They clung to her, sobbing. Even Simon looked away, blinking hard.
“Right. Let’s go home.”
Life improved. Margaret hid in her room. Simon helped Emily land a stable job at a factory—enough to get by. But he grew quieter.
One day, she dropped his coat. His phone lit up—her photo, smiling.
She marched to his room. He lay staring at the ceiling, startled.
“Simon… I’ve spent too long afraid to speak. Too many words left unsaid. The worst regret is not saying what you should’ve.”
“What are you on about?”
She sat beside him.
“If you won’t ask… I will. Simon… marry me?”
He cupped her face, voice rough.
“I’m no poet. Just know this—I’ll do anything for you. For them.”
Love isn’t always grand gestures—sometimes it’s a quiet hand in the dark, a neighbour who remembers the pain of losing what you stillThe boys’ laughter filled the flat again, and as Simon set the table for four, Emily realized that family wasn’t just the one you were born into, but the one you chose to fight for.
