The New Year holidays were coming to an end. After days of rich meals, cakes, and snacks, breakfast had become a simple bowl of porridge—time to return to normal, ordinary food.
The family of three was eating when the ringtone of her husband’s phone sounded from the bedroom. He stepped out. Emily couldn’t help but listen, trying to guess from his half of the conversation who was calling and why.
When James returned, she noticed he didn’t look upset—just troubled.
“Um…” he began. “Mum called. She wants me to come over. Her blood pressure’s up.”
“Of course, go,” Emily nodded.
As he left to get dressed, she recalled his words on the phone: *”Right now? Maybe not the best time… Fine, fine.”* Normally, when his mother demanded his presence, James rushed over without hesitation. *”I’m overthinking again,”* she told herself.
“I won’t be long,” James called from the hallway before the door shut behind him.
“Eat up, come on,” Emily urged their son, who was dragging his spoon through the porridge, smearing it across the bowl.
“Are we going to the hill? You promised.” Thomas scooped a tiny bit onto his spoon and stared at it before finally eating it.
“We’ll go when Dad’s back. Deal?” She smiled at him. “But only if you finish your porridge.”
“Okay,” the boy muttered, lifting another reluctant spoonful.
“If that bowl isn’t empty in five minutes, we’re not going,” Emily said firmly, then stood to wash the dishes.
She was ironing while Thomas played with toy cars on the floor when the front door clicked open.
*”Finally,”* she thought, setting the iron down. *”Why’s he taking so long?”* She listened to the rustling in the hallway, then went to meet him.
In the doorway stood a girl of about ten, staring curiously at Emily. Behind her, James stepped forward, looking guilty. He placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and squared his jaw defiantly.
“This is my daughter, Sophie,” he said, dropping his gaze to the back of her head. “Mum asked me to take her for the night.”
“I see. And her mother? Off with another boyfriend to Spain?” Emily remarked dryly.
James shrugged but didn’t get a chance to reply—Emily turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” she heard him say, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the girl approach Thomas, still playing on the floor.
“Do we have any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Sophie cut in. “I want spaghetti with sausages.”
James blinked, then looked at Emily, who shrugged and waved vaguely toward the kitchen—*you deal with it.*
A moment later, he called her in.
“Do we even have spaghetti? I can’t find any.”
“There’s leftovers. I’ll go to the shop after I finish ironing,” she replied, giving him a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know—”
“Really? And your mother, when she called—she didn’t tell you why she wanted you?” His silence confirmed it. “You couldn’t have asked me? Warned me? Thomas should’ve been prepared too. Now they’ll start fighting over you.”
As if on cue, Thomas’s wail echoed from the living room. Emily rushed in, James close behind.
“Well? Sort it out,” she said, throwing up her hands.
Thomas clung to her, burying his face in her side. Sophie stood scowling at the floor.
“What happened?” James went to his daughter.
It stung Emily that he went to Sophie first, not their son.
“She t-took my c-car,” Thomas sobbed.
The hiss of boiling pasta water sent James darting back to the kitchen. *”And I can’t say a word to her. The poor little orphan, as my mother-in-law calls her. But what am I supposed to do?”*
“Want to watch cartoons?” Emily forced herself to speak calmly to the girl.
Sophie nodded, and with relief, Emily turned on the TV. The two children sat on the sofa.
“Your mother at it again? Trying to wreck our marriage? She’s obsessed with getting you back with your ex. I heard how she screamed when Thomas was born—that Sophie was her only grandchild. Is this a test? To see how I’ll treat your daughter?” Emily hissed in the kitchen.
“She really isn’t well,” James defended.
“And what’s wrong with leaving a ten-year-old alone? She could’ve fetched water, called an ambulance if needed. I was frying eggs by that age.”
“Enough!” James snapped, slamming a spoon down. “Sophie, food’s ready!” he called.
“Daddy, bring it here,” came the reply.
*”Daddy,”* Emily mimicked under her breath, rolling her eyes. “Go on, then.” She left, ignoring Sophie, and folded the ironing board, leaving James to deal with his daughter.
James eventually coaxed Sophie into the kitchen. Emily clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to lash out. She sat with Thomas in front of the TV but saw nothing. He leaned into her, searching her face. *”Just endure it,”* she told herself. *”He understands. He sees I don’t like her. But this isn’t fair.”* She forced a smile.
Anger simmered inside her—resentment, hurt, the injustice of it all. From the kitchen, James and Sophie’s voices murmured. She and Thomas sat forgotten. *”I have to be careful. She’ll tell his mother, and she’ll whisper in his ear again—how he never should’ve divorced, how I ruined everything…”*
“Mum, when are we going to the hill?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t know now. We’ve got company,” she said, stroking his hair.
Footsteps approached—Sophie, still chewing, wandered in. The kitchen tap ran. *”Washing her plate? He’s never done that for me or Thomas. Just left it in the sink. So he does know he’s in the wrong.”*
“Right, who’s ready for the hill?” James asked brightly, entering the room.
“Yes. But we’ve only got one sled,” Emily said, eyes fixed on the mindless cartoon.
“We’ll take the mat too and take turns, yeah, champ? Get dressed.” The last words were clearly for Sophie.
“Thomas, toilet then coat.” Emily sighed, standing.
She grabbed her own things and went to Thomas’s room to change.
On the way to the hill, she tried to convince herself to be kind. *”She’s just a child. No child is ever really unwanted… She’s not at fault for being left behind. Her mother could’ve taken her to Spain. And Thomas isn’t to blame either. But what about me?”* The pointless debate raged in her head. *”Mum was right—his ex will never let us live in peace. No use crying over spilled milk.”*
At the hill, Sophie immediately claimed the sled. Emily set Thomas on the mat. He shrieked as he slid down behind her. Strong, quick Sophie was already climbing back up. Emily watched, aching, as five-year-old Thomas trudged up with the mat. Sophie reached the top and plopped back onto the sled. Emily shot James a glare. He looked away, pushing Sophie down again. By the time Thomas reached the top, Sophie had already raced past him. He stopped, watching her go.
“Come on, your turn now!” Emily encouraged. He hurried back up.
“You’ll take the mat next time,” she told Sophie, who was already settling onto the sled again.
James stood helpless. He pushed Sophie off.
“What about me?” Thomas asked, hurt, looking to Emily for support.
He understood—his dad belonged to Sophie now.
“Tomorrow, just us two. You’ll have the sled all to yourself, okay?” She forced a smile.
As he prepared to slide down, she leaned in and whispered, “Wait for me at the bottom.”
“Where are you going?” James called as she headed for the stairs.
“You carry on. I’m cold.” She hurried down, careful on the icy steps.
After lunch, she put Thomas down for a nap.
“Keep the volume down, all right? You’ll wake him.” She glanced at Sophie, lowering the TV. “I’m off to get spaghetti and milk,” she told James.
When she returned forty minutes later, James rushed out, barely dressed.
“Where were you? What’s happened?” Her heart pounded, a cold sweat breaking out.
“Thomas is gone.” He took a step down.
“Gone?” She pushed past him into the flat.
“Work called… I was on the phone in the kitchen, then saw the door open…” He followed, apologising.
“Thomas!” She burst into his room.
The bed was empty.
“What did you do?!” She grabbed Sophie, shaking her.
The TV blared. Sophie’s face twisted, ready to cry—but
