Emily had finally had enough. She couldn’t understand why James had become so distant—had he fallen out of love? Last night, he’d come home late again and slept on the sofa. That morning, when he finally shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast, she sat across from him.
“James, can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked quietly.
“What’s your problem now?” He sipped his coffee, avoiding her gaze.
“Ever since the boys were born, you’ve changed.”
“Have I? I hadn’t noticed.”
“James, we’ve been living like strangers for two years. You *must* have noticed that.”
“Look, what did you expect? The place is always a mess, it reeks of baby food, the kids never stop screaming—you think anyone enjoys that?”
“James, they’re *your* children!”
He jumped up, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. “Most wives have *one* well-behaved kid who plays quietly in the corner. But you had to have *two* at once! My mum warned me about women like you—no ambition, just popping out babies!”
“Women like *me*? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The kind with no purpose in life.”
“*You* were the one who made me drop out of uni, saying I should focus on the family!”
Emily sat heavily. After a pause, she whispered, “I think we should get a divorce.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Fine by me. But don’t come after me for child support. I’ll give you money when I can.” Then he walked out. She wanted to cry, but already, the twins were shouting from their room, needing her.
—
A week later, she packed her things, took the boys, and left. She moved into a cramped bedsit left to her by her nan. The other tenants were new, so she decided to introduce herself.
Next door lived a gruff but middle-aged bloke, and on the other side, a flamboyant woman in her sixties. She knocked on the man’s door first.
“Hello! I’m your new neighbour. I bought cake—fancy a cuppa?” She forced a smile.
The man eyed her, then grunted, “Don’t eat sugar,” and shut the door in her face.
She sighed and tried the woman—Margaret. She agreed to tea but only to lay down the rules.
“Right, listen. I nap in the afternoons because I binge telly at night. Your boys *will not* disturb me. And keep them out of the hallway—no touching, no mess, no running!”
As Margaret droned on, Emily’s heart sank. Life here was going to be miserable.
—
She enrolled the boys in nursery and got a job there as an assistant. It was perfect—she finished work just in time to pick them up. The pay was peanuts, but James had promised to help.
For the first three months, while their divorce was finalising, he did. Then the money stopped. Two months in, she couldn’t even afford the rent.
Margaret’s hostility grew. One evening, as Emily fed the boys pasta in the kitchen, the woman swept in, silk robe swishing.
“Darling, I do hope you’ve sorted your finances? Wouldn’t want the electricity cut off because of *you*.”
Emily exhaled. “Not yet. I’m seeing James tomorrow—he’s forgotten his kids exist.”
Margaret sniffed at their meal. “Pasta *again*? You *do* know you’re a terrible mother?”
“I’m a *good* mother! And you’d do well to keep your nose out—unless you want it broken!”
The screeching that followed could’ve shattered glass. The noise brought their other neighbour, Danny, out of his flat. He listened to Margaret’s tirade for a minute, then disappeared—only to return and slam cash on the table.
“Shut it. That’s for the bills.”
Margaret clamped her mouth shut. But when Danny left, she hissed, “You’ll *regret* this.”
Emily ignored her—a mistake. The next day, she went to James. He barely looked up from his desk.
“Rough patch. Can’t spare anything.”
“Are you *kidding*? I’ve got kids to feed!”
“So feed them. Who’s stopping you?”
“I’ll take you to court.”
“Go ahead. My official salary’s so low, you’ll get pennies. Now *piss off.*”
She walked home in tears. Payday was a week away, and she was broke. But worse awaited her—a police officer at the door. Margaret had filed a complaint, accusing Emily of neglect and threats.
After an hour of questioning, he said, “I have to report this to social services.”
“Report *what*? I’ve done *nothing* wrong!”
“Protocol. Complaints get investigated.”
That evening, Margaret cornered her again. “One more peep from those brats, and I’ll call social services myself!”
“They’re *kids*! They can’t sit still all day!”
“If you *fed* them properly, they’d nap instead of tearing about!”
The boys huddled close as Emily wiped her eyes at the stove. She didn’t notice Danny enter—until he unloaded a *massive* bag of groceries into her fridge.
“Danny, that’s—that’s *your* food!”
He didn’t answer. Just left.
After payday, she knocked with cash. He opened the door, scowling.
“Danny, here’s £200 for the food. Tell me how much more—”
“Piss off. Don’t need it.”
The door slammed. She barely had time to react before Margaret’s shrieks echoed from the kitchen.
“*Animals!* Look at this mess—tea all over the floor!”
Emily sent the boys to their room, cleaned up, and collapsed on her bed. They sat quietly beside her.
“Mum’s got a plan,” she lied. “We’ll leave soon. Just hang on.”
They clung to her.
—
The next evening, a knock. Social workers, a cop, and a stern-faced man stood at her door.
“Valentina Smith?”
“…Yes?”
“We’re from child services.”
They inspected the flat, the fridge, the beds. Then:
“Pack their things.”
“*What?!* You’re *not* taking my boys!”
Tom and Jack wrapped around her legs, sobbing. She fought, but the officer pried them loose.
“MUM! *MUM!*”
Their screams haunted her as they were carried off. When the door closed, she howled—a raw, animal sound.
Then her eyes landed on her grandad’s old axe.
She smiled—a twisted, broken thing.
Danny caught her at Margaret’s door, wrenching the axe away.
“*You idiot!* What good’s that gonna do?!”
“I don’t *care* anymore—”
He dragged her to his flat, forced a sleeping pill on her. When she passed out, he stormed to Margaret’s.
“Happy now?”
“Oh, Danny, I never thought—I just wanted her *gone*—”
“Tomorrow, you *withdraw* that complaint. Pray those kids come back. Or I *won’t* stop her next time.”
—
For a month, Emily fought—forms, interviews, drug tests. She’d given up, but Danny, silent and grim, kept pushing. Then, the news:
“Smith! Here’re your papers. Don’t *ever* let this happen again.”
She stared, numb—until the social worker smiled.
“Well? Go get your boys.”
At the meeting point, her legs buckled. Danny steadied her.
Then—
“*MUMMY!*”
They crashed into her, crying. Even Danny turned away, wiping his eyes.
“Right. Let’s go home.”
—
Life settled. Margaret stayed hidden. With Danny’s help, Emily got a factory job—enough to scrape by. But Danny grew quieter. Then, one day, she knocked his jacket off its hook. His phone lit up—her picture on the screen.
She walked into his flat. He was sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“Danny… I’ve been too scared to say things. And now… I’m *done* regretting words I didn’t say.”
He frowned. “What’re you on about?”
She took a breath. “Marry me.”
For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then he cupped her face.
“I’m shite with words. Just know I’d do *anything* for you three.”
