**Broken Genes**
Emma stepped into the flat, dropped the heavy shopping bags on the floor, and let out a loud sigh.
“Anyone home?” she called toward the living room. “Two grown men in the house, and I’m the one hauling groceries,” she grumbled. “Everyone’s happy to eat, but when it comes to helping? Not a soul in sight.” She raised her voice, making sure they heard.
She made a racket taking off her coat, sighing and groaning. Finally, her son appeared in the doorway.
“Take these bags to the kitchen. Is your dad home?”
Liam picked up the shopping.
“He’s watching telly,” he threw over his shoulder. He didn’t need to mention the telly—she hadn’t asked—but why should he be the only one on the receiving end of her mood? Let Dad get some of it too.
“What’s all the shouting?” Her husband appeared in the hall.
“Nothing. Just tired,” Emma snapped. “Give me five minutes, then I’ll make dinner. All by myself. Couldn’t even boil pasta, could you?” She shoved her feet into slippers and switched off the hall light.
“You never said. We’d have done it, right, Liam?” Her husband, sensing the brewing argument, quickly dragged their son into it.
Only the rustling of bags and the fridge door closing came from the kitchen. Liam wisely stayed neutral—safer that way.
“Guess not, then,” Emma sighed. “If I had a daughter, she’d know what to do. But you lot? Useless.” She shuffled past her husband toward the kitchen.
“Emma, I get you’re tired, but why take it out on us? I’m not a mind-reader. Tell us what you need, and we’ll do it. I just got home from work too, you know,” he said, slicing the air with his hand before disappearing into the living room.
“Exactly my point. Easier to lie on the sofa,” she muttered under her breath, the anger fading. She didn’t want a row—she was too drained for it. She just couldn’t let it go yet.
“Thanks, love. Go do your homework—I’ll handle the rest.”
Liam bolted straight to his computer. Emma opened the fridge and shook her head, rearranging the shelves. The outburst had helped—she felt calmer now. She adored her boys. Today had just rubbed her the wrong way. Men didn’t belong in the kitchen anyway.
After dinner, she scraped the leftover pasta into a container, adding a meatball. She almost added another but stopped herself.
“Off to the Collinses again? Don’t spoil them—you’ll only complain later when they take advantage,” her husband jabbed, getting back at her earlier grumbling.
“Not the Collinses—Sophie. Poor kid’s probably got nothing to eat. Her mum drinks everything away. Saw her dragging her drunk mother home the other day. Barely standing. That girl’s bright, kind—just drew the short straw with parents,” Emma explained, slipping on her shoes.
Her husband said nothing.
Emma went down to the third floor and rang the battered doorbell. The peeling paint and splintered wood made it look like a shove would break it open—but why bother? There was nothing worth stealing, not even a crumb for the mice.
“Who is it?” a small voice called from inside.
“Sophie, it’s Auntie Emma. Open up—I’ve brought you something to eat.”
The lock clicked, the door cracked open, and a pair of wary nine-year-old eyes peered out.
“Here, eat this. Your mum asleep?”
Sophie opened the door wider, took the container, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll go then. You eat up. Skin and bones, you are.” Emma’s voice softened with pity. “Don’t leave any for your mum.”
Sophie nodded again and closed the door.
*I’d love a daughter like her*, Emma thought, climbing back upstairs.
She popped her head into Liam’s room. He slammed his laptop shut, but she’d already seen the game.
“Don’t hide it. Homework done?”
“Hours ago.”
“Tomorrow after school, bring Sophie up for soup. Her mum drinks away the money—lucky if they even have bread. Girl’s always hungry.”
“Alright, Mum,” fourteen-year-old Liam agreed without questioning.
“Don’t stay up late,” she said from the doorway.
“Won’t.” He reopened the game, eyes glued to the screen.
—
The next day, passing the Collinses’ door, Liam pressed the bell.
“Go away, Mum’s not home,” Sophie called.
