The winter holidays were drawing to a close. The rich feasts of roast dinners, mince pies, and puddings had grown tiresome, so for breakfast, Emily made porridge—time to return to simpler meals.
The three of them were eating when the muffled ringtone of her husband’s phone sounded from the other room. He excused himself. Emily strained to listen, piecing together the one-sided conversation, trying to guess who was calling and why.
When James returned, she noted his expression—concerned, but not upset.
“Mm…” he began. “Mum rang. Her blood pressure’s spiked. She wants me to come over.”
“Of course, go,” Emily nodded.
As he left to get dressed, she replayed his words on the phone: *”Right now? Are you sure? Fine, fine.”* Normally, when his mother demanded his presence, James rushed over without question. *”Stop overthinking,”* she chided herself.
“I won’t be long,” James called from the hallway before the front door clicked shut.
“Eat up,” Emily urged their son, Oliver, who was dragging his spoon absently through his porridge.
“Are we still going sledding? You promised.” He scooped a tiny bit onto his spoon and studied it before finally taking a bite.
“We’ll go when Dad gets back. Deal?” She forced a smile. “But only if you finish your breakfast.”
“Okay.” The boy sighed and raised the spoon again.
“If that bowl isn’t clean in five minutes, we’re not going anywhere,” Emily said firmly, standing to wash the dishes.
She was ironing when Oliver played with his toy cars on the floor, the click of the front door lock startling her. *Finally.* She set the iron down and listened—rustling coats, muffled voices. *What’s taking so long?* Frowning, she went to see.
A girl of about ten stood in the doorway, staring at Emily with wide, curious eyes. Behind her, James hovered, guilty-faced, hands resting on the child’s shoulders. His chin jutted forward, defiant.
“This is my daughter, Lily,” he said, eyes darting to the floor. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“I see. And her mother? Off with another boyfriend to Tenerife?” Emily couldn’t keep the bite from her voice.
James stiffened, but before he could reply, Emily turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” she heard him say, glimpsing the girl sidling up to Oliver, who was still on the floor.
“Is there any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Lily cut in. “I want spaghetti hoops and sausages.”
James floundered, glancing between his daughter and Emily, who shrugged and waved him toward the kitchen. *Go on, then. I’m busy.*
A short while later, his voice carried from the kitchen.
“Do we have any spaghetti hoops? I can’t find them.”
“There’s some left. I’ll finish ironing and pop to the shops.” She shot him a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know she—”
“Really? Your mother didn’t mention why she called?” His silence confirmed it. “You couldn’t have asked me? Warned me? Oliver should’ve been prepared. Now they’ll be fighting over you.”
As if on cue, Oliver’s wail erupted from the living room. Emily rushed in, James close behind.
“See? Sort this out.” She threw her hands up.
Oliver clung to her, burying his face in her jumper. Lily stood glaring at the carpet.
“What happened?” James moved toward his daughter—not Oliver. The unfairness stung.
“She t-t-took my c-car!” Oliver sobbed.
The hiss of boiling pasta water sent James scrambling back to the kitchen. *And I can’t say a word to her. The poor little thing, as his mother calls her. But what about me?*
“Want to watch cartoons?” Emily forced a calm tone, turning to Lily.
The girl nodded, and Emily flicked the telly on, relieved. Lily and Oliver sat stiffly on the sofa.
“Your mother’s at it again, isn’t she? Trying to wreck our marriage? She’s obsessed with getting you back with your ex. I heard how she screamed when Oliver was born—that she’d only ever have one grandchild: Lily. Testing me, seeing how I’d react?” Emily hissed in the kitchen.
“She’s really unwell,” James defended.
“And what’s wrong with the girl being there? She could’ve fetched water, called an ambulance. Safer, even. At her age, I could cook eggs myself.”
“Enough!” James slammed a spoon onto the counter. “Lily, come eat!” he called.
“Daddy, bring it here,” came the cool reply.
“Daddy,” Emily mimicked under her breath, rolling her eyes. “Go on, then. Run to her.” She strode out, ignoring Lily as she folded the ironing board, leaving James to handle his daughter.
He eventually coaxed Lily to the kitchen. Emily clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to snap. She sat beside Oliver, staring blankly at the telly, her son pressing into her side. *Bear with it,* she told herself. *Oliver understands. He sees I don’t like her. But I can’t let him feel that.* She forced a smile for him.
Resentment simmered. The injustice of it all—the guilt, the intrusion—gnawed at her. From the kitchen, James’s murmured conversation with Lily twisted the knife. *He’s forgotten us already.*
“Mum, when are we going sledding?” Oliver tugged her sleeve.
“Not sure now. We’ve got company.” She ruffled his hair.
Footsteps padded in. Lily appeared, chewing loudly. The sink ran in the kitchen. *He’s washing her plate? Never lifts a finger for us. So he knows he’s messed up.* The pettiness gave her a bitter satisfaction.
“Right, who’s ready for sledding?” James asked brightly, stepping in.
“Yes. But we’ve only got one sled.” Emily kept her eyes fixed on the mindless cartoon.
“That’s fine. We’ll take the sledge too—take turns, yeah, mate?” The last bit was clearly for Lily.
“Oliver, toilet then coats.” Emily sighed, rising.
She grabbed her own things and retreated to Oliver’s room to change.
All the way to the hill, she wrestled with herself. *Be kind. She’s just a child. It’s not her fault no one wants her—not even her own mother. Could’ve taken her to Tenerife. Oliver’s innocent in this. And me?* The circular thoughts brought no comfort. *Mum was right. His ex-wife will never let us be.*
At the slope, Lily commandeered the sled immediately. Emily settled Oliver onto the sledge, watching him shriek as he sped down behind her. Lily, strong and quick, was already climbing back up. Oliver struggled with the sledge, slipping on the icy steps. Lily reached the top and plopped back onto the sled. Emily shot James a withering look. He avoided her eyes, pushing the sled down.
As Oliver trudged up again, Lily whizzed past. He halted, staring after her.
“Come on, your turn now!” Emily urged.
“You can have the sledge next,” she told Lily, who was already seated again.
James hesitated before sending her down once more.
“What about me?” Oliver asked, lip trembling.
His eyes searched hers—pleading, hurt. He knew. His father wasn’t his right now.
“Tomorrow, just us. You can have the sled all to yourself. Deal?” She smiled weakly.
As he prepared to slide, she leaned in. “Wait for me at the bottom.”
“Where are you going?” James called as she turned toward the steps.
“You two enjoy. I’m freezing.” She hurried down, gripping the rail.
After lunch, she put Oliver down for a nap.
“Keep the telly quiet, alright? You’ll wake him.” She adjusted the volume, then turned to James. “I’m popping to the shop for milk and spaghetti hoops.”
Returning forty minutes later, she nearly collided with James, bolting out bare-chested.
“Where are you—? What’s wrong?” Her pulse spiked, skin prickling with dread.
“Oliver’s gone.” He stumbled down a step.
“Gone?” She shoved past him into the flat.
“Work called—I was on the phone in the kitchen—then the door was open—”
“Oliver!” She burst into his room.
The bed was empty.
“What did you do?” Emily lunged at Lily, gripping her shoulders, shaking her.
The telly blared. Lily’s mouth twisted, on the verge of tears—but they never came.
Emily released her, silencing the telly, then turned back.
“Talk. Now.” The words were a snarl.
Lily shrank, eyes darting to James. Silent.
