The doorbell rang.
“Mum, it’s Dad!” twelve-year-old Thomas dropped his controller onto the sofa and ran to the hallway.
The locks on the new steel door turned stiffly. I had to push hard on the handle to get the key to move. Behind the door stood Richard, holding a bag from an electronics store. For five years he hadn’t shown up at all. His child support payments were pitifully small – calculated from the minimum declared wage. But now he stood there in a new suede jacket, smiling.
“Hello, homeowners!” Richard stepped into the hallway and nearly tripped over a shoebox we hadn’t yet put away. “Hi, Thomas! Look what I’ve brought you. It’s the latest model – hard to find in the shops.”
My son looked stunned. Over the past five years, Richard had only sent short messages twice a year – on birthdays and at Christmas. Sometimes he’d transfer twenty pounds. Thomas knew his father wasn’t interested in him, so he hadn’t expected such an expensive gift.
“Why are you here, Richard?” I asked quietly. A knot tightened in my stomach. A sudden visit from an ex-husband never meant anything good.
“Why? To see my son!” Richard placed the box on the shoe rack and began unlacing his boots. “I heard you’d moved. Nice area, new building. Well done, Emily – you’ve landed on your feet. Make me a cup of tea, will you? We need to talk seriously about our boy’s future.”
Buying this flat had nearly broken me. For five years I’d scrimped and saved, working two roles at a logistics firm and burning the midnight oil on reports. I saved every ten-pound note. No holidays, no new clothes, no café trips. A two-bedroom flat on the edge of the city, in a newly built block, had seemed impossible. But the developer finished ahead of schedule, and we moved in.
I’d immediately put the property in Thomas’s name so he’d always have a home of his own – no matter what happened. All my relatives and friends knew and were thrilled. But somehow Richard had found out about the purchase.
“Come through to the kitchen,” I said, not wanting to argue in front of the boy. “Thomas, go to your room and open the present. Your father and I need a word.”
My son grabbed the box and hurried away. The kitchen still smelled of fresh paint and new furniture. The fitted units from IKEA had been assembled by my brother. Richard sat down on a stool, rested his elbows on the table, and surveyed the room.
“Not bad,” he said. “About sixty square metres, is it? Big kitchen. What does a place like this cost these days? Two hundred and fifty thousand?”
“Three hundred thousand,” I replied, filling the kettle. “And I earned every penny myself. I used my savings and some help from my parents. You had nothing to do with this flat.”
“Emily, why do you always get wound up?” Richard shook his head. “We got divorced – it happens. We were young, we made mistakes. But we only have one son. I’ve been working too these past years, building my business. My income’s gone up. So I came to see how my child is living.”
I listened, amazed at his nerve. When we’d left his mother’s one-bedroom flat, Richard had checked our bags to make sure I wasn’t taking anything extra. He’d even taken the blender my parents gave us as a wedding gift. Back then I was hurt; now I just felt disgust.
“Seen enough? Drink your tea and go. We’re busy.” I put a mug of cheap teabag brew in front of him. We’d stopped buying good tea out of habit – after so long economising on everything.
—
Richard pulled the mug closer but didn’t drink. He set his face in a serious expression and leaned across the table.
“Emily, I’ve come about something. I was told you put the flat in Thomas’s name. So he’s the sole owner. Is that right?”
“Yes. Why does it concern you?”
“Well, well!” He looked surprised. “That was financially foolish. He’s only twelve. Do you realise how risky that is? If anything happens to you, there’ll be trouble with social services and the courts. Besides, giving a child everything on a plate spoils him. He won’t learn to value things.”
“I don’t need your advice on raising my son,” I said, gripping the edge of the table to steady my anger. “For five years you didn’t care whether he was spoiled or not. I bought shoes a size too big so they’d last, and I took second-hand coats from friends. Where were you then with your financial wisdom?”
“All right, no need to fight.” Richard raised his hands in mock surrender. “I want what’s best for you both. I have a proposal – a good plan to make these square metres work for us.”
“My firm is opening a new logistics branch. I need capital to expand. We can take out a big loan using the flat as collateral. Or we could sell this two-bedroom place, invest the money in the business, and in a year I’ll buy Thomas a three-bedroom flat in the city centre. We could make a fifty percent annual return.”
