**December 31st**
The Christmas holidays were nearly over. After days of rich meals—roasts, puddings, and mince pies—I’d had enough, so my wife, Emma, made porridge for breakfast. Time to return to simpler fare.
The three of us were eating when my mobile rang from the bedroom. I excused myself. I could hear Emma straining to catch my side of the conversation. When I returned, she studied my face—concerned, maybe, but not upset.
“Mm…” I hesitated. “Mum called. Her blood pressure’s up—wants me to come over.”
“Of course, go,” she said, nodding.
As I dressed, she replayed my words in her head: *”Right now? Are you sure? Fine, fine.”* Usually, when my mother summoned me, I’d rush over without question. *Stop overthinking it*, she told herself.
“I won’t be long,” I called from the hall before the door clicked shut.
“Eat up,” Emma urged our son, Oliver, who was dragging his spoon through his porridge.
“Are we still going sledding? You promised.” He poked at a lump before finally taking a bite.
“When Dad gets back. Deal?” She forced a smile. “But finish your breakfast.”
“Okay.” He lifted another reluctant spoonful.
“If that bowl isn’t empty in five minutes, we’re not going anywhere,” she said firmly, then turned to wash the dishes.
She was ironing while Oliver played with toy cars on the floor when the front door unlocked. *Finally.* She set the iron aside, listening to the rustle of coats in the hallway. *What’s taking him so long?* She went to meet me.
A girl of about ten stood in the doorway, staring at Emma with curiosity. I stepped in behind her, looking sheepish, my hands resting on the child’s shoulders.
“This is my daughter, Lily,” I said, avoiding Emma’s eyes. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“Right. And her mother? Off with another boyfriend to Spain, is she?” Emma’s voice was sharp.
I shrugged but didn’t reply before she turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” I said, and Lily wandered over to Oliver, who was still on the floor.
“Is there any porridge left?” I asked Emma.
“I don’t want porridge,” Lily cut in. “I want spaghetti and sausages.”
I glanced between Lily and Emma, lost. Emma sighed, waving a hand toward the kitchen. *Go on, then.*
A few minutes later, I called from the kitchen. “Do we have any spaghetti? I can’t find any.”
“There’s leftovers in the fridge. I’ll pop to the shop once I’m done.” She shot me a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know—”
“Really? Your mother didn’t say why she called?” My silence told her everything. “Didn’t think to ask me first? Or prepare Oliver?”
As if on cue, Oliver wailed from the living room. Emma rushed in, me on her heels.
“Sort this out,” she said, throwing her hands up.
Oliver buried his face in Emma’s side. Lily glared at the floor.
“What happened?” I asked, stepping toward Lily.
Emma bristled—why wasn’t I comforting *our* son?
“She t-took my c-car,” Oliver sobbed.
The hiss of boiling water sent me darting back to the kitchen. *Guest or not, this isn’t fair.*
“Want to watch cartoons?” Emma forced a calm tone.
Lily nodded, and Emma turned on the telly with relief. The children sat stiffly on the sofa.
“Your mother’s meddling again, isn’t she? Trying to wreck us?” Emma hissed in the kitchen. “She *hated* it when Oliver was born—screamed that Lily was her only grandchild. Testing me, is she?”
“She’s genuinely ill,” I defended.
“Then why drag a ten-year-old along? At her age, I could cook my own eggs.”
“Enough!” I slammed a spoon down. “Lily, food’s ready!”
“Daddy, bring it here,” Lily called sweetly.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Go on, then.”
She busied herself folding the ironing board while I caved, carrying Lily’s plate to her.
Later, on the way to the sledding hill, Emma wrestled with herself. *Be kind. She’s just a child. Not her fault her mother dumped her.* But resentment simmered.
At the slope, Lily claimed the only sled. Oliver trudged up with a plastic sledge. Emma’s jaw tightened as Lily shot past him.
“Your turn next,” Emma told Lily.
“But *I* wanted the sled!” Oliver whined.
“Tomorrow, just us, you can have it all day,” Emma whispered, helping him onto the sledge.
“I’m cold. You three stay.” She headed down, ignoring my call after her.
That afternoon, after putting Oliver down for a nap, Emma went to the shops. When she returned, I burst out, coatless, panicked.
“Oliver’s gone!”
Emma’s blood ran cold. She tore inside.
“I was on a work call—then the door was open—”
She raced to Oliver’s empty room.
“What did you *do*?” Emma grabbed Lily’s shoulders.
Lily’s lip wobbled but no tears fell.
“*Talk!*” Emma snapped.
Lily stayed mute. Emma bolted outside, shouting Oliver’s name. The playground was deserted. Then—under the stairwell, a small huddle. Oliver, knees to chest, shivering.
She carried him home, brushing past me.
“She just told him I’m *her* dad, that I love her more,” I pleaded. “She’s a child!”
Emma’s voice shook. “You should’ve *prepared* her! She’s jealous!”
“I love you both,” I said weakly before leaving with Lily.
That night, after I returned, we talked properly. I never brought Lily back.
Men remarry without a thought for their children—how they grieve the old family, resent the new. And the new children? They just feel guilty.
*Children see everything. They remember.*
—Thomas Wright
