Emma was just about to go to bed when she heard soft, muffled sobs coming from her son’s room. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she rushed in, perching on the edge of his bed.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” She placed a hand on his shoulder, but Harry jerked away, burying his face into his pillow.
“Go away. I don’t wanna see you,” he mumbled, voice thick with tears.
Emma froze, her stomach sinking.
“Harry, love, why would you say that?”
“Because you’re… you’re horrible!” He sat up abruptly, his blue eyes swimming with tears. “Dad told me everything! I know the truth about you!”
The memory flashed back—James’s go-to line during every fight: *”If you’re so clever, why don’t you just leave?”*
And every time, she’d bite her tongue, swallow her pride, and stay. Because that’s what she’d been taught—women endure. They keep the family together, even when they’re crumbling inside.
But that night, something snapped. She looked him dead in the eye and, for the first time, didn’t back down.
“Fine,” she said coolly.
James faltered. Then, with that same smug smirk, he scoffed, *”You’ll sleep on it and change your mind.”*
She didn’t.
All night, she lay awake, replaying every miserable year—the arguments, the dismissals, his mother’s shadow over their marriage. Not a single decision was made without *her* approval. And when Emma realized even Harry saw his dad and nan as the ones who mattered, she knew—she was already gone.
By morning, she packed her documents in silence. James yelled, ripped down curtains, snatched up the kettle, the pillows, even the shower liner—anything bought during their marriage, he took.
*”Enjoy living without us—and without *our* things!”* his mother sneered on the way out, clutching a bulging bag.
Emma stood in the emptying flat, dry-eyed. Not a single tear.
Court came and went without them—neither James nor his mum showed. And somehow, two years passed without a single attempt to take Harry away. She worked, raised him alone, never looked for love—until love found *her*.
Thomas entered her life gently—no grand declarations, no empty promises. Just quiet support, helping where he could, listening when she needed it.
*”I get it,”* he’d say. *”Your boy comes first. Always. That’s how it should be. And we’ll get along, Harry and me.”*
She hadn’t realized then how those kind words could one day be twisted against her.
At first, it was fine. Harry and Thomas built Lego garages, raced toy cars, laughed together. But lately, Harry had grown distant—avoiding eye contact, snapping at questions. And now, this.
*”You wanna get rid of me!”* he suddenly shouted, leaping up. *”You’re gonna have a new baby, and then you’ll dump me in care!”*
Emma’s blood turned to ice.
“Who told you that, Harry?”
*”Dad! He said you *already* agreed to hand me over ’cause I’m in the way!”*
Tears pressed at her throat as she pulled him close. *”Never. *Never*, do you hear me? You’re mine. My whole world.”*
He stiffened at first, then melted into the hug. But the fear in his eyes lingered—and that cut deepest.
Days later, Harry returned from his dad’s, buzzing about fishing trips and boat rides. But by evening, he clammed up, staring at the floor.
“You were so happy earlier. What’s wrong?”
*”Nothing,”* he muttered, turning away.
“Harry, *please* talk to me—”
*”You *asked* him to take me, didn’t you?”* he burst out. *”‘Cause I’m *in the way*!”*
This wasn’t just hurt—it was a knife to the chest.
Emma grabbed her phone. James’s voice dripped with lazy arrogance.
*”What’s your problem? He’s *with* you, isn’t he?”*
“I want you to *stop lying*. One more word turning him against me, and you’ll *never* see him again. Understand?”
*”Are you *threatening* me?”* he rasped. *”You’re making this up!”*
“Really? So Harry imagined me dumping him in care if I had another baby?”
Silence.
“You’ve missed child support three times this year. Fancy a court reminder?”
More silence.
“Watch your mouth, James. Don’t *ever* try this again.”
She hung up, trembling—until Thomas’s hand settled on her shoulder. *”Alright?”* he murmured.
“Yeah,” she breathed. *”Now I am.”*
That night, she sat by Harry’s bed, fingers threading through his hair as he slept. The wariness in him was fading, bit by bit. But she knew—this wasn’t over. James wouldn’t stop. There’d be more lies, more fear poured into their boy.
But she wasn’t alone anymore.
She was stronger now. And she had someone who didn’t ask her to *split* her love—just to *share* it.