I listened, barely believing what I was hearing. This man had come to take his own son’s only home and sink the money into a risky venture.
“Are you out of your mind?” I whispered, so Thomas wouldn’t hear from his room. “The flat belongs to a minor. No bank will lend against a child’s property. And social services won’t allow a sale unless they buy him another home that’s at least as good.”
Richard smiled.
“Emily, that’s not a problem. Everything can be arranged. I know lawyers who know the right loopholes. We can get around the social workers. We’ll temporarily register Thomas at my mother’s place in the countryside – a big house, meets the space requirements. Then the flat can be transferred to you or me, and we use it for deals. I’ve worked it all out. We can be business partners for Thomas’s sake.”
At that moment Thomas came into the kitchen, holding the new tablet and grinning.
“Dad, thank you so much! It’s really fast. Will you help me set up my profile? My old phone can’t handle the apps anymore.”
Richard’s tone instantly turned warm.
“Of course, son! We’ll set it up right now. I’ll always help you, remember that. We’re going to see each other a lot from now on. I’m even thinking I should move in with you. There’s plenty of room here – it’ll be more fun together. I’ll help with your homework and sign you up for a sports club.”
A chill ran through me. I saw his real aim. It wasn’t just the money from the flat. He wanted to come back because we now had something valuable. Five years ago he’d thrown us out with one suitcase, saying he was tired of a crying baby and a worn-out wife. Now that Thomas was older and I owned a flat in London, he was asserting his fatherly rights.
“Thomas, go to your room,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “Your father and I are finishing up; he’ll come to you in a minute.”
My son agreed and left. Richard looked at me with confidence, as if he’d already won.
“See how the boy responds to me? He needs a father figure. You’re raising him alone, and you look pale and exhausted from work. Agree to my plan, Emily. I’ll come back to the family, and we’ll live properly. We’ll use the flat for business and make real money. You can quit your draining job and take care of the home.”
“Your mother lives in an old wooden house in Norfolk that’s falling apart,” I said, meeting his eyes. “You want to deregister our son from a new London flat and register him in a house without central heating – all so you can take out a loan and blow it on your projects? I remember your last ideas: coffee vending machines, selling car parts. All they left was debt – debt my parents had to pay to keep the bailiffs from taking our appliances.”
Richard’s smile vanished. His face hardened, his lips thinned.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” he snapped. “I am his father! I have a legal right to be involved in his upbringing. If I go to court to have him live with me, you’ll be in a tough spot. My official income is three times yours. Social services will see a mother working two jobs with no time for her child, and a father with flexible hours and plenty of resources.”
I felt a mix of amusement and revulsion at his threats. Five years ago I would have been scared, cried, begged him not to do it. But those years of hard work had stripped away my fear. I’d learned to deal with debt collectors when he’d left me with his unpaid payday loans. I’d learned to navigate paperwork and talk to government officials.
“Go ahead and take me to court,” I said calmly, pouring myself a glass of water. “File your case. The judge will be very interested to see the records of your child support arrears. How much do you owe for the past year? Five thousand pounds? The bailiff database is public, Richard. Your new jacket and that gift for Thomas look nice, but the law protects parents who support their child every day, not those who show up once every five years.”
Richard pushed back his chair and stood up. All his bluster evaporated.
“You’re just jealous that my life is going well!” he shouted. “Stay in your little flat all alone. You think you’ve won? Thomas will grow up and come to live with me because you’ve got nothing to offer him except this flat!”
“Get out, Richard.” I opened the front door. “And take your tablet with you. We’ve lived without your gifts for five years, and we can live without them for the rest.”
Richard marched into Thomas’s room and took the box from the bewildered boy.
“You people don’t know how to appreciate nice things!” he yelled as he pulled on his shoes by the door. “You won’t get another penny from me. You’ll come crawling for help when you can’t pay the bills!”
The front door slammed shut. The hallway fell silent. Thomas came out of his room, crying. He was upset about the tablet, but he understood what had happened. He walked over, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed his face against me.
“Mum, it’s fine. I can still use my old phone. The most important thing is that we live here now, in our new home.”
I stroked his hair. I had no more hopes left for that man. We would manage on our own – without his dangerous schemes, without his sudden desire to be a father that would have cost us everything.
