**The Free Loader**
Misha finally fell asleep around three in the morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, frozen in an awkward positionmy arm numb, my shoulder achingbut I didnt dare move. My baby was teething, his gums red and swollen, his tiny fists constantly reaching for his mouth as he cried so hard it shattered my heart.
It felt like he hadnt slept in forever. The moment I tried to lay him in his cot, hed wake, as if sensing I wanted to escape. Only seven months old, and in that short time, Id lived an entire new life. Love, pain, worry, joyall tangled into a knot I could no longer undo.
When his breathing steadied, I carefully stood. Across the way, a light burned in another flat of our concrete tower block. I often wondered who else was awake at this houranother exhausted mother? An insomniac pensioner? A couple in love? Once, Id dreamt that James and I would buy our own place, that Id gaze at our own garden through our own window. But those dreams had evaporated like mist.
Three years at the till in Tescoand all my savings had vanished. First, the deposit for a mortgage we never secured. Then, the money for renovations in this flat we shared with Margaret, Jamess mother. *”Itll be cosier,”* hed said. But the cosiness only ever seemed to extend to them.
Since the day Id stepped over this threshold with a suitcase and foolish hopes of happiness, Id never once felt at home.
*”Things will get better,”* James had promised a year and a half ago. *”Well marry this summer,”* hed murmured before I fell pregnant. *”Just wait a little longer,”* hed whispered when Misha was born. Id nodded. Believed. Waited. Yet somehow, a ring and a certificate were still too much to ask.
Margaret jingled her keys every morning as she left for her accounting job. I called her *”the terrier”* in my headsmall, snappy, always with her nose in the air. She spoke to me only when necessary, as if I werent the mother of her grandson but some temporary help. *”You dont know how to handle food,”* shed sniff when I cooked. *”Those are expensive fabrics,”* shed snap when I did laundry. Always with that poisonous smile.
*”Sophie, the floors need mopping,”* shed say on my one day off. *”Sophie, I bought cottage cheese for Misha,”* shed add, though I never once asked her to.
Her bedroom was always locked. If we were out, she rifled through our things. Once, I caught her elbow-deep in my wardrobe. *”Looking for a towel,”* shed said without a flicker of shame.
The kitchen had its own rules. Her plates were separate, ours stacked elsewhere. Her frying pan, her saucepans, her whisk. Nothing shared. When James was late, I ate in my roomanything to avoid sitting across from her.
Somehow, wed enduredday after day, month after month. Before Misha, I could still escapeto work, to friends, even just for a walk. Now? A baby in my arms, a measly twenty quid in my purse, and the child benefit payment barely covering basics.
I crept out into the hallway, my head throbbing from exhaustionmy second sleepless night in a row. Last night, Misha had woken at half one and only settled at five. By ten, I was up again, moving like a zombie, my eyelids gritty.
The kitchen light was on. Margaret was still awake. I just wanted water, but before I could take a step
*”Still up?”* She turned. *”On your phone again? I saw the light under your door.”*
*”Mishas teething,”* I said. *”Hes in pain”*
She scoffed. That one sound said it all*Youre lazy. I worked and raised kids at your age.*
*”Could you keep it down?”* I flinched as plates clattered. *”Hes just fallen asleep.”*
Something flashed in her eyes. She stiffened, then
She spun towards me, face twisted. A mug slammed onto the table.
*”Keep it down?”* she hissed. *”In my own home?”*
I leaned against the doorframe. Seven months without sleep. Seven months in these cramped walls, every step like walking on eggshells.
*”I only asked you not to bang the dishes,”* I said quietly.
*”Or maybe you just cant settle a baby?”* She folded her arms. *”I raised two. Never had issues with teeth. Never had sleepless nights.”*
I clenched my jaw. Misha slept just metres away, and here, in this tiny kitchen, a storm brewed. Whatever I said would be wrong. Stay silentadmit I was a bad mother. Arguestart a war.
*”I just wanted water,”* I muttered, stepping towards the sink.
*”Of course,”* she sneered, blocking my way. *”Always something you just need. Time to rest, time on your phone. But work? Oh no, not for you.”*
I froze. *Work?* With a seven-month-old who didnt sleep?
*”Ill go back when Mishas older,”* I said firmly. *”Like we agreed.”*
*”Agreed,”* she drawled. *”My sons made of iron, is he? Carrying this family alone while you spend. Those curtainshow much? That pramimported?”*
I stared. The curtains cost thirty quid. The pram was second-hand.
*”Speaking of money,”* Margarets eyes gleamed. *”Have you ever paid rent? Bills? Youre a freeloader. No one asked you here. James was fine before you”*
Something inside me snapped. I stood rigid, breath trapped in my chest. I wanted to scream: *Who paid for your bedroom renovation? Who bought your fridge? Where did my savings go?*
But I stayed silent. Id swallowed every insultfor Misha, for James, for the sake of *peace*.
*”You think I dont notice how you eye my things?”* Her voice shook. *”Think youll take my son and everything I own?”*
I stiffened. *Her things?* The chipped dinner set she guarded like treasure? The scratched pans she forbade me to use? James and I had nothingjust debts and a cot.
I couldnt hold back anymore.
*”I dont. Want. Your. Things,”* I said coldly, though my hands trembled. *”Im not here for you. Or this.”*
*”Then what?”* She stepped closer, face contorted. *”My son, trapped by you? A flat youll never own? Money?”*
It felt like a slap. My throat closed. Rage burned through me.
*”For my child to have a decent life!”* My voice rose, raw. *”A life your son wont provide! Who, as you put it, lives off me in my own room, eats food bought with child benefit! And since you careevery penny I saved went into your renovations and a mortgage we never got!”*
The words didnt sound like mine. I never shouted. Never fought back.
*”Whats going on?”*
James stood in the doorwayrumpled, pillow creases on his cheek, blinking like a confused schoolboy. And in that moment, I saw him clearly: a man whod never grown up.
Margaret pounced.
*”James, your Sophies being vile! Shouting at me! And all I did was wash up”*
His gaze flicked between us. I knew that look. How many times had I been the one to blame? No matter the truth. Always the pause. Always the
*”For Gods sake,”* he ground out. *”Mum cant even wash a plate in her own home? I come back from work to this?”*
Misha wailed from the bedroom. Of course. I lunged for the door, but James grabbed my arm.
*”Dont walk away when Im talking to you.”*
Something inside me *clicked*. His grip on my arm. My babys cries. Nothing else mattered.
*”Let go,”* I said calmly. *”Mishas crying.”*
*”Let him cry,”* he snapped. *”First, explain how you speak to my mother.”*
I yanked free. He shoved me against the wall, finger jabbing my chest.
*”What. Did. You. Say. To. Her?”*
I stared into his facefamiliar, yet a strangers. Misha screamed, desperate, *needing* me. And I stood there, pinned, looking at the father of my child.
*”Answer me
