The weight of the accusation settled like fog over the Thames—would he spend his whole life proving his innocence?
Emily sat curled on the sofa, half-watching telly, while her husband, James, hunched over his laptop. The sudden ring of her mobile sliced through the quiet.
“Mum?” Emily muted the telly, sensing trouble. “Everything alright?”
“Just calling for a chat, love.”
Emily knew better—her mother never rang without a reason. “Come on, out with it. Has Sophie been at it again?”
A sigh crackled down the line. “She’s been on at me nonstop about moving in with you. Says she wants to go to uni. But let’s be honest—her grades are rubbish, and she’d rather party than study. We’ve got perfectly good colleges here—nursing, business—but she won’t hear of it.”
“You know we’ve only got a one-bed flat in London. It’d be chaos if she stayed with us,” Emily said carefully.
“I know, love. But I’m worried she’ll just turn up on your doorstep. Thought I’d warn you. Maybe you can talk some sense into her? She won’t listen to me anymore. Absolute nightmare, that girl.”
“Mum, she won’t listen to me either. Stubborn as a mule, you know that. I’ll call Uncle David—maybe he’ll take her in for a bit.”
“You think? His wife might not like it.”
“Why not? She’s his daughter, isn’t she? I’ll ring him and let you know.” Emily hung up, tension knotting her shoulders.
“Your mum?” James glanced up from his screen.
“Yeah. Sophie wants to stay with us—reckons she’s off to uni.”
“So? If she gets in, they’ll house her in halls.”
“She won’t get in, James. She just wants an excuse to leave home. Probably chasing some bloke.” Emily rubbed her temples. “I’ll call her dad. He owes her that much.”
A memory flickered—Sophie at their wedding, eyes trailing James like a cat watching cream. Emily shoved it aside.
Their fathers had been different men. Hers had drowned fishing the Severn when she was seven—one too many pints, a tangled line, and the current took him. Her mother, left young and widowed, never remarried. Not until Year 6, when Mr. Ellis—the new maths teacher with a rumoured broken heart—started staying after school to help Emily with sums. Soon, he was helping with everything.
Mum got pregnant. She refused to marry at first, but David Ellis wore her down. In class, Emily called him *Sir*. At home, *Uncle David*. When Sophie was born, Emily became the responsible one—helping with nappies, pushing the pram, earning Mum’s trust.
Two years later, a grammar school in Birmingham poached him. Mum wouldn’t go, though she never said why. Emily knew—she was older, ashamed he’d leave her for someone younger in the city. So she let him go.
He still sent child support, even a little extra for Emily. But the sisters couldn’t have been more different. Emily studied hard, won a uni place. Sophie coasted on her looks, scraped through school on charm alone.
Once, at the Bullring, Emily bumped into Uncle David—his new wife, a baby boy in tow. He’d jotted down his number, said to call if she ever needed help. She did, twice, until the wife’s frosty glances drove her away.
——
The next morning, Emily dialled his number.
“Emily!” His voice warmed. “How’s your mum? Been ages.”
“Married now, working in HR. Listen—it’s about Sophie.” A pause. She could almost hear him bracing.
“Mum rang yesterday. Sophie wants to move here for uni. Our flat’s tiny, so… I thought maybe she could stay with you?”
“I’ll talk to Sarah—my wife—and ring you back. Which uni’s she aiming for?”
Emily exhaled. “Honestly? Doubt she’ll get in anywhere. If she does, halls will sort her. If not… well, she’ll crawl back to Mum.”
Three weeks later, Sophie arrived, A-levels barely passed.
“Your dad’s expecting you,” Emily said, hefting her sister’s suitcase.
“Who asked you?” Sophie’s eyes flashed. “I thought I’d stay *here*.”
“Where, the bloody broom cupboard?”
“Jealous of James, are you? He’s ancient. Then again…” She smirked.
Emily’s pulse spiked. “We’ll sort your applications tomorrow. Where are you applying?”
“Like I need you holding my hand.”
“Fine. Clearing’s a month off—no reason to loaf here. Apply, then go back to Mum’s. End of.”
Aunt Sarah’s welcome was arctic. Two days later, Sophie fled home—only to slink back in late July.
“Why aren’t you at your dad’s?” Emily blocked the doorway.
“He’s in Spain. *On holiday*,” Sophie singsonged.
Gritting her teeth, Emily let her in. The heatwave turned the flat into a sauna, and Sophie strutted about in tiny shorts, braless under her vest. James seemed oblivious, but Emily’s jaw ached from clenching.
*Just a week*, she told herself. *Then the offers come out, and she’s gone.*
——
The next day, her boss sent her to Manchester—urgent contracts, hand-delivered. She kissed James goodbye, stomach twisting.
By midnight, Sophie wasn’t home. James rang—voicemail. An hour later, her giggle cut through thumping bass.
“Coming home? It’s past one,” he growled.
“Ooh, worried, *Daddy*?”
A man’s slurred voice crooned, *”Stay, love. Dance with me…”* James’ knuckles whitened on the phone.
“Which club?!”
“Piss off—” The line died.
He found her in the first dive he checked—wobbling against some greasy-haired bloke, pupils blown. The lurch toward James reeked of pills.
“Back off, grandad.”
“Call the cops, shall I?” James thumbed 999. “She’s seventeen.”
The bloke vanished. Sophie sulked all the way home, preening at his fury. He shoved her into the shower, barricaded the door until water ran.
By 4 a.m., he collapsed into bed.
——
The alarm died under his fist. He bolted late, swearing inwardly.
At lunch, Emily’s call came like a gunshot.
“Can’t talk—meeting—” He muffled the phone.
“*You slept with my sister?!*” Her scream pierced his ear.
James staggered into the corridor. “What? That’s insane—”
“*Look at your phone.*”
The image hit like a punch: him shirtless on the sofa, Sophie grinning beside him.
*Bloody hell.* A setup—straight out of *EastEnders*.
The phone rang again. “Well?!”
“I’ll kill that little—”
Emily’s shrieks dissolved into static. He swore he’d explain at home, but Sophie’s phone was off.
At the flat, Emily’s fury met him at the door. “Where is she?!”
“Gone. Probably knew she’d been rumbled.” He gripped her shoulders. “It’s bollocks, Em. I was *asleep*. She took that photo to wind you up!”
“Then why were you at a *club* with her?!”
“Because she was off her face with some drugged-up tosser! Christ, *you* said she’d try something!”
Emily crumpled onto the sofa. “What was I supposed to think?”
“Think *better* of me,” he whispered.
The lock turned. Sophie slunk in, pigtails and puppy eyes—repentant Lolita.
“Where’ve you *been*?” Emily’s voice shook.
“Out. Problem?”
“Was this a *joke* to you? We nearly split because of you!”
Sophie glanced at James, then away. “…Just messing about.”
“*Messing*—?” Emily yanked her suitcase from the closet. “You’re going *home*.”
“But—uni—”
“You never even applied, did you?” Emily shoved her toward the door. In the car, Sophie sniffled apologies, then fell silent.
At Mum’s curb, Emily softened. “I won’t tell her. But sort yourself out, Soph. Right now, you’re nobody’s priority.”
They returned past midnight. Emily slid into bed; James dozed at the kitchen table.
——
Next morning, he tiptoed toward the door.
“James?” Emily stood in her nightie, eyes red. “You… you’re coming back?”
“Unless you plan to accuse me again.”
SheAnd as the months passed, the shadow of doubt between them finally lifted, replaced by the quiet certainty that trust, once broken, could still mend with time and tenderness.
