Emily couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t understand why James had become so distant—had he fallen out of love? Last night, he’d come home late again and slept on the sofa.
The next morning, as he sat at the breakfast table, she faced him.
“James, can you tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s your problem?” He kept his eyes on his coffee.
“You’ve changed since the twins were born.”
“Have I?”
“James, we’ve been living like strangers for two years. Have you even noticed?”
He scoffed. “What did you expect? The house is always a mess, it smells like baby food, the kids scream all day—you think anyone enjoys that?”
“They’re *your* children!”
He shot up, pacing the kitchen. “Normal wives have *one* well-behaved child who plays quietly in the corner. But you had to have two! My mother warned me about women like you—all you’re good for is popping out kids!”
“Women like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Women with no ambition.”
“You made me drop out of university! You wanted me to focus on the family!”
Emily sat down, quiet for a moment before adding, “I think we should divorce.”
He barely hesitated. “Fine. Just don’t come after me for child support. I’ll send money when I can.”
He left without another word. She wanted to cry, but then noise erupted from the nursery—the twins were awake and demanding her attention.
***
A week later, she packed their things and moved into her grandmother’s old room in a shared flat. The other tenants were new, so she decided to introduce herself.
Next door lived a gruff but not yet elderly man named John. Down the hall was Margaret, a sharp-tongued woman in her sixties. Emily knocked on John’s door first.
“Hello! I’m your new neighbour. I brought cake—would you like to join me for tea?”
John glanced at her, then muttered, “I don’t eat sugar,” and shut the door.
Margaret, however, agreed—but only to deliver a lecture.
“Listen carefully. I nap in the afternoons and watch my shows at night. Your boys had better not disturb me. And keep them out of the hallway—no touching, no mess, no noise!”
Emily’s heart sank. Life here wouldn’t be easy.
***
She enrolled the boys in nursery and took a job there as an assistant. The hours lined up perfectly, but the pay was barely enough. Still, James had promised to help.
For the first three months—during the divorce—he sent money. Then nothing. Emily fell behind on rent, and tensions with Margaret grew worse.
One evening, as Emily fed the boys pasta in the kitchen, Margaret swept in, silk robe swishing.
“Dear, have you sorted your finances? I’d hate to lose electricity because of you.”
Emily sighed. “Not yet. I’ll visit James tomorrow—he’s forgotten his children exist.”
Margaret tutted. “Feeding them scraps… You’re a terrible mother.”
“I *am* a good mother! And you’d do well to keep your nose out of my business—unless you’d like it rearranged!”
Margaret shrieked like a banshee. John appeared, listened to her ranting, then disappeared briefly before slamming cash onto the table.
“Shut up. Here’s for the rent.”
Margaret stormed off, hissing, “You’ll regret this!”
Emily brushed it off—a mistake. The next day, James dismissed her pleas.
“I’m broke. Get a job.”
“They’re *your* sons!”
“Then feed them. Sue me if you want—my official salary’s peanuts.”
Tears blurred her vision as she walked home to find a police officer waiting. Margaret had filed a complaint—claims of neglect, threats.
“We have to report this to social services,” he said.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Procedure.”
That night, Margaret cornered her again. “One more disturbance, and I’ll report you directly.”
“They’re *children*—they can’t sit still all day!”
“Properly fed children *sleep*.”
The boys clung to Emily, frightened. “Eat up, loves. Auntie’s just joking.”
She turned away—and didn’t notice John enter with a grocery bag. Without a word, he filled her fridge and left.
After payday, she knocked on his door.
“John, here’s £200 for the food. I’ll pay the rest—just tell me how much.”
“Keep it.” He shut the door.
A crash came from the kitchen—Margaret screeching about spilled tea. “Ruffians! Raised like animals!”
Emily sent the boys to their room, cleaned up, and sat with them later.
“It’ll get better. I’ll figure something out.”
They hugged her tightly.
***
The next evening, a knock came. Two women, the officer, and a stern man stood there.
“Valerie Emily Harris?”
“Yes?”
“We’re from social services.”
They inspected the flat, the fridge, the beds.
“Pack their things.”
“*What?* You’re not taking my boys!”
Liam and Oliver clung to her, sobbing as the officer pried them loose.
“Mummy! Don’t let them!”
She fought, but they were dragged away, their screams fading as a car drove off. Emily collapsed, howling.
Later, she spotted her grandfather’s old axe. She smiled—an ugly, broken thing—and marched to Margaret’s door.
As it splintered open, John yanked the axe from her grip.
“Fool! Who does this help?”
She slumped. “I don’t care anymore.”
He dragged her to his flat, forced a sedative into her. When she woke, he’d gone to Margaret.
“Happy now?”
“Oh, John! I only meant to scare her into leaving!”
“Retract your complaint. Pray she gets them back—or *I* might not stop her next time.”
***
For a month, Emily fought—paperwork, interviews, tests. John pushed her forward. When hope flickered, she clung to it.
“You did this,” she whispered.
John’s smile was sad. “I couldn’t save mine. Yours still have a chance.”
That night, sleepless, she asked about his past.
“Had a family. Two boys. Drank too much, shouted too much. My wife left. By the time I swallowed my pride… their house burned down. Faulty wiring.”
His voice was hollow. “I drank worse. Got jailed for fighting. Sold my flat to pay damages. Came back here.”
Emily reached for his hand, but he pulled away.
“Sleep. You’ll need your strength.”
***
“Harris!” The social worker handed her papers. “Don’t let this happen again.”
Emily swayed, John steadying her as Liam and Oliver barrelled into her arms.
“All right, enough tears,” John gruffed. “Let’s go home.”
***
Life settled. Margaret stayed hidden. With John’s help, Emily got a stable job at the factory. Money was tight but enough. Yet John grew quieter, darker.
One day, his phone slipped from his coat—her photo lit the screen.
She found him staring at the ceiling.
“Ivan… I’ve been afraid to say things. To the wrong people. Or too late.” She took a breath. “Marry me?”
He cupped her face. “I’m no poet. Just know I’ll do anything for you and those boys.”
**Final Insight:**
*Regret follows silence. Love isn’t measured in grand gestures but in the quiet choices—the hand that steadies, the voice that pushes forward, the heart that stays.*
