The New Year holidays were winding down. After weeks of rich meals, mince pies, and endless snacks, Emily had decided to make porridge for breakfast—time to get back to simple, normal food.
The three of them were eating when her husband’s phone rang in the other room. He stepped out to answer it. Emily couldn’t help but listen, trying to guess from his vague replies who was calling and why.
When James came back, he didn’t look upset—just uneasy.
“Mum called,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Her blood pressure’s spiked. She wants me to come over.”
“Of course, go,” Emily nodded.
As he left to get dressed, she remembered his hesitant words on the phone: *”Right now? Are you sure? Fine, fine.”* Normally, when his mother summoned him, James would drop everything and rush over without question. *”Stop overthinking,”* Emily told herself.
“I won’t be long,” James called from the hallway before the front door slammed behind him.
“Eat up,” Emily urged their son, Oliver, who was dragging his spoon through the porridge, making swirls instead of eating.
“Are we still going sledding? You promised.” He scooped a tiny bit onto his spoon and stared at it before finally taking a bite.
“We’ll go when Dad gets back, alright?” She forced a smile. “But only if you finish your breakfast.”
“Fine,” Oliver mumbled, lifting the spoon again with zero enthusiasm.
“If that bowl isn’t clean in five minutes, we’re not going anywhere,” Emily said firmly, standing to wash the dishes.
She was ironing while Oliver played with his toy cars when the front door clicked open.
*Finally.* She set the iron down and listened to the rustling in the hallway. *Why’s he taking so long?* She went to greet him—only to freeze in the doorway.
A girl, about ten, stood there, staring at her curiously. James hovered behind, guilt written all over his face. He rested his hands on the girl’s shoulders and lifted his chin, bracing himself.
“This is my daughter, Sophie,” he said, dropping his gaze to the top of her head. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“Right. And her mother? Off with the latest boyfriend to Spain, is she?” Emily snapped.
James flinched but didn’t get a chance to reply before she turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” she heard him say, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sophie wander over to Oliver, who was still sprawled on the floor with his toys.
“Any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Sophie cut in. “I want spaghetti hoops and sausages.”
James blinked, looking between Sophie and Emily. Emily just shrugged and waved a hand toward the kitchen—*go on, then.*
A minute later, James called from the kitchen.
“Do we *have* spaghetti hoops? I can’t find any.”
“There should be some leftovers in the cupboard. I’ll pop to the shop in a bit.” She shot him a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know—”
“Really? So your mother *didn’t* tell you why she wanted you over?” The way he avoided her eyes told her everything. “You couldn’t have *asked* me first? Or warned me? Or prepared Oliver? Now they’re going to fight over you.”
As if on cue, Oliver let out a wail from the living room. Emily rushed in, James close behind.
“See? *You* deal with this.” She threw up her hands.
Oliver clung to her, burying his face in her jumper. Sophie stood scowling at the floor.
“What happened?” James went straight to Sophie.
Emily’s stomach twisted. *Of course he goes to her first.*
“She t-took my c-car!” Oliver sobbed.
The sound of boiling-over pasta hissed from the kitchen, and James bolted to save it. *”And I can’t even say anything. ‘Poor little thing,’ as his mother calls her. But what about *me*?”*
“Want to watch cartoons?” Emily forced calm into her voice as she turned to Sophie.
Sophie nodded, and Emily flipped on the telly with relief. The two kids sat on the sofa.
“Is this your mum’s latest stunt? Trying to wreck our marriage? She’s *obsessed* with getting you back with your ex. Remember when Oliver was born, and she screamed that Sophie was her *only* grandchild? Testing me, is she?” Emily hissed in the kitchen.
“She’s genuinely not well,” James defended.
“And a ten-year-old would’ve been *such* a burden? She could’ve called an ambulance herself. At her age, I was making my own scrambled eggs.”
“Enough!” James slammed a spoon down. “Soph, food’s ready!” he called.
“Daddy, bring it here,” Sophie replied sweetly.
*”Daddy,”* Emily mimicked under her breath, rolling her eyes. “Go on, then. Run to her.” She walked out, refusing to look at Sophie as she packed away the ironing board, leaving James to handle his daughter.
He eventually coaxed Sophie into the kitchen. Emily bit back every snarky remark, sitting stiffly beside Oliver in front of the telly but not seeing a thing. He pressed into her side, sensing her tension. *”Just bear with it. Oliver *knows* I don’t like her. But I can’t let him see that.”* She forced a smile at him.
Anger simmered inside her—at the unfairness, the intrusion, the *betrayal*. From the kitchen, she heard James chatting warmly with Sophie while she and Oliver sat forgotten. *”Careful. She’ll tell his mother everything, and she’ll poison him against me all over again…”*
“Mum, when are we going sledding?” Oliver tugged her sleeve.
“I don’t know now. We have a *guest*.” She stroked his hair.
Sophie wandered back in, chewing loudly. The clatter of dishes followed—*James washing up after her? He never does that for us.* A bitter satisfaction flickered in Emily’s chest.
“Right, who’s ready for the hill?” James asked brightly, reappearing.
“Yeah. But we’ve only got one sled,” Emily said flatly, eyes glued to the mindless cartoon.
“We’ll take the plastic tray too. Take turns, yeah, mate?” The last bit was clearly for Sophie.
“Oliver, go potty and get dressed.” Emily sighed, standing.
She grabbed her coat and disappeared into Oliver’s room to change.
The whole walk to the hill, she wrestled with herself. *”Be kind. She’s just a kid. It’s not her fault her mum dumped her. Oliver’s innocent too. And me? Mum *warned* me his ex would never let us be. Too late now.”*
At the hill, Sophie immediately claimed the sled. Emily put Oliver on the plastic tray, and he shrieked with laughter as he slid down after her. Sophie, taller and stronger, was already trudging back up. Emily’s heart sank as five-year-old Oliver struggled up the icy steps with his flimsy tray. Sophie reached the top and plopped right back onto the sled. Emily shot James a *look*. He glanced away, giving Sophie’s sled a push. By the time Oliver made it up, Sophie had already whizzed past him. He stopped, staring after her.
“Come on, your turn next!” Emily encouraged. Oliver hurried up again.
“You can use the tray after,” Emily told Sophie, who was already settling onto the sled.
“*Daddy*,” Sophie whined.
James, looking torn, gave the sled another shove.
“What about me?” Oliver asked, lip trembling.
Emily’s chest ached. He was searching her face for reassurance, already giving up on his dad.
“Tomorrow, just us two, you can have the sled all day, okay?” She forced a smile.
As Oliver lined up his tray, she leaned in and whispered, “Wait for me at the bottom.”
“Where are you going?” James called as she headed for the steps.
“You three have fun. I’m freezing.” She hurried down, gripping the rail.
After lunch, she put Oliver down for a nap.
“Keep the telly quiet, alright? You’ll wake him.” Emily turned the volume down and grabbed her coat. “Off to get spaghetti hoops and milk,” she tossed at James.
Forty minutes later, as she returned, James came sprinting out of the flat—*no coat, no shoes.*
“What’s wrong?” Her pulse spiked, a cold sweat breaking out.
“Oliver’s gone—”
“*Gone?*” She shoved past him into the flat.
“Work called—I was on the phone in the kitchen, then the front door was open—”
“*Oliver!*” She tore into his room.
Empty bed.
*”What did you do?”* Emily grabbed Sophie by the shoulders, shaking her.
The telly blared. Sophie
