**Faulty 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 bedroom. “Two men in the house, and I’m the one lugging these bags,” she grumbled. “Always ready to eat, but never to help.” She made sure they heard her as she kicked off her shoes noisily, sighing and muttering under her breath.
Finally, her son appeared in the doorway.
“Take these to the kitchen, will you? Is your dad in?”
Tom lifted the bags from the floor.
“He’s watching telly,” he tossed over his shoulder. He could have kept quiet—Mum hadn’t asked what Dad was up to. But why should he be the only one to bear her mood? Let Dad catch some of it too.
“What’s all the shouting?” His father appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing. Just tired,” Emma snapped. “I’ll rest five minutes, then cook dinner. All by myself. Could’ve at least boiled some pasta.” She slipped into her slippers and flicked off the hallway light.
“You never said. We’d have done it, right, Tom?” Ever the peacemaker, his dad quickly roped Tom into the excuse.
From the kitchen came only the rustling of bags and the fridge door closing. Tom stayed neutral—safest that way.
“So, you didn’t boil any,” Emma sighed. “If we had a daughter, she’d have known what to do. But you two? Useless.” She shuffled past her husband into the kitchen.
“Em, I get you’re tired, but why take it out on us? I’m no mind reader—tell us what you need, and we’ll do it. I just got back from work too, knackered myself.” He sliced the air with his hand and vanished into the living room.
“Exactly my point. Easier to lounge on the sofa,” Emma muttered, but the edge was gone. She wasn’t looking for a row—just too wound up to stop yet.
“Thanks, love. Go on, finish your homework—I’ll manage.”
Tom bolted to his computer. Emma opened the fridge, shook her head, and rearranged the shelves. Letting off steam had calmed her. She adored her boys—just one of those days when everything grated. Men didn’t belong in the kitchen.
After dinner, she scraped leftover pasta into a tub, added a meatball, then hesitated before adding another.
“Taking it to the Millers again? Don’t spoil her—she’ll milk you dry,” her husband jabbed, getting back at her earlier grumbles.
“Not the Millers—Sophie. Poor girl’s got nothing at home. Her mum drinks it all away. Saw her dragging her mum home legless last week. Kid’s bright, sweet—just drew the short straw with parents.” Emma laced up her shoes in the hall.
Her husband said nothing.
Emma went downstairs and knocked on the peeling door that looked like a shove would break it. Not that anyone would bother—nothing worth stealing, not even roaches stayed.
“Who is it?” A small voice filtered though.
“Sophie, it’s Auntie Emma. Open up—I brought you some food.”
The lock clicked. The door cracked open, and through the gap, Emma saw the wary eyes of nine-year-old Sophie.
“Here, eat. Your mum asleep?”
The girl opened the door wider, took the tub, and nodded.
“Right, then. Don’t let your mum pinch it.” Emma eyed Sophie’s thin frame. “Skin and bones, poor duck.”
Another nod, and the door shut.
“I’d love a daughter like her,” Emma sighed, climbing back upstairs.
She peeked into Tom’s room. He snapped his laptop shut, but not fast enough.
“Don’t hide it. Homework done?” She approached his desk.
“Ages ago.”
“After school tomorrow, bring Sophie up for soup. Her mum drinks their food money. Kid’s always hungry—thin as a rake.”
“Alright, Mum,” fourteen-year-old Tom agreed without questions.
“Don’t game too late.” She hovered at the door.
“Got it.” He reopened his game, absorbed.
Next day, passing the Millers’ door, Tom pressed the bell.
“Go away, Mum’s not home,” Sophie called.
“Oi, squirt. Mum says you’re coming up.”
A pause. “…Why?”
“Come and see.”
The door creaked open. Sophie eyed him suspiciously.
“Well? Suit yourself.” He feigned indifference and turned.
“Wait!” She dashed back inside, then reappeared with an empty tub.
