**Diary Entry – January 4th**
The Christmas holidays were nearly over. After days of rich food—roasts, puddings, and mince pies—I was glad to see Emily serving porridge for breakfast. Time to return to simpler meals.
The three of us were eating when my husband’s mobile rang. He stepped out, and though I tried not to eavesdrop, I caught snatches of his replies. When James returned, he didn’t look upset—just preoccupied.
“Er… Mum rang,” he said. “Her blood pressure’s up. She asked me to come.”
“Of course, go,” I nodded.
As he went to get ready, his words replayed in my mind: *”Right now? Are you sure? Fine, alright.”* Usually, when his mother demanded his presence, James rushed over without question. *”Stop overthinking,”* I told myself.
“I won’t be long,” he called from the hall before the door shut behind him.
“Eat up,” I urged our son, Oliver, who was pushing his porridge around.
“You promised we’d go sledding,” he mumbled, inspecting a spoonful before reluctantly swallowing.
“When Dad gets back, we’ll go. Deal?” I forced a smile. “But finish your breakfast first.”
He sighed and took another bite.
“If that bowl isn’t empty in five minutes, we’re not going anywhere,” I said firmly, turning to the sink.
Later, while I ironed and Oliver played with his toy cars, the front door clicked open. *Finally.* I set the iron down, listening to the rustle of coats. *Why’s he taking so long?*
Then a girl—about ten—appeared in the doorway, staring at me curiously. James stepped in behind her, guilt written all over his face. His hands rested on her shoulders, his chin lifted defiantly.
“This is my daughter, Sophie,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“I see. And her mother? Off on holiday with her latest boyfriend?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
James shrugged but didn’t reply as I turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” I heard him say, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie approach Oliver.
“Is there any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Sophie cut in. “I want pasta with sausages.”
James looked helplessly between her and me. I shrugged and waved him toward the kitchen. *You figure it out.*
A few minutes later, he called, “Do we have any pasta? I can’t find any.”
“There’s some leftovers. I’ll go to the shop after this.” I shot him a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I had no idea—”
“Really? Your mother didn’t mention why she called?” His silence confirmed it. “You couldn’t have asked me first? Prepared Oliver? Now they’ll be competing for your attention.”
As if on cue, Oliver wailed from the living room. We rushed in to find him sobbing into my legs while Sophie glared at the floor.
“What happened?” James went straight to Sophie. That stung.
“She t-took my c-car,” Oliver hiccuped.
The hiss of boiling pasta sent James darting back to the kitchen. *What am I supposed to do?* I thought bitterly. *She’s the ‘poor little orphan,’ as his mother calls her.*
“Want to watch cartoons?” I forced a smile at Sophie.
She nodded, and I turned on the telly with relief, settling Oliver beside her.
Back in the kitchen, I hissed, “Is this your mother’s latest scheme to wreck us? She’s never accepted me—never accepted Oliver. Testing how I’d treat your daughter?”
“She’s really unwell,” James defended.
“And a ten-year-old couldn’t fetch her water? Call an ambulance? I was cooking for myself at that age.”
“Enough!” He slammed a spoon down. “Sophie, pasta’s ready!”
“Daddy, bring it here,” she called sweetly.
*Daddy.* I rolled my eyes. “Go on, then.”
He eventually coaxed her to the table while I sat with Oliver, seething. The TV blurred before me. Oliver clung to me, sensing my tension. *Just endure it,* I told myself. *He understands.*
Later, at the sledding hill, Sophie claimed the proper sled while Oliver struggled with a plastic tray. She raced ahead, leaving him lagging. James pushed her down again without a word.
“What about me?” Oliver asked, crestfallen.
“Tomorrow, just us,” I whispered. “You’ll have the sled all to yourself.”
I left them to it, walking home alone.
That afternoon, while Oliver napped, I went to the shop. When I returned, James burst out, barefoot and frantic.
“Oliver’s gone!”
My heart pounded. Inside, the flat was silent. Sophie sat frozen, the TV blaring.
“What did you do?!” I shook her.
She just stared, trembling. I tore outside, screaming Oliver’s name. Then—under the stairs, curled behind broken prams—I found him.
“She said Daddy loves her more,” he whispered as I carried him inside.
James tried to explain, but I couldn’t listen. Later, after he’d taken Sophie back, we finally talked. He never brought her again.
Men remarry without thinking of their children—how divorce scars them, how jealousy festers. And the new children? They carry guilt they never asked for.
*A child sees sharply. What they witness, they remember forever.*
**Lesson learned.**
