— I don’t want to go to Dad’s… Aunt Lydia said Dad doesn’t love me anymore, — Oliver hugged his knees and buried his face in them, sitting on the bed.
Emily froze. Everything looked the same as always—the crumpled pyjamas with dinosaurs, the backpack of toys in the corner, the coat slung over the chair. It all felt so warm and familiar. Except her son wasn’t running around the house like a whirlwind. He was curled up in the corner, hunched over.
Today was supposed to be his day with his father, but for some reason, he was begging to stay home. If she really thought about it, he hadn’t been as excited about these visits lately. Emily tried to persuade him, but then her son suddenly dropped the bombshell—Lydia, James’s new girlfriend, had been mean to him.
— Olly… — She carefully sat beside him. — Can you tell me what happened?
He stayed quiet. Then, just slightly, he lifted his head and looked up at her. He didn’t look like a five-year-old. There was something in his eyes—something exhausted and sad, like a grown-up who knew nobody would believe him.
— I was just playing… She got angry because the toy was loud. That robot, remember? She took it and said they’re gonna have a new baby soon, and Dad would forget about me. That I was… in the way. And if I told anyone— He let out a shaky breath—everyone would think I was lying. Because Aunt Lydia would say it wasn’t true. And she’s a grown-up. They’d believe her.
His words came slow and stumbling, almost dissolving into sniffles. Inside Emily, a storm of anger, fear, and guilt suddenly boiled up. Her throat tightened around a sickening lump of dread.
Oliver turned away, picking at the bedsheet with his nail. Emily reached for his hand.
— I believe you. Know why? Because you hardly ever lie. Except maybe when you raid the secret sweet stash.
He huffed but didn’t smile.
— Dad chose her instead of me…
— Dad just doesn’t know the whole truth yet, — Emily said, forcing her voice steady. — But he’ll understand. He has to.
After she tucked Oliver in, she made herself a cup of tea. Sitting in the quiet, she suddenly remembered the first time she’d met Lydia—if you could even call it that.
About a year ago, an anonymous account had messaged her: *”Good afternoon! No need for introductions—just know I’m a well-wisher. If you’re curious where your husband spends his evenings, come Monday at seven to The Ivy on King’s Road. Table by the window.”*
Back then, Emily had wondered who the “well-wisher” really was. Now she knew—it was Lydia. A well-wisher with an agenda.
That night, she’d seen it all—James sitting across from Lydia, their hands intertwined, the kiss on the cheek. Later, he’d mumbled excuses—business meeting, an old friend, and finally, *”It’s nothing serious.”*
But Emily couldn’t forgive cheating.
They split. But Oliver stayed. And so did Lydia, who soon became James’s wife.
On the surface, she was perfect—polite, sickly sweet, great with kids. The whole package. She even brought Oliver gifts—puzzles, dinosaur kits, once a giant stuffed turtle.
But those presents weren’t for Oliver. They were for James. Lydia wasn’t fighting for a child’s affection—she was playing for a man’s attention. Her kindness was a tool, her smiles were bait. And now that her patience had run out—now that she was expecting her *own* baby—Lydia had dropped the act.
She’d made one mistake, though: Emily might’ve let go of a man. But she’d never let go of her son’s heart.
The to-do list on the fridge didn’t matter anymore. There was one last thing she had to do tonight—talk to James.
She stared at the phone screen a long time before hitting ‘call.’ The ringing dragged on. When her ex answered, irritation laced his voice. *It’s late.*
— Something urgent?
— Urgent. We need to talk. About Olly.
The tension in his voice was instant.
— What’s wrong? Is he ill?
— No. He doesn’t want to come over anymore. Says Lydia’s been cruel. That you don’t love him. That you’ll have a new baby and forget him.
Silence. Then James snapped, defensive, like *he* was the one being accused.
— Emily, come on! You *really* think I’d believe this rubbish? You’re starting again. Trying to meddle in my life, in my marriage, through our son!
— I’m *not* starting. I’m his *mum.* And I listen to him. You—clearly don’t.
— You’re just using him! he burst out. You want him to cut us off. So I feel guilty, so I come crawling back. This is *low,* Emily.
She bit back her anger, her pulse thudding in her temples.
There he was—James. Not the worst father, but stuck in that teenage mindset: *everyone’s out to get him.* He could be gentle with Oliver, sure. But the second Lydia’s name came up? His brain switched off.
— I’m talking about our *son.* About him being hurt. And all you hear is *you.* Lydia’s filling his head with nonsense—that he’s unwanted, that he’s in the way. That’s *fine* by you?
— She’d *never* say that. She’s trying. *You* just hate her. You’re bitter I moved on. So you’re lashing out.
— Lashing out? Emily echoed. She’s all smiles in front of you. But have you *ever* heard how she talks to me alone?
Of course, he hadn’t. Even if he had, he’d find excuses.
— In public, she’s all sweetness—quiet voice, downcast eyes. Just us? Different story. *”He chose me.” “You couldn’t keep him.” “Single mum with baggage.”* I’ve heard it. Over and over.
— I don’t believe you. Lydia’s not like that.
— She *is,* James. You just won’t see it. But I do. And fine, if it was just me—but she’s hurting our son.
A memory flickered—running into Lydia at Westfield once, James nowhere in sight. Lydia had looked her up and down, smirked.
— *No wonder he got over you so fast. You dress like a funeral director.*
At the time, it just seemed petty. Maybe she should’ve seen the red flag. But Oliver had adored Lydia back then—begged to see Dad, said everything was fine. And Emily had believed him.
James kept talking, defending, throwing accusations, but she’d stopped listening. The call cut out—maybe for the best. She silenced her phone and sat in the dark.
She wouldn’t let this go on. She couldn’t take Oliver’s father away—but she *could* stop him and his girlfriend from hurting her boy.
The next morning, she texted James: *”From now on, visits on neutral ground. Without *her.*”* He read it. Didn’t reply. Two days later, he asked to take Oliver to the cinema.
Emily hesitated but agreed.
James arrived at lunchtime, handing her a bar of chocolate and a bag of gummy bears for Oliver. His smile was stiff—an attempt to smooth things over.
Emily was cold but civil. For Oliver’s sake.
— Look, it’s just a film, James reassured her as Oliver fetched his coat. No Lydia. Just me and him. Yeah?
She nodded slowly. Doubt flickered in her eyes, but she was trying.
— Just the cinema. Back by seven.
— Seven, he confirmed, leading Oliver out by the hand.
At the door, Oliver glanced back. Emily forced a smile—just for him. Then watched them go from the window.
On the way to the Odeon, James’s phone rang. A quick glance—*Callum.* He answered on speaker. Callum needed help moving an old sofa. Pizza and beer in it for him.
Next thing Oliver knew, the car wasn’t heading to the cinema anymore.
— Dad… what about the film?
— Quick stop at ours. Half an hour, tops. Then straight to the cinema. Promise. Just—don’t tell Mum, yeah?
Oliver sighed, staring out the window. He didn’t argue. Maybe he just wanted to believe it’d be okay.
As soon as they stepped inside, Lydia beamed—her signature grin, all teeth. She scooped Oliver into a hug, ruffling his hair.
— Ollie! It’s been *ages!* Missed you *so* much. Hungry? We’ve got juice and biscuits. Chocolate—your *favourite!*
Her voice was as sicklyOliver glanced at the empty counter—no juice, no biscuits—just Lydia’s sharp smile fading as James stepped back inside, his face like thunder, and said, “We’re leaving,” and this time, for the first time, Oliver knew his dad meant it.