“Soup’s in the fridge. Can you heat it?” Tom mimicked his mum’s tone.
“I’m not a baby,” Sophie huffed, trailing him upstairs.
“Two bowls. Kitchen’s that way—I’m changing.” He vanished into his room.
By the time he returned, steam curled from two bowls.
“Good job. Race you?” Tom dug in.
Sophie ate slowly, watching him. Later, she washed up without being asked. Not his job—she ate, she cleaned.
“Come on, I’ll show you a game,” he said as she hung the towel neatly.
“Show me how to earn online instead.”
Tom laughed. “Switched on, aren’t you? You got a computer?”
“Where from?”
“So how’s that gonna work?”
“Just show me.”
“Dunno myself. But I’ll ask Vince—he brags he knows.”
From then on, most days after school, they’d eat, and Tom taught her computer basics. Sophie picked it up fast, glowed under his praise.
Once, her mum answered the door, Sophie peeking behind her.
“Bit young for boys, ain’tcha?” Her mum’s voice rasped.
“We do homework,” Tom lied smoothly.
Sophie’s eyes darted between them, scared.
“Fine. Don’t be long.” Her mum swayed back inside.
“You forgot your key. She’s not pissed today,” Tom noted on the stairs.
“Will be.” Sophie pulled a string under her dress—a key dangled.
“Smart. Runaway plan, huh?”
Sometimes Tom’s mates came over, and Sophie left reluctantly.
“What’s her deal? Fancy you?” she overheard leaving.
“Shut it. Kid’s tiny. Just teaching her the laptop,” Tom said.
“Not tiny!” Sophie stuck her tongue out.
Summers, Tom went to camp or his gran’s, and Sophie missed him fiercely. Spotting Auntie Emma, she’d always ask when he’d be back.
“By term time,” Emma promised.
Years passed. Sophie matched Tom’s tech skills. Lessons ended—she just used his laptop now. He allowed it kindly. Then university came; his parents bought him a new one. The old one went to Sophie. She hid it behind her wardrobe or took it to school—anything to stop her mum pawning it.
They barely saw each other now. Sophie had shot up, filled out, but Tom still saw the kid next door. Only a blind man wouldn’t notice her lovesick glances in the stairwell. Emma wasn’t blind.
“Tom, we need to talk. Sophie visits when we’re out?” Emma said one evening. “She shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“She’s sweet on you. Can’t you tell?”
“Mum, don’t be daft. She’s just a kid.”
“Not anymore. And you’re handsome—takes after me.” Emma smiled proudly. “Her dad drank himself to death in a snowdrift. Mum’s a soak. Surprised they haven’t sacked her—who else scrubs stairs? Sophie’s clever, capable—the daughter I’d have wanted. But bad blood tells, Tom. I won’t have you hurt. Find a nice girl. Cut her off—she’s hoping for things.”
“She’s like a sister! Besides, I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Really? Bring her round!” Emma brightened.
“Will do. You’ll love her,” Tom said too quickly.
That weekend, he brought home Lucy—pretty, poised. Emma dubbed her “Princess Frosty” in her head. At dinner, Lucy barely spoke or ate. “Shy, well-bred,” Emma reasoned.
Soon, Lucy was over often, shut in Tom’s room. Emma never intruded—but she’d shoo Sophie off without qualms. Lucy stayed icy with her.
“She’s cold as marble. Tom won’t be happy. Can she even cook?” Emma fretted to her husband. “Sophie used to help—washed up, fetched bread, all smiles. But that blood…”
Meanwhile, Sophie watched from her window as Tom walked Lucy through the courtyard, burning with jealousy. Lately, her mum drank less—liquor didn’t take anymore. Just skin and bones. Sophie hated yet pitied her. She begged her to see a doctor.
The doctor met Sophie’s eyes: “Too late. Not longAnd when Sophie became a doctor years later, with Tom by her side and Emma finally embracing her as a daughter, no one ever spoke of faulty genes again.
