Emma had had enough. She didn’t understand why James had changed—had he fallen out of love? Last night, he’d arrived home late again and slept on the sofa.
That morning, as he sat for breakfast, Emma took the seat opposite.
“James, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s your problem?”
He sipped his tea, avoiding her gaze.
“You’ve been different since the boys were born.”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed.”
“James, we’ve lived like strangers for two years. You *must* have noticed.”
“Look, what did you expect? The house is always covered in toys, smells like baby food, the kids scream all day—you think anyone would enjoy that?”
“James, they’re *your* children!”
He shoved his chair back and paced the kitchen.
“All normal wives have *one* quiet kid who plays in the corner. Not you—you had twins! My mum warned me, but I didn’t listen. Women like you only know how to breed!”
“Women like *me*? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The kind with no purpose in life.”
“You made me drop out of uni to ‘devote myself to the family’!”
Emma fell silent, then spoke softly.
“I think we should divorce.”
He shrugged.
“Fine. Just don’t come after me for child support. I’ll give you money myself.”
Then he walked out. She wanted to cry, but the twins woke, demanding her attention.
—
A week later, she packed their things and left. Her grandmother had left her a room in a shared flat, so they moved in. The other tenants were strangers, but she wanted to meet them.
The man next door was gruff, middle-aged. The woman on the other side was in her sixties, sharp-eyed. Emma knocked on the man’s door first.
“Hello! I’m your new neighbour. I brought cake—fancy a cuppa?”
She forced a smile. He glanced at her, then grunted, “Don’t eat sweets,” and shut the door.
Margaret, the older woman, accepted—but only to lecture her.
“Listen, I nap in the afternoon and watch telly at night. Keep your brats quiet. And don’t let them run in the hall—no touching, no mess, no breaking things!”
Emma’s heart sank. Life here would be miserable.
—
She got the boys into nursery and took a job there as an assistant. It worked perfectly—she finished when it was time to collect Harry and Oliver. The pay was meagre, but James had promised to help.
For three months, he did. Then the divorce was final, and the money stopped. Now, she was two months behind on rent.
Margaret’s hostility grew. One evening, as Emma fed the boys in the kitchen, the woman swept in, silk dressing gown rustling.
“Darling, have you sorted your finances? I’d hate to lose power or heating because of *you*.”
Emma sighed.
“Not yet. I’ll see my ex tomorrow—he’s forgotten his kids exist.”
Margaret leaned over the table.
“You feed them nothing but pasta. You’re a terrible mother.”
“I *am* a good mother! And you’d best keep your nose out of my business—unless you want it rearranged!”
Margaret shrieked like a banshee. The noise drew the neighbour—John—from his room. He listened to Margaret’s tirade, then left. Moments later, he returned, tossed money on the table, and growled, “Shut it. That’s for the rent.”
Margaret clamped her mouth shut. But as John left, she hissed, “You’ll regret this!”
Emma ignored her. A mistake.
The next day, she confronted James.
“I’m in a rough patch—I can’t pay,” he said.
“You’re joking. I need to feed the kids!”
“So feed them. I’m not stopping you.”
“I’ll take you to court.”
“Go ahead. My ‘official’ salary’s so low, you’ll get pennies. Now *get out*.”
She walked home in tears. A week till payday, and almost nothing left. Worse waited: a constable at her door. Margaret had filed a complaint—threats, neglected children.
An hour later, he said, “I have to report this to social services.”
“Report *what*? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Procedure. A complaint’s been made.”
That evening, Margaret cornered her again.
“If those brats disturb me once more, I’ll call social services *myself*!”
“They’re *children*! They can’t sit still all day!”
“If you fed them properly, they’d nap, not run wild!”
The boys clung to her, frightened. “Eat up, loves. Auntie’s just joking.” She turned to hide her tears—and didn’t notice John enter. He carried a bulging bag, stuffed her fridge silently, then left.
After payday, she knocked on his door. He opened, grim as ever.
“John, here’s £20 for the food. I’ll pay the rest later—just tell me how much.”
“Keep it.” He shut the door.
Margaret’s screeches drew her back. Tea was spilled. “Tramps! Vermin! What’ll become of you?”
Emma sent the boys to their room, cleaned up, then sat with them. “Hold on, loves. I’ll find a way out.” They clung to her, small hands tight.
—
Next evening, a knock. Two women, the constable, and a man stood there.
“Valentine Emma Carter?”
“Yes?”
“We’re from social services.”
They inspected the room, the fridge, the beds.
“Pack their things.”
“*What*? I’m not giving up my boys!”
Harry and Oliver latched onto her, sobbing. The constable pried them loose. “Mummy! *Don’t let them take us*!”
She fought, but the man twisted her arms. Through tears, she saw their terror as they were carried off, screams fading down the stairs. When the car drove away, the constable released her. She collapsed, howling.
Emma spotted her grandfather’s old axe. She hefted it, smiled—more a snarl—and marched to Margaret’s door.
As the wood splintered, John grabbed her, wrestled the axe away.
“Fool! Who’s this helping?”
She gasped. “I don’t *care* anymore…”
He dragged her to his flat, forced a pill into her. She’d have run—to the bridge—but sleep took her. John hadn’t skimped on the dose.
He confronted Margaret. She sat gulping valerian, dishevelled.
“Happy?”
“Oh, John… I just meant to scare her off…”
“Off? Tomorrow, you *withdraw* that complaint. Pray this blows over—or I *might* not stop her next time.”
—
A month of forms, tests, interviews. Emma nearly gave up—but John pushed her. When the return seemed possible, she woke from her despair.
“John… this is all *you*.”
He smiled—a sad, faint thing. “I had kids once. Couldn’t save them. Yours… I *can*.”
On the night before the verdict, she lay awake on his sofa.
“John… tell me what happened to yours.”
His voice was flat. “Had a family. Wife, two lads. Didn’t appreciate them—drank, shouted. She left. I waited, thought they’d come back. Went to her parents’ cottage. Too late. Wiring fault—burnt down with them inside.”
Silence. Then:
“Got drunk, fought. Hurt some blokes. Three years inside. Sold my flat to pay damages, moved here. Got my old job back.”
She took his hand. He pulled away.
“Sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
—
“Carter!”
The social worker handed her papers. “Don’t let this happen again.” Emma stared, numb—until the woman softened. “Well? Go fetch your boys.”
In the waiting room, they collided with her. Even John wiped his eyes.
—
Life improved. Margaret stayed hidden. John got Emma a technician’s job at his factory—enough to live on. But he grew even grimmer.
One day, she dropped his jacket. His phone lit up—her photo on the screen. Smiling, she took it to him. He lay stiffly, startled as she sat beside him.
“John… I’ve always been afraid to say too much. Some people left before I could. The worst thing is regretting words unsaid.”
“What’re you on about?”
“If you can’t say it… maybe I will. John… marry me?”
He cupped her face. “I’m no good with words. Just know—I’ll do *anything* for you and the boys.”