“Oi, kid, my mum wants you upstairs.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
The door slowly opened. Sophie eyed him skeptically.
“Coming or not? Suit yourself.” He turned toward the stairs.
“Wait!” She disappeared, then emerged seconds later with the empty container.
“There’s soup in the fridge. Can you heat it?” he asked, mimicking his mother’s tone.
“I’m not a baby,” Sophie huffed, following him.
“Heat two bowls.” He unlocked the flat. “Kitchen’s there—I’ll change.”
By the time he returned, steaming bowls sat on the table with spoons and bread.
“Good. Race you.” Liam wolfed his down.
Sophie ate slowly, watching him. After, she washed up without being asked. Why would he help? She’d eaten—she could clean.
“Come on, I’ll show you a game,” he said when she’d hung the towel neatly.
“Teach me how to make money online instead.”
Liam laughed. “You’re sharp. You got a computer?”
“Where from?”
“Then how d’you plan to earn?”
“Just show me.”
“Dunno myself. But I’ll ask Jake—he brags about it.”
From then on, after school, Liam would fetch Sophie. They’d eat, and he’d teach her tech tricks. She picked it up fast, glowing at his praise.
One day, her mum answered the door, Sophie peeking behind her.
“A bit young for boys, aren’t you?” her mum slurred, eyeing Liam.
“I help with her homework,” Liam lied.
Sophie glanced between them nervously.
“Fine. Don’t be long,” her mum muttered, swaying into the flat.
“You didn’t grab your key. She’s not drunk today—how’ll you get back in?”
“She will be.” Sophie pulled a key on a string from under her dress.
“Ah. Smart. Runaway plan.”
When Liam’s mates visited, Sophie left reluctantly.
“What’s she always hanging round you for? Fancy you?” she overheard.
“Shut it. She’s a kid. I’m teaching her the laptop,” Liam said.
“I’m not a kid!” Sophie stuck her tongue out.
Summer holidays separated them—Liam went to camp or his gran’s. Sophie missed him desperately, asking Emma when he’d return.
“By September,” Emma promised.
Years passed. Sophie mastered tech better than Liam. She only came now to use his laptop. He let her, indulgent. When he started uni, his parents bought him a new one—he gave her the old one. She hid it behind her wardrobe or took it to school so her mum wouldn’t pawn it.
They barely saw each other now. Sophie had grown taller, curvier, but to Liam, she’d always be the neighbor kid. Anyone could see the longing in her eyes when they crossed paths—Emma certainly did.
“Liam, we need to talk. Does Sophie still come over when we’re out? She shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“She’s in love with you. Blind not to see it.”
“Mum, don’t be daft. She’s just a kid.”
“She’s grown. And you’re a looker,” Emma said proudly. “Her dad drank himself to death. Mum’s a mess. Surprised she’s still got a job—though who else’d scrub stairwells? Fine girl, sharp, hardworking. The daughter I’d have wanted. But those bad genes will show. I want healthy grandkids. Find a proper girl. Stop encouraging her—she’ll get ideas.”
“Her eyes? You’re imagining it. She’s like a sister. Besides, I’ve got a girlfriend,” Liam added.
“Really? Why haven’t we met her?” Emma brightened.
“You will. You’ll like her.”
That weekend, Liam brought home Alice—pretty, polished, and painfully shy. Emma dubbed her the “Ice Princess.” Alice barely spoke, picking at her food. *Well-mannered, I suppose*, Emma thought.
Alice became a regular, shutting herself in Liam’s room. Emma tiptoed around, too polite to intrude—never an issue with Sophie. Alice remained coldly polite.
“She’s a stranger. Statue. He’ll never be happy. Can she even cook?” Emma fretted to her husband.Sophie watched from her window as Liam walked hand in hand with Alice, her heart aching with love and jealousy, but life had a way of turning things around—after all, even the darkest clouds could part for a brighter tomorrow.
