The New Year holidays were winding down, and after days of rich food, Emma was ready for something simple. Oatmeal for breakfast seemed just the thing.
The three of them—Emma, her husband James, and their son Alfie—were eating when James’s phone rang. He stepped out, and Emma half-listened, trying to guess who was calling. When he returned, he looked concerned but not upset.
“Mm…” he began. “Mum called. Her blood pressure’s up. She wants me to come over.”
“Of course, go,” Emma nodded.
As James went to get ready, she replayed his words on the phone: “Right now? Are you sure? Alright, fine.” Normally, when his mum demanded his presence, he’d dash off without question. “Stop overthinking,” Emma told herself.
“I won’t be long,” James called from the hall before the door slammed shut.
“Eat up,” Emma urged Alfie, who was dragging his spoon through the oatmeal, smearing it absently.
“Are we still going sledging? You promised.” He scooped a tiny bit onto his spoon and eyed it suspiciously before eating it.
“We’ll go when Dad’s back, deal?” She smiled. “But only if you finish your porridge.”
“Fine,” Alfie sighed, lifting the spoon again.
“If that bowl isn’t clean in five minutes, no sledging,” Emma said firmly, turning to wash the dishes.
Later, while she ironed and Alfie played with his toy cars on the floor, the front door clicked open.
“Finally,” Emma thought, setting the iron down. She listened to the rustling in the hallway. “What’s taking him so long?”
Then, in the doorway, appeared a girl of about ten, staring at Emma with open curiosity. Behind her stood James, looking sheepish, his hands resting on the girl’s shoulders.
“This is my daughter, Chloe,” he said, dropping his gaze. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“Right. And her mother? Off sunbathing with another boyfriend?” Emma couldn’t help the jab.
James shrugged, but before he could reply, Emma turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” she heard him say, catching a glimpse of the girl approaching Alfie.
“Is there any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Chloe announced. “I want pasta with sausages.”
James blinked at her, then at Emma, who just waved a hand toward the kitchen—*you deal with it*.
A while later, he called from the kitchen.
“Do we have any pasta? I can’t find it.”
“There’s leftovers. I’ll go shopping once I’ve finished ironing,” Emma replied, glaring.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know—”
“Really? Your mum didn’t mention why she wanted you?” His silence confirmed it. “You couldn’t have asked me first? Or prepared Alfie? Now they’ll be fighting over you.”
As if on cue, Alfie’s wail erupted from the living room. Emma rushed in, James close behind.
“Brilliant. Sort this out,” Emma said, throwing her hands up.
Alfie clung to her while Chloe scowled at the floor.
“What happened?” James went to Chloe first—*of course*, Emma thought bitterly.
“She t-took my c-car!” Alfie sobbed.
A hiss from the boiling pasta sent James darting back to the kitchen. *Guest or not, I can’t say a word to her*, Emma fumed. *Poor little thing*, as James’s mum called her. *But what about me?*
“Want to watch cartoons?” Emma forced a smile at Chloe, who nodded. Relieved, she turned on the telly, and the kids sat on the sofa.
“Your mum’s at it again, isn’t she?” Emma hissed in the kitchen. “Trying to wreck our family? Still obsessed with getting you back with your ex? I heard how she screamed when Alfie was born—’Chloe’s my only grandchild!’ Testing me, is she?”
“She’s really unwell,” James defended.
“And a ten-year-old couldn’t fetch water or call an ambulance? At her age, I could fry an egg!”
“Enough!” James slammed a spoon down. “Chloe, pasta’s ready!”
“Daddy, bring it here,” came the sweet reply.
*Daddy*, Emma mimicked silently, rolling her eyes. “Go on, run to her.”
James eventually coaxed Chloe into the kitchen. Emma sat with Alfie, staring blankly at the telly, her son pressing close. *Just endure it*, she told herself. *Alfie understands. He sees I don’t like her. But I can’t let him feel that.* She forced a smile.
Her irritation simmered. From the kitchen, she heard James chatting with Chloe while she and Alfie sat forgotten. *Careful now. She’ll tell Granny, who’ll whisper to James that I’m the wicked stepmother…*
“Mum, when are we going sledging?” Alfie interrupted her thoughts.
“Not sure now. We’ve got a guest,” she said, ruffling his hair.
Footsteps approached—Chloe, chewing noisily. Water ran in the kitchen. *He’s washing her plate? Never does ours. Just dumps them in the sink. Must feel guilty.*
“Right, who’s ready for sledging?” James asked cheerfully.
“Fine. But we’ve only got one proper sled,” Emma said flatly.
“We’ll take the plastic one too. Turns, yeah, mate?” James ruffled Alfie’s hair—clearly addressing Chloe.
“Alfie, toilet then coat,” Emma sighed, heading to his room to change.
On the walk to the hill, Emma tried to reason with herself. *Be kind. She’s just a kid. Not her fault her mum’s useless. But neither’s Alfie. And me? Mum warned me James’s ex would always be trouble. Too late now.*
At the hill, Chloe immediately claimed the proper sled. Emma set Alfie on the plastic one, watching as he wobbled up the icy steps while Chloe barrelled past.
“Your turn next,” Emma told Chloe, who was already reclaiming the sled.
James stood frozen, then pushed Chloe off.
“What about me?” Alfie asked, eyes wide.
Emma’s heart ached. He’d already given up competing for his dad.
“Tomorrow, just us. You can have the proper sled all to yourself, okay?” She kissed his head as he slid down, whispering, “Wait for me at the bottom.”
“Where are you going?” James called as she marched off.
“Too cold. You carry on.”
After lunch, Emma put Alfie down for a nap.
“Keep the volume low,” she told Chloe, turning the telly down. “Off to get pasta and milk,” she muttered to James.
Returning forty minutes later, she nearly collided with James on the doorstep—shoeless, panicked.
“Alfie’s gone!”
“What?” Emma’s heart pounded as she dashed inside. The bed was empty.
“What did you do?” She grabbed Chloe’s shoulders, shaking her.
The girl’s lip trembled, but no tears fell. Emma turned off the telly.
“Talk!” she demanded.
Chloe stayed silent, eyes darting to James.
Emma bolted outside, screaming Alfie’s name. The empty street echoed back. Then—under the stairs, behind broken prams and sledges, she found him curled up, shivering.
“Come on, love. You’ll freeze.” She carried him inside, ignoring James’s stammered excuses.
“She just told him I’m her dad, that I love her more. She’s a kid,” James pleaded.
“You brought her here without warning, left her alone with him—” Emma’s voice cracked. “Lock the door next time!”
James took Chloe away. Later, when Alfie was asleep and James had returned, they talked. He never brought Chloe back.
Men in love with new families forget the old ones. Forget the kids who ache from divorce, who seethe with jealousy. And the new kids? They just feel guilty.
Children see everything. And they remember.
