New Year’s break was nearly over. After days of holiday feasting—roasts, puddings, and finger foods—Emma had had enough, so she made porridge for breakfast. Time to get back to simple, normal meals.
The three of them were eating when Emma’s husband, James, got a call. His phone chimed from the bedroom, and he stepped out. Emma couldn’t help but listen, trying to guess who it was and why.
When James came back, he didn’t look upset—just preoccupied.
“Mm…” he started. “Mum called. Her blood pressure’s up. She wants me to come over.”
“Of course, go,” Emma nodded.
As he left to get dressed, she replayed his words on the phone: *Right now? Maybe not… Alright, fine.* Normally, when her mother-in-law demanded James drop everything, he rushed out without question. *Stop overthinking,* she told herself.
“I won’t be long,” James called from the hallway before the door clicked shut.
“Eat up,” Emma urged their son, Oliver, who was dragging his spoon through the porridge, smearing it around.
“Are we going to the hill? You promised,” Oliver said, finally lifting a small bite to his mouth.
“We’ll go when Dad’s back, alright?” She forced a smile. “But only if you finish.”
He sighed but took another reluctant bite.
“If that bowl’s not clean in five minutes, we’re not going,” Emma said firmly, standing to wash the dishes.
She was ironing while Oliver played with toy cars when the front door unlocked. *Finally.* She set the iron down, listening to the rustling in the hallway. *What’s taking him so long?* She went to meet James—only to freeze.
A girl, about ten, stood in the doorway, studying Emma with curious eyes. Behind her, James looked sheepish. He placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders, chin jutting forward defensively.
“This is my daughter, Sophie,” he said, eyes dropping to the back of her head. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“Right. And her mum? Off with another bloke to Spain, is she?” Emma snapped.
James flinched but didn’t answer—Emma had already turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” she heard him say, then caught sight of Sophie approaching Oliver, who was still on the floor.
“Is there any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Sophie cut in. “I want pasta with sausages.”
James blinked, looking between her and Emma, who just shrugged and waved toward the kitchen—*go on, sort it yourself.*
A minute later, he called out, “Do we have any pasta? I can’t find any.”
“There are leftovers. I’ll pop to the shop once I’m done here,” Emma said, shooting him a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know—”
“Really? So your mum didn’t mention why she called?” His silence told her everything. “And you didn’t think to ask *me*? Or prepare Oliver? Now they’ll be fighting over you.”
On cue, Oliver burst into tears. Emma rushed in, James right behind her.
“See? Sort it out,” she said, throwing her hands up.
Oliver clung to her. Sophie stood stiffly, glaring at the floor.
“What happened?” James went straight to Sophie.
Emma’s chest tightened—he hadn’t even checked on Oliver first.
“She t-took my c-car,” Oliver sobbed.
A hiss came from the kitchen—the pasta boiling over—and James dashed off. *Can’t even scold her. Little ‘poor lamb,’ as Mum-in-law calls her. And what am I supposed to do?*
“Want to watch cartoons?” Emma forced calm into her voice.
Sophie nodded, and Emma turned the telly on with relief, settling the kids on the sofa.
“Your mum’s at it again, isn’t she?” Emma hissed in the kitchen. “Trying to wreck us? She’s obsessed with getting you back with your ex. Remember how she screamed when Oliver was born—that Sophie was her *only* grandchild? Testing me, seeing how I’d treat *your* daughter?”
“She’s really ill,” James defended.
“And a ten-year-old couldn’t fetch her water? Call an ambulance? She’d be *safer* there. At her age, I could fry an egg myself.”
“Enough!” James slammed a spoon down. “Sophie, pasta’s ready!” he called.
“Daddy, bring it here,” Sophie replied sweetly.
*”Daddy,”* Emma mimicked under her breath, rolling her eyes. “Go on, then. Run to her.” She left, ignoring Sophie as she folded the ironing board.
James eventually led Sophie to the kitchen. Emma sat stiffly beside Oliver, staring blankly at the telly. He pressed into her side, sensing her tension. *Just bear with it,* she told herself. *Oliver sees I don’t like her. Can’t let him think that’s okay.* She forced a smile.
Irritation simmered in her chest. The unfairness of it all—James chatting with Sophie while she and Oliver sat forgotten. *Careful. She’ll tell Mum-in-law everything, and she’ll poison James against me again…*
“Mum, when are we going to the hill?” Oliver asked.
“Not sure now. We’ve got a guest.” She ruffled his hair.
Sophie wandered in, chewing loudly. Water ran in the kitchen—*James washing her plate? Never does ours. Just leaves them in the sink.* A petty satisfaction flickered in her.
“Right, who’s ready for the hill?” James asked cheerfully.
“Yes. But we’ve only got one sled.” Emma kept her eyes on the telly.
“We’ll take the rubber ring too—take turns, eh, mate?” His tone softened for Sophie.
“Oliver, toilet then coat,” Emma sighed, standing.
She grabbed her own things and changed in Oliver’s room.
Walking to the hill, she tried to convince herself to be kind. *She’s just a kid. Not her fault her mum didn’t want her along. And Oliver’s innocent. But me? Mum warned me James’s ex would never let us be. Too late now.*
At the hill, Sophie claimed the sled immediately. Emma settled Oliver onto the rubber ring. He squealed as he slid down after her. Sophie, taller and stronger, was already climbing back up. Emma’s stomach twisted as Oliver struggled with the ring. Sophie reached the top and plopped back onto the sled. Emma shot James a glare. He looked away, pushing Sophie down.
As Oliver trudged up, Sophie raced past him. He stopped, watching her.
“Come on, your turn next!” Emma called.
“You can use the ring after,” she told Sophie, who ignored her, already seated.
James hesitated, then pushed Sophie again.
“What about me?” Oliver asked quietly, looking to Emma.
*He knows. James is hers right now.*
“Tomorrow, just us. You can sled all you want, okay?” She forced a smile.
As he got ready to slide, she whispered, “Wait for me at the bottom.”
“Where are you going?” James asked when she turned toward the steps.
“Too cold. Have fun.” She hurried down, careful on the icy stairs.
After lunch, Emma put Oliver down for a nap.
“Keep the telly quiet, love. Don’t wake him.” She turned to Sophie, lowering the volume. “I’m off for pasta and milk,” she told James.
Forty minutes later, as she returned, James burst out—*no coat.*
“What’s wrong?” Her heart pounded, skin prickling with dread.
“Oliver’s gone…”
“*Gone?*” She shoved past him.
“Work called—I was on the phone, then the door was open—”
“OLIVER!” She sprinted inside.
His bed was empty.
“What did you *do?!*” Emma grabbed Sophie’s shoulders, shaking her.
The telly blared. Sophie’s lip wobbled—but no tears came.
Emma released her, muting the telly.
“*Talk.*”
Sophie stayed silent, eyes darting to James.
Emma bolted outside. “OLIVER!”
The empty street echoed back. She checked under the stairs—a broken pram, two sleds. Then a small shape in the corner.
“Oliver!” She crawled to him, knees scraping. He was curled up, chin on knees.
“Come on, you’ll freeze.” She lifted him, carrying him past James.
Unbuttoning his coat in his room, she finally broke.
“She just told him I’m *her* dad, that I love her more. She’s a kid, Em,” James pleaded.
“What do you *want* from me?” Her voice cracked. “She’s jealous. You left her unsupervised. *Again.*”
“Oliver, I love you. Both of you,” James muttered before leaving with
