Emily walked into the flat, set the heavy shopping bags down with a thud, and exhaled loudly.
“Anyone home?” she called toward the living room. “Two grown men in the house, and I’m the one lugging the heavy bags,” she muttered. “Always happy to eat, but when it comes to helping, suddenly no one’s around.” She said it louder this time, making sure they heard.
She made a point of hanging up her coat with exaggerated sighs, letting them know just how put-upon she felt. Finally, her son appeared in the doorway.
“Tom, take these bags to the kitchen. Is your dad home?”
Tom picked them up from the floor.
“Watching telly,” he tossed over his shoulder. He could’ve left it at that—Emily hadn’t asked what his father was doing. But why should he be the only one to bear the brunt of her mood? Let his dad get a taste of it too.
“What’s all the racket?” His father appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing. Just worn out,” Emily snapped. “I’ll rest five minutes, then start dinner. All by myself. Least one of you could’ve thought to boil some pasta.” She slipped on her slippers and flicked off the hall light.
“You didn’t say. We’d have done it, wouldn’t we, Tom?” His father, sensing the brewing argument, quickly enlisted Tom to back him up.
From the kitchen came only the rustle of bags and the click of the fridge door. Tom stayed out of it—safer that way.
“So no one thought to, then,” Emily sighed. “If we had a daughter, she’d have known what to do. But no use expecting anything from you lot.” She shuffled past her husband into the kitchen.
“Love, I know you’re tired, but why take it out on us? I’m not a mind reader—if you’d said, we’d have made dinner, even gone to the shops. I just got back from work too, knackered, by the way.” He chopped the air with the side of his hand and vanished into the living room.
“That’s just it—always have to spell everything out for you. Easier to lounge on the sofa, isn’t it?” Emily grumbled, though the edge had gone from her voice.
She didn’t want a row. She was too drained for that. But she couldn’t just switch off the irritation.
“Thanks, love. Go on, do your homework—I’ll handle the rest.”
Tom bolted straight for his computer. Emily opened the fridge, shook her head, and started rearranging things. Having vented, she calmed down. She adored her husband and son—today was just one of those days when everything got on her nerves. Cooking wasn’t a man’s job anyway.
After dinner, she scraped the leftover pasta into a container, tossing in a meatball. She nearly added another but caught herself.
“Taking this to the Bensons again? You spoil them, they’ll start expecting it,” her husband chided, getting his own back for her earlier griping.
“Not the Bensons—Sophie. Doubt there’s even food at home. Her mum drinks it all away. Poor girl. Saw her once, dragging her mum home—woman could barely walk. Clever kid, good-hearted. Just rotten luck with parents.” Emily slipped on her shoes by the door.
Her husband said nothing.
Emily went down to the third floor and rang the bell at the scuffed-up door that looked like a stiff breeze could knock it down—not that there was anything inside worth stealing. Even the roaches had left for greener pastures.
“Who is it?” came a small voice from inside.
“Sophie, it’s Aunt Emily. Open up—brought you something to eat.”
The lock clicked, the door cracked open, and Emily saw the sharp, wary eye of nine-year-old Sophie peering out.
“Here, get this down you. Your mum asleep?”
Sophie opened the door wider, took the container, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll be off. You eat. Skin and bones, you are.” Emily’s heart ached looking at her. “Don’t let your mum nick it.”
Sophie nodded again and shut the door.
“Wish she were mine,” Emily sighed, climbing the stairs back to her flat.
She popped her head into her son’s room. He hurriedly shut his laptop, but she’d seen enough—gaming, not homework.
“Don’t bother hiding it. Homework done?” She moved to his desk.
“Ages ago.”
“Tomorrow after school, ask Sophie round and give her some soup. Her mum drinks every penny—lucky if they’ve got bread. Girl’s half-starved, skinny as a rake.”
“Alright, Mum,” fourteen-year-old Tom agreed without question.
