**Faulty Genes**
Emma walked into the flat, dropped the heavy shopping bags with a thud, and let out an exasperated sigh.
“Anyone home?” she called toward the bedroom. “Two grown men in this house, and I’m the one lugging the shopping,” she muttered. “Everyone wants to eat, but when it comes to helping, suddenly no one’s around.” She said it loud enough to be heard, just in case.
She made a show of kicking off her shoes, sighing dramatically. Finally, her son appeared in the doorway.
“Take these bags to the kitchen, will you? Is your dad home?”
Liam picked up the shopping bags.
“Watching telly,” he tossed over his shoulder. He could’ve left it at that—she hadn’t asked what his dad was doing. But why should he bear the brunt of her mood alone? Let his dad catch some of it too.
“Why the shouting?!” His father appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing. Just knackered,” Emma shot back. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll sort dinner. All by myself. Couldn’t even boil some pasta, could you?” She slipped into her slippers and flicked off the hallway light.
“You never asked! We could’ve done it, right, Liam?” His dad, sensing an argument brewing, quickly roped Liam into his defense.
From the kitchen came only the rustle of bags and the fridge door clicking shut. Liam stayed neutral—safer that way.
“So, no pasta then,” Emma sighed. “If I had a daughter, she’d know what to do. But you two? Useless,” she grumbled, shuffling past her husband toward the kitchen.
“Emma, love, I get you’re tired, but why take it out on us? I’m not a mind reader. Tell us what you need, and we’ll do it. I’ve just got in from work too, you know.” He chopped the air with his hand and disappeared back into the living room.
“Exactly my point. Easier to lie on the sofa, isn’t it?” Emma muttered under her breath, less venomous now. She wasn’t after a row—just too worn out to stop herself.
“Thanks, love. Go on, do your homework. I’ll handle the rest.”
Liam bolted straight to his computer. Emma opened the fridge, shook her head, and started rearranging the shelves. She’d vented enough—she could breathe now. She adored her boys. Some days, everything just got on top of her. Cooking wasn’t a man’s job, anyway.
After dinner, she scraped the leftover pasta into a container and added a cutlet. She almost put in another but stopped herself.
“Taking it to the Wilkins’ again? You’ll spoil her. Then you’ll moan when she starts expecting it,” her husband jabbed, paying her back for earlier.
“Not the Wilkins’. Sophie. Poor kid’s got nothing at home. Her mum drinks it all away. Saw her once, dragging her drunken mother home. Woman could barely stand. Sophie’s bright, sweet—just got dealt a bad hand.” She laced up her trainers.
Her husband said nothing.
Emma went downstairs to the third floor and rang the bell at the scuffed door that looked like a shoulder shove would open it. Not that anyone would bother—nothing worth stealing, not even the roaches stayed.
“Who is it?” A small voice came through the door.
“Sophie, love, it’s Auntie Emma. Open up—I’ve brought you something to eat.”
The lock clicked. The door cracked open, and through the gap, Emma saw the watchful eyes of nine-year-old Sophie.
“Here. Your mum asleep?”
The girl opened the door wider, took the container, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll be off then. Eat up. Skin and bones, you are.” Emma’s heart ached as she looked at the girl. “Don’t leave any for your mum.”
Sophie nodded again and shut the door.
*If only she were mine*, Emma thought, climbing back upstairs to her flat.
She peeked into Liam’s room. He hurriedly shut his laptop, but she’d already seen the game.
“Don’t hide it. Homework done?” She walked to his desk.
“Finished ages ago.”
“Tomorrow, after school, bring Sophie up for soup. Her mum drinks away the food, lucky if they get bread. Girl’s always hungry, thin as a rake.”
“Sure, Mum,” said fourteen-year-old Liam, not asking questions.
“Don’t stay up late.” She hovered at the door.
“Won’t.” He reopened his game.
The next day, passing the door to the Wilkins’ flat, Liam pressed the buzzer.
“Go away. Mum’s not home,” Sophie said through the door.
“Oi, Mum said to bring you up.”
“Why?”
“Come on, you’ll see.”
The door inched open. Sophie eyed him suspiciously.
“You coming or not?” He feigned indifference and stepped toward the stairs.
“Wait!” She vanished inside, then reappeared with the empty container.
“Pot of soup in the fridge. Can you heat it?” Liam mimicked his mum’s tone as they climbed.
“I’m not a baby,” Sophie huffed, trailing behind.
“Two bowls. Kitchen’s that way. I’ll just change.” He disappeared into his room.
When he returned, steam curled from two bowls of soup. Spoons and bread waited beside them.
“Good. Race you.” Liam gulped his down while Sophie picked at hers, eyeing him. After, she washed the dishes. He didn’t offer to help—she’d eaten; she could clean.
“Come on, I’ll show you a game.”
“Show me how to make money online instead.”
Liam barked a laugh. “You’re sharp. You got a computer?”
“Where from?”
“Then how d’you plan to earn?”
“Show me,” she insisted.
“Dunno, honestly. But I’ll ask Vinnie. Reckons he knows.”
After that, Liam often brought Sophie up after school. They’d eat, and he’d teach her computer tricks. She soaked it up, blushing at his praise.
One day, her mum answered the door, Sophie peeking from behind.
“Bit young for boys, aren’t you?” Her mum’s voice was rough.
“I help her with homework,” Liam lied.
Sophie flicked between them, terrified.
“Fine. Don’t be long,” her mum slurred, swaying like a drunk sailor.
“You forgot your key. She doesn’t seem too bad today.”
“Give her time.” Sophie tugged a string around her neck and pulled out a key.
“Ah. Smart. If you ever bolt, you’re sorted.”
When Liam’s mates came round, Sophie left reluctantly.
“What’s her deal? Fancies you?” she overheard as she walked away.
“Shut up. She’s just a kid. Teaching her the laptop,” Liam defended.
“I’m not a kid!” Sophie stuck her tongue out.
Summer holidays meant camp or grandma’s for Liam. Sophie missed him desperately. Whenever she saw Auntie Emma, she’d ask when he was back.
“Before term starts,” Emma promised.
Years passed. Sophie mastered the laptop as well as Liam. She didn’t need lessons anymore—now she came to use his machine. He let her, benignly. Then he started uni, got a new laptop, and gave Sophie his old one. She hid it behind her wardrobe or took it to school to keep it from her mum.
They barely saw each other now. Sophie had grown, filled out—but to Liam, she was still just the neighbour girl. You’d have to be blind not to notice the longing in her eyes whenever they crossed paths. Emma wasn’t blind.
“Liam, we need to talk. Sophie comes over when we’re out. She shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“She’s in love with you. Can’t you see?”
“Mum, don’t be daft. She’s still a kid.”
“She’s grown. And you’re a fine young man.” Emma’s eyes shone with pride. “Her dad froze to death drunk. Mum’s a mess. Surprised she’s still got a cleaning job. But those damaged genes will surface sooner or later. I want healthy grandkids. Find a proper girl. Don’t encourage her—she’ll get ideas.”
“What ideas? She’s like a sister. Anyway, I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Really? Why haven’t I met her?” Emma brightened.
“You will. You’ll like her.”
That weekend, Liam brought home Amelia—pretty, slender. Emma privately dubbed her *Princess Stoneface*. She barely spoke, picked at her food. *Nerves*, Emma decided.
Amelia started visiting often. She and Liam shut his door. Emma didn’t intrude—too proper. Sophie didn’t get the same courtesy. Amelia stayed cold.
“She’s not right for him. Can she even cook?” Emma frettedBut love, as they say, finds a way—even through broken genes and shattered expectations.
