Is this what my life’s going to be—forever proving I’ve done nothing wrong?
Emma was watching telly while her husband, James, was glued to his laptop when her mum rang.
“What’s happened, Mum?” Emma asked warily, muting the telly.
“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d check in.”
But Emma knew her mum never called without a reason. “Come on, out with it. Has Sophie been up to no good again?”
Her mum sighed.
“She’s been nagging my ear off about coming to stay with you. Says she wants to go to uni. Studies? Barely. Nights out? That’s all she cares about. What uni? We’ve got a perfectly good college here, and the nursing school. Won’t even consider them,” she huffed.
“James and I live in a one-bed flat. Not exactly ideal for a houseguest,” Emma pointed out.
“I know. I’m just worried she’ll turn up on your doorstep unannounced. Thought I’d warn you. Maybe you could talk some sense into her, eh? She won’t listen to me. Completely out of control.”
“Mum, she won’t listen to me either. Once she gets an idea in her head, that’s it. You know what she’s like. I’ll try ringing Uncle Mark—maybe he’ll take her in.”
“Oh, love… He’s got his own family now. Bit awkward, isn’t it?”
“Awkward? She’s *his* daughter, after all. Fine, I’ll call him and ring you back.” Emma hung up.
“Your mum?” James glanced up from his screen.
“Mmm. Sophie’s decided she’s moving in with us to go to uni.”
“So? If she gets in, she’ll get a dorm,” James said, already refocusing on his laptop.
“Uni’s a pipe dream. She’d struggle with college too, honestly. Bet you anything she just wants to troll for a husband. I’ll call her dad—maybe he’ll step up. He bloody well should. She’s his kid.” Emma frowned.
*No, I’ve got to convince Uncle Mark. James is fit. If he weren’t, I wouldn’ve married him. And Sophie? She’d try anything. At our wedding, she barely took her eyes off him.*
Emma and Sophie had different dads. Emma’s had drowned when she was six—gone fishing with mates, had a few pints, got his hook stuck on something underwater. Drunk and reckless, he’d waded in to free it and never came up. His mates were too plastered to save him in time.
Mum, young and pretty, was left alone with Emma. She kept suitors at arm’s length. Then, when Emma was in Year 6, a handsome new maths teacher joined the school. Rumour had it he’d fled the big city after some tragic romance.
He became Emma’s form tutor. At parents’ evening, he spotted Mum—love at first sight. Soon, he was round theirs all the time, “helping with homework” (not just maths). Emma’s grades shot up. Then the whispers started.
And then Mum got pregnant. She didn’t want to marry, but Mark—as Emma called him at home—persuaded her. When Sophie was born, Emma, now the big sister, revelled in the responsibility. Mum trusted her with shopping, pushing the pram, even babysitting.
Two years later, Mark got a better teaching job in Manchester. No surprise—he was brilliant, pupils adored him.
Mum refused to go. Never said why, but Emma, sharp even then, guessed: Mum was older, embarrassed. Terrified he’d leave her in the city, she let him go first.
He moved; they stayed. After the divorce, he paid child support for Sophie, even sent a bit extra for Emma. Knew Mum struggled.
The sisters were nothing alike. Emma, studious and driven, sailed through school, got into uni. Sophie? Couldn’t be bothered. Knew she was pretty early on and milked it.
At uni, Emma once bumped into Mark at the Arndale. With his wife and young son. He’d stopped, asked after Mum and Sophie—even seemed pleased to see her. Gave her his number, told her to call if she ever needed help.
She’d visited twice when skint, but his wife’s icy stares made her stop. He never called.
The day after Mum’s warning, Emma rang Mark.
“Emma!” He sounded chuffed. “How’s life? How’s your mum? Been ages.”
“Married now, Mark. Job’s good. Actually, I’m calling about Sophie.”
A beat of silence. She could *feel* him bracing.
“Mum rang yesterday. Sophie wants to move here for uni. We’ve no space. Thought maybe she could stay with you?” Emma blurted.
“I’ll talk to Sarah, my wife, and ring back. Which uni’s she aiming for?”
“Truthfully? No idea. Doubt she’ll get in. If she does, fine—halls. If not… Reckon she’ll slink back to Mum.”
“Right. And you? No little ones yet?”
“Nope. Thanks, Mark.” *Too easy*, she thought, relieved.
Three weeks later, Sophie, GCSEs in hand, landed on Emma’s doorstep.
“We’ve sorted for you to stay with your dad. I called him—he’s expecting you.”
“Who asked you?” Sophie snapped. “I’m not going. I thought I’d be with *you*.”
“Where? The broom cupboard?”
“So? I’ll manage. Or—oh, is this about *James*? Too old for me. Though…” She smirked.
Emma’s stomach lurched.
“Tomorrow, we’re submitting your applications. Where *are* you applying?”
“Pfft. I can handle it.”
“Fine. Offers take weeks. No lazing about here. Apply, then go back to Mum’s till you hear. Non-negotiable. Now, let’s go see your dad.”
Mark’s wife, Sarah, greeted Sophie with thinly veiled disdain. Two days later, Sophie was back with Mum. But come late July, she reappeared.
“Why aren’t you at your dad’s?” Emma asked flatly.
“He’s on holiday. *Malta*,” Sophie announced cheerfully.
Gritting her teeth, Emma let her stay. Couldn’t exactly chuck her out. The heatwave didn’t help—sticky nights, a useless fan. Sophie pranced about in tiny shorts and a crop top, no bra. Emma bit her tongue, shooting James wary looks. He seemed oblivious.
*Just a week till results. Then she’s gone.*
Next day, Emma’s boss sent her to London—urgent client papers. Normally, his deputy’d go, but the bloke’s wife just had a baby. Emma was stuck.
She agreed, though her gut churned at leaving James alone with Sophie. *Don’t overthink it*, she told herself, boarding the train.
James shut his laptop at 1 a.m. No sign of Sophie. Called her—no answer. An hour later, her giggly voice cut through club noise.
“Coming home? Do you know what time it is?” he growled.
“Ooooh, worried about me?” She cackled.
“Emma will be. If something happens, what do I tell your mum? *Where are you?* I’m coming.”
“Really? Cool! I’m at—”
“Hey, babe, dance with me…” A bloke’s slurred voice.
“*Which club?!*” James barked.
“Ugh, buzz off—” The line died.
James didn’t bother changing, just grabbed his trainers and ran. Driving, he racked his brain—where’d a teen go clubbing? Probably city centre. He’d have to check them all. Sophie’s phone was off now. If she wasn’t in trouble yet, she was close.
He found her in the first club. Wobbly, dancing with some greasy-haired bloke, pupils blown. James tried pulling her away, but the guy chest-bumped him.
“Watch it, grandad.”
“Want the cops here? She’s *underage*,” James hissed, dialling 999, thumb hovering over ‘call’.
The guy bolted. James frogmarched Sophie to the car.
She giggled the whole way, thrilled he’d nearly fought for her. Home, he shoved her in the loo.
“Wash up. You look like you’ve been downing WKDs in a bus shelter.”
“Wha—? You’re such a *pig*!” She pounded the door. James leaned against it till he heard water.
4 a.m. Three hours till work. He crashed.
Woke late—must’ve snoozed his alarm. Dressed in record time, he cursed Sophie (silentlyA year later, when Sophie finally got her act together and started a hairdressing course back home, Emma and James could finally laugh about the whole mess—though James still grumbled about never trusting a teenager with a smartphone again.
