“You’re nothing to me!” — The scream from his stepdaughter cut deeper than any knife.
“You’re nothing to me!” Emily shouted, slamming the door so hard the china in the cabinet rattled. The house fell into dead silence. Sarah sank onto the edge of a chair, clutching a mug of long-cold tea.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” asked little Sophie, peeking into the kitchen.
Sarah just shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Was it Emily again?”
“Her teacher called…” Sarah whispered. “But it’s fine, it doesn’t matter…”
Sophie moved closer, wrapping an arm around her mum’s shoulders.
“Mum, don’t upset yourself. It’ll sort itself out.” Even at just thirteen, Sophie had a quiet maturity about her—sometimes it felt like she was the older one, not her fifteen-year-old stepsister.
Half an hour later, David got home from work. The smell of dinner filled the house. Everyone but Emily sat down at the table.
“Where is she?” David asked, glancing at the empty chair.
“Upset,” Sophie said, stirring her soup carefully.
David looked at Sarah, who lowered her eyes guiltily.
“Her teacher rang. Emily’s failing every subject. I tried to talk to her…” Sarah trailed off, fighting back tears.
David stood and walked to his daughter’s room. Knocked.
“Go away!” came the muffled reply.
“It’s just me. Can I come in?”
The door cracked open. Emily, making sure he was alone, reluctantly let him inside.
“What’s all this mess?” he asked, eyeing the scattered clothes and empty pot noodle wrapper.
“Sarah’s always —” Emily started, but David cut her off.
“I rang Mrs. Thompson myself. You really are failing. What’s going on, Em?”
She stayed silent, shoving textbooks into her bag.
“I don’t expect you to love Sarah, but you could at least respect her. You hurt her every day.”
“And she doesn’t hurt me? You took her and Sophie to the shopping centre while I was stuck here alone!”
“Forgotten you were grounded for sneaking out to your mate’s at midnight?”
“Oh, right! I’m the awful one, and Sophie’s perfect!”
“Enough!” David’s voice sharpened. “You’re going too far!”
He left without waiting for an answer. Back in the kitchen, Sarah sat wringing her hands, words stuck in her throat. She looked at David but stayed quiet. Finally, after a moment, she forced out,
“I don’t know what to do anymore. Emily pushes me away, she’s jealous of you. I tried, really tried… but I never managed to be anyone she cared about.”
“I know, love,” David said, pulling her into a hug. “But what do we do?”
“We need to separate. Just for a while,” Sarah said, each word a struggle.
“What?” He pulled back. “You’re serious?”
“Maybe… if she has just you, something in her might change.”
Emily heard every word, pressed against the door. Hope flared in her chest. *Dad and me, living together again.*
The next morning, David told her they were moving back to their old flat. Sophie burst into tears, storming into Emily’s room, shouting,
“You hate my mum, and now you’re taking my dad!” before running off, slamming the door.
Emily hadn’t expected that twist. At first, she was thrilled—until she realised how hard life was without Sarah. No one cooked. No one helped with homework. David was always at work, leaving her to boil pasta and wash her own socks. He grew impatient, strict—nothing like Sarah, who’d patiently explain things even when Emily screamed in her face.
Her birthday was coming up. Emily decided to bake a cake. Found a recipe, mixed the batter… but lost track of time. The sponge burned. When David came home, he found her crying over the blackened mess.
“Dad… let’s go back,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I love you… and Sarah… and Sophie…”
“I love you too, sweetheart. But going back isn’t that simple. We hurt them. We have to ask if they’ll even have us.”
Emily was silent. The shame burned worse than the cake.
“You have to understand,” David said, “Sarah might not be your mum, but she deserves respect. And you need to apologise.”
That night, Emily couldn’t sleep. For the first time in ages, she wasn’t angry—just ashamed and aching. The next morning, she asked David to take her to Sarah and Sophie.
She said sorry. Really sorry. With tears. To Sarah. To Sophie. And a few days later, for the first time ever, she whispered, “Mum… forgive me.”
No one could say who cried harder in that moment.
