— Emily, there was a strange man bothering your Sophie at the playground.
— Bothering? What do you mean, Lucy? Where is he? Who was it?
— How should I know? I went over to ask who he was, and he bolted the second he saw me.
— I don’t like this. Sophie! Love, come here!
The five-year-old skipped over, her pigtails bouncing, and grinned up at her mum.
— Mummy! I saw the cutest puppies!
Emily studied her daughter’s face, tension knotting in her chest. Sophie seemed fine, but something felt off.
— Where did you see them? Who showed you?
Sophie blinked, confused.
— No one showed me! I saw them myself. There were three—two black ones and one with white spots. Come on, I’ll show you!
Emily grabbed her hand.
— Did a man talk to you? What did he say? Was he bothering you?
Sophie’s face scrunched up in disbelief.
— Mummy, what’s wrong with you? No one bothered me! A nice man just asked if I knew Emily Thompson.
Emily’s breath hitched. Who would know her full name like that? Unless…
— What did he look like?
But before Sophie could answer, Emily’s phone buzzed. Her husband, James. She couldn’t ignore it.
— Yes, darling?
Her mind raced. That man—why had he approached Sophie? She wouldn’t mention it to James. She’d warned Sophie not to either.
— No need to worry Daddy, okay?
Sophie nodded, used to her mum’s odd requests.
That night, Emily tossed and turned, barely sleeping. By morning, her head throbbed, and even thinking felt exhausting. Every movement spiked the pain.
— Let’s go out for dinner, love, James suggested, and Emily agreed gratefully.
Her second marriage was nothing like the first. With James, she felt safe—cherished.
— Perfect idea, she smiled.
Her mood lifted slightly, but as they left the house, Emily froze. A familiar figure stood by the neighbouring building. Her heart pounded.
— Em, you okay? James called from the car.
— Mummy, come on!
Emily forced herself into the passenger seat, eyes locked on the stranger until they drove off. Her chest ached like she couldn’t breathe.
At the restaurant, she couldn’t relax. When James stepped away to take a call, Sophie piped up.
— Mummy, I saw that nice man again.
Emily barely stifled a gasp.
— When?
— When we left for dinner. He was watching us.
After the tense meal, James took her hand.
— What’s wrong, love? You’ve been distant.
She wanted to keep quiet, but she loved him too much to lie.
— James… Andrew’s back.
He stopped, letting go of her hand.
— Andrew? He called you?
— Mummy, who’s Andrew? Sophie asked.
— Just someone I know, Emily evaded, then met James’s eyes. — I saw him near our house. Twice.
James stayed silent. As they drove home, Emily’s stomach twisted. Andrew stood on their doorstep, smirking as their car pulled up.
— You were right, James muttered. — He found you.
— Can I talk to him? She asked quietly. — If you’d rather I didn’t…
James squeezed her hand.
— He’s your son, Em.
She glanced back at Sophie, asleep in her seat. James understood.
— We’ll drive around. Go on.
Grateful, Emily stepped out. Andrew’s face had hardened with time, but his contempt was unchanged.
— Hello, she said first.
— Took me ages to find you, he sneered. — Married Dad’s best mate, had a kid—really?
His voice turned bitter. Emily braced herself.
— Did you come just to judge me?
— I’m your son. Not inviting me in?
She knew better.
— Not when you’re like this. Why now?
Ten years ago, Andrew had stormed out after she divorced his father. Blamed her for everything—his dad’s drinking, his grandfather’s stroke.
— You ruined our family. You’re dead to me.
Now he was back.
— I need money.
Disgust coiled in her stomach. No sadness, no joy—just revulsion.
Years with Peter had been hell. The man she’d loved became a monster. The first time he hit her, Sophie was seven. He’d only done it when Andrew wasn’t home.
She’d hidden the bruises, endured it, until the night Peter came at her with a knife. She’d fled to James—Peter’s best friend, the only one who knew the truth.
— He won’t change, James had said.
And he was right. She left. Peter drank himself to death. Andrew, fed on his father’s lies, vanished.
Now he stood before her, demanding cash, sneering about her “perfect new life.”
— You chose this, she said coldly.
— Broke the family, now play happy families? He scoffed. — Just give me the money.
Emily looked at him—really looked. He was Peter, through and through.
— I died to you ten years ago. Stay dead. Leave.
Andrew’s face twisted.
— I hate you. Wish you’d died instead of Dad.
A chill ran down her spine, but she nodded.
— Maybe. But you can’t change it. Go.
Watching him walk away, she felt nothing. Maybe because the mother in her had died long ago.
