**New Year’s Break**
The New Year’s holidays were nearly over. After days of rich food—salads, cakes, and snacks—I’d had enough, so for breakfast, I made porridge. Time to get back to normal, simple meals.
The three of us were eating when my husband’s phone rang from the bedroom. He left the kitchen. I couldn’t help but listen, trying to guess who was calling and why from his vague replies.
When James returned, he didn’t look upset—just troubled.
“Mm… Mum rang,” he began. “She’s got high blood pressure, wants me to come over.”
“Of course, go,” I nodded.
As he went to get dressed, I replayed his words on the phone: *“Right now? Maybe not… Alright, fine.”* Normally, when his mother demanded his presence, James rushed off without question. *I’m overthinking again*, I chided myself.
“I’ll be quick,” James called from the hall, and the door slammed behind him.
“Eat up,” I urged our son, who was dragging his spoon through his porridge, smearing it across the bowl.
“Are we going to the hill? You promised.” Oliver scooped a tiny bit of porridge and stared at it before finally eating it.
“We’ll go when Dad’s back. Deal?” I forced a smile. “But only if you finish.”
“Okay,” he mumbled, lifting the spoon again without enthusiasm.
“If that bowl isn’t clean in five minutes, we’re not going,” I said firmly, standing to wash the dishes.
I was ironing while Oliver played with toy cars on the floor when the front door clicked open.
*Finally*. I set the iron down and listened to the rustling of coats in the hallway. *What’s taking him so long?* I thought, then went to meet him.
In the doorway stood a girl of about ten, staring at me curiously. Behind her, James looked guilty, hands resting on her shoulders, chin jutted forward defiantly.
“This is my daughter, Emily,” he said, eyes dropping to the back of her head. “Mum asked me to take her for the day.”
“Right. And her mother? Off with another boyfriend to Spain?” I snapped.
James shrugged but didn’t get a chance to reply—I turned back to the ironing board.
“Come in,” I heard him say, and from the corner of my eye, I saw the girl approach Oliver on the floor.
“Do we have any porridge left?” James asked.
“I don’t want porridge,” Emily cut in. “I want spaghetti with sausages.”
James looked helplessly between her and me. I shrugged and waved toward the kitchen: *Go on, then. I’m busy.*
A little later, he called me in.
“Do we have pasta? I can’t find any.”
“There’s leftovers. I’ll finish ironing, then pop to the shop.” I shot him a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know—”
“Really? Did your mother not say why she wanted you?” The way he avoided my eyes told me I’d hit the mark. “You couldn’t have asked me? Warned me? Oliver should’ve been prepared too. Now they’ll start fighting over you.”
As if on cue, Oliver wailed from the living room. I dashed in, James right behind me.
“Well? Sort it out,” I said, arms spread.
Oliver clung to me, sniffling. Emily stood sulking, glaring at the floor.
“What happened?” James went to his daughter first—which stung.
“Sh-she took my c-car,” Oliver sobbed.
The sound of boiling pasta water hissing sent James rushing back to the kitchen. *What am I supposed to say to her?* I thought bitterly. *Little orphan girl, as his mother calls her. And what about me?*
“Want to watch cartoons?” I forced calm into my voice.
Emily nodded, and I turned on the TV with relief. The two kids sat on the sofa.
“Your mother’s at it again, isn’t she? Trying to break us up? She’s obsessed with getting you back with your ex. Remember how she screamed when Oliver was born that she only had one grandchild—Emily? Testing me, seeing how I’d react?” I hissed in the kitchen.
“She’s really unwell,” James defended.
“And what’s wrong with leaving a ten-year-old with her? She could’ve called an ambulance. I was making my own eggs at her age.”
“Enough!” James slammed a spoon down. “Em, spaghetti’s ready!” he called.
“Daddy, bring it here,” she replied smoothly.
“Daddy,” I mimicked under my breath, rolling my eyes. “Go on, then.” I left the kitchen, ignoring Emily as I folded the ironing board, leaving James to deal with his daughter.
He eventually took Emily to the kitchen. I sat stiffly beside Oliver, staring blankly at the TV. He leaned into me, sensing my tension. *I have to hold it together*, I told myself. *Oliver understands. He sees I don’t like her. I can’t let this show.* I forced a smile at him.
Irritation bubbled inside me—resentment, injustice, hurt. James and Emily chatted in the kitchen while Oliver and I sat forgotten. *I have to be careful. She’ll tell his mother everything, and she’ll poison him against me again…*
“Mum, when are we going to the hill?” Oliver interrupted my thoughts.
“I don’t know now. We’ve got company.” I stroked his hair.
Emily wandered in, chewing noisily. The kitchen tap ran—*Is he washing her plate? He never washes ours. Just dumps them in the sink. Guilty conscience?* I thought spitefully.
“Right, who’s ready for the hill?” James asked brightly, coming in.
“Yes. But we’ve only got one sled.” I kept my eyes on the mindless cartoon.
“No worries, we’ll take the plastic sheet and take turns, yeah, mate?” The last bit was clearly for Emily.
“Oliver, toilet and coat,” I sighed, standing.
I grabbed my things and went to his room to change.
All the way to the hill, I tried to convince myself to be kind. *She’s just a child. It’s not her fault no one wants her—not even her own mother. She could’ve taken her to Spain. And Oliver’s not to blame either. But what about me?* Mum was right—James’s ex would never let us live in peace. *No use crying over spilt milk.*
At the hill, Emily claimed the sled immediately. I set Oliver on the plastic sheet, and he shrieked as he slid down after her. Emily, taller and stronger, was already climbing back up. My heart ached watching five-year-old Oliver struggle with the sheet. Emily reached the top and plonked straight back onto the sled. I shot James a withering look. He avoided my gaze, pushing the sled down.
By the time Oliver made it up, Emily had already overtaken him. He stopped, watching her go.
“Hurry, it’s your turn now!” I encouraged. He scrambled up again.
“You’ll have to take the sheet next,” I told Emily, already seated on the sled.
James stood helpless, then pushed her down again.
“What about me?” Oliver asked, hurt.
He looked to me for comfort, already resigned—knowing his dad was hers now.
“Tomorrow, just us two. You can have the sled all to yourself. Okay?” I smiled.
As he lined up to slide, I whispered: *“Wait for me at the bottom.”*
“Where are you going?” James called as I headed for the stairs.
“You carry on. I’m cold.” I hurried down, gripping the icy rail.
After lunch, I put Oliver to bed.
“Keep the telly down, yeah? You’ll wake him.” I turned to Emily, lowering the volume. “I’m off to get pasta and milk,” I told James.
Forty minutes later, as I returned, James burst out of the flat—coatless.
“What’s wrong?” My heart pounded, a cold sweat prickling my back.
“Oliver’s gone,” he said, stepping down.
“Gone?” I shoved past him.
“Work called… I was on the phone in the kitchen, then the door was open…” He trailed after me, making excuses.
“Oliver!” I rushed into his room.
The bed was empty.
“What did you do?” I grabbed Emily’s shoulders, shaking her.
The TV blared. Her face twisted, but no tears came.
I let go, muted the telly, then turned back.
“Talk,” I gritted out.
She stared at James, silent. I bolted outside, shouting Oliver’s name. The empty yard echoed back. I checked under the stairs—there, in the dark, curled behind broken prams, was Oliver.
“Oliver!”
