Emily had reached her limit. She couldn’t fathom why James had grown so distant—had he fallen out of love? The night before, he’d stumbled in late and collapsed on the sofa.
At breakfast, she confronted him.
“James, tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s your problem?”
He avoided her gaze, sipping his tea.
“You’ve changed since the twins were born.”
“Have I?”
“James, we’ve been strangers for two years. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Listen, what did you expect? The house is a mess, reeking of baby food, kids screaming—who’d enjoy that?”
“They’re *your* children!”
He sprang up, pacing the kitchen.
“Normal wives have *one* quiet child, not a pair of wildlings. Mum warned me about women like you—breeding without a thought!”
“Women like *me*?”
“Yes. No ambition, no direction.”
“*You* made me drop university! Said I should devote myself to family!”
Emily sat down, silent for a moment.
“I want a divorce.”
He barely hesitated.
“Fine. Just don’t come after me for maintenance. I’ll send money myself.”
With that, he left. She might’ve wept, but the twins’ clamouring from the nursery demanded her attention.
***
A week later, she packed up, took the boys, and left. Her grandmother’s old room in a shared house was her refuge. The other tenants were new, so Emily made introductions.
To one side lived a sullen, middle-aged man; to the other, a flamboyant woman in her sixties. She knocked on the man’s door first.
“Hello! I’m your new neighbour. Bought a cake—fancy tea?”
She forced a smile. The man eyed her, then grunted, “Don’t eat sweets,” and shut the door.
Shrugging, she turned to Margaret Whitmore. The woman agreed—but only to lecture.
“I nap in the afternoons for my evening dramas. Ensure your brats don’t shatter my peace. And keep them out of the hallway—no touching, no smearing!”
Emily’s heart sank. Life here would be bleak.
***
She enrolled the twins in nursery and took a job there as an assistant. The pay was pitiful, but James had promised help.
For three months, he sent money. Then—nothing. Two months behind on rent, Emily was desperate.
Margaret’s hostility grew. One evening, as Emily fed the boys pasta, the woman swept in, silk robe fluttering.
“Dear, *have* you sorted your finances? I’d hate to lose power because of you.”
Emily sighed. “Not yet. I’ll see James tomorrow.”
Margaret leaned over the table.
“Feeding them *this*? You’re a dreadful mother.”
“I’m a *good* mother! And you’d do well to keep your nose out of it—unless you want it *broken*!”
Margaret screeched like a banshee. The commotion drew out John, the neighbour who’d dismissed her earlier. He listened, then vanished, returning moments later to toss money at Margaret.
“Shut it. That’s for the rent.”
The woman fell silent but hissed as he left, “You’ll regret this.”
Emily dismissed it—a mistake.
Next day, James brushed her off.
“Times are hard. I’ve got nothing.”
“You’re joking! The boys need *food*!”
“Then feed them. My official salary’s pennies—sue if you must.”
Tears streaked her face as she walked home. A week till payday, and now—a policeman at her door. Margaret had filed a report: *neglect, threats*.
“I’ll have to alert social services,” he said.
“On what grounds? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Procedure. Complaints must be followed up.”
That evening, Margaret returned.
“One more *peep* from those brats, and I’ll report you *directly*.”
“They’re *children*! They can’t sit still all day!”
“Feed them *properly*, and they’d sleep, not riot!”
The boys clung to Emily, wide-eyed.
“Eat up, loves. Auntie’s just joking.”
She turned to the stove, hiding tears—and didn’t notice John enter, arms laden with groceries. He stuffed her fridge without a word.
“John, you’ve got the wrong—”
He left as silently as he’d come.
After payday, she knocked at his door.
“Here’s £200 for the food. Tell me what I owe.”
“Keep it.”
The door shut. Margaret’s shrieks erupted from the kitchen—the twins had spilled tea. Emily cleaned up, defeated.
That night, the boys huddled close.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “We’ll leave soon.”
***
Next evening, the doorbell rang.
Social services.
“Valentina Hardwick?”
“Yes.”
“We’re here to inspect.”
They scrutinized the room, the fridge, the beds.
“Pack their things.”
“You’re *mad*! They’re *mine*!”
Oliver and George clung to her, wailing as the officer pried them loose.
“Mummy! *Don’t let them take us!*”
She fought, but a second man wrenched her arms back. Through tears, she saw her sons vanish down the stairs, screams fading.
When the door shut, she collapsed, howling.
Then—she saw it.
Granddad’s old axe, kept for reasons long forgotten.
She hefted it, smirking—or snarling.
Margaret’s door splintered under the blows. The woman scrambled under the bed, shrieking, until John tore the weapon from Emily’s grip.
“Fool! Who’s this helping?”
He dragged her to his flat, forced a pill down her throat. She knew she’d run—to the bridge—but sleep swallowed her.
John confronted Margaret.
“Happy?”
“Oh, John… I only meant to scare her off—”
“Withdraw your complaint. *Pray* this blows over—or I might not stop her next time.”
***
A month of paperwork, tests, interviews. Emily nearly gave up—but John, grim as ever, pushed her on.
When hope glimmered, she woke at last.
“John… This is thanks to you.”
His first smile—faint, sad.
“I had children once. Couldn’t save them. Yours… *can*.”
The night before the verdict, she lay sleepless on his sofa.
“John… What happened to yours?”
A monotone reply.
“Had a family. Wife. Two boys. Took them for granted. Drank, shouted. One day—they left. Moved to her gran’s cottage. I waited, proud. Went to beg forgiveness… too late. House burned down. Wiring fault.”
Silence. Then:
“Drank more. Fought. Did time. Sold my flat to pay damages. Came back here.”
Emily took his hand. He pulled away.
“Sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
***
“Hardwick!”
The social worker thrust papers at her—then smiled.
“Well? Go fetch your boys.”
Oliver and George barrelled into her, sobbing. Even John turned away, brushing at his eyes.
***
Life steadied. Margaret kept to her room. John helped Emily land a factory job—enough to live on.
Yet he grew quieter.
One day, his phone slipped from his coat.
The screen lit up—her face. Smiling.
She carried it to him. He lay staring at the ceiling, startled as she sat beside him.
“John… I’ve been afraid to say things. Regret’s the worst. So—if you won’t… I will.”
She took a breath.
“Marry me?”
He cupped her face, voice rough.
“I’m no poet. Just know—I’ll do *anything* for you. For them.”