“Don’t stay up late. Bed soon.” Emily left, pulling the door shut.
“Right.” Tom reopened his game, eyes glued to the screen.
Next day, passing the Bensons’ door, Tom pressed the buzzer.
“Go away—Mum’s not home,” Sophie called through the door.
“Oi, listen—my mum said to bring you round.”
“Why?” A long pause.
“Come find out.”
The door inched open. Sophie watched him with suspicion.
“Well? Coming or not?” He feigned indifference, stepping toward the stairs.
“Wait!” She vanished inside, then reappeared with the empty container.
“Pot of soup in the fridge. Know how to heat it?” Tom asked, heading upstairs, mimicking Emily’s tone.
“I’m not stupid,” Sophie muttered, trailing behind.
“Two bowls, then.” Tom unlocked the flat. “Kitchen’s that way. I’ll change.” He disappeared into his room.
When he entered the kitchen, steam curled from two bowls, spoons and bread laid neatly beside them.
“Nice. Race you.” Tom shoveled in soup while Sophie ate slowly, watching him. Afterwards, she washed up. Tom didn’t offer—she’d eaten, she could clean.
“Come on, I’ll show you a game.” He nodded at his laptop when she hung the towel up.
“Better show me how to make money online.”
Tom grinned. “You’re sharp. You got a computer?”
“Where from?”
“How d’you plan to earn, then?”
“You show me,” she insisted.
“Dunno, honestly. But I’ll ask Vinny—he bragged about knowing.”
After that, nearly every day, Tom fetched Sophie after school. They’d eat, and he’d teach her the ropes on his laptop. She picked it up like a pro, glowing under his praise.
Once, her mum answered the door, Sophie peering from behind.
“Bit young to be trailing after boys, ain’t ya?” Her mum’s voice was hoarse as she sized up Tom.
“Helping her with schoolwork,” Tom said smoothly.
Sophie’s eyes flicked between them, terrified.
“Fine, go on. Not too long.” Her mum swayed like a ship in a storm as she shuffled off.
“Forgot your key. What if she locks up? Doesn’t seem drunk today,” Tom said on the stairs.
“She will be.” Sophie tugged a string around her neck, pulling a key from under her dress.
“Right. So if you ever bolt, you’re set,” Tom snorted.
When his mates came over, Sophie left reluctantly.
“What’s she always hanging round for? Fancy you?” she heard one jeer as she went.
“Shut it. She’s a kid. Teaching her the laptop,” Tom shot back.
“I’m not a kid,” Sophie scowled, flipping them off.
Summer breaks sent Tom to camp or his gran’s, leaving Sophie miserable. Spotting Aunt Emily outside, she’d always ask when he was back.
“By school time,” Emily promised.
Years passed. Sophie mastered the laptop as well as Tom. Lessons weren’t needed—now she came just to use it. He let her, indulgent. At uni, his parents got him a new one; the old one went to Sophie. She hid it behind the wardrobe or took it to school so her mum couldn’t pawn it.
They barely saw each other now. Sophie had shot up, filled out, but Tom still saw her as the kid next door. Only someone blind wouldn’t notice the way she looked at him in the hall or courtyard—aching, tender. Emily wasn’t blind.
“Tom, we need to talk. Sophie’s always round when we’re out. She shouldn’t be.”
“Why?”
“She’s in love with you—can’t you see?”
“Mum, come off it. She’s still a kid,” Tom scoffed.
“She’s grown. And you’re a right catch.” Emily studied him proudly. “Her dad drank himself to death—froze in the snow. Mum’s a mess. Surprised they haven’t sacked her from scrubbing floors. Who else would do it?”
“Nothing against her—bright, hardworking. The daughter anyone’d want. But sooner or later, her parents’ bad bloodBut in the end, love proved stronger than fear, and Tom realized that sometimes the best things in life come not from perfect genes, but from a heart that knows what it truly wants.
