**Damaged Genes**
Emma barged into the flat, dropped the heavy shopping bags with a thud, and let out an exasperated sigh.
“Anyone home?” she called towards the living room. “Two men in this house, and I’m the one lugging groceries upstairs,” she grumbled. “Everyone’s happy to eat, but when it comes to helping—radio silence.” She made sure to say it loud enough for them to hear.
She made a show of taking off her coat, sighing dramatically. Finally, her son appeared in the doorway.
“Take these bags to the kitchen, will you? Is your dad home?”
Tom scooped up the bags.
“Watching telly,” he tossed over his shoulder. He could’ve left that bit out—Emma 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.
“What’s all the shouting?” Her husband appeared in the hall.
“Nothing. Just knackered,” Emma snapped. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll sort dinner. All by myself. Couldn’t even manage pasta, could you?” She shoved her feet into slippers and flicked off the hallway light.
“You never asked! We’d have done it, right, Tom?” Her husband, sensing an oncoming row, quickly enlisted their son.
From the kitchen came only the rustle of bags and the fridge door shutting. Tom wisely stayed neutral—better safe than sorry.
“So, no pasta then,” Emma sighed. “If I had a daughter, she’d have known what to do. Useless, the pair of you.” She shuffled past her husband into the kitchen.
“Em, I get you’re tired, but why take it out on us? I’m not psychic—I can’t guess whether you fancy pasta or potatoes. Just ask, and we’d have sorted it. I’ve only just got back from work too, you know.” He chopped the air with his hand and retreated to the living room.
“That’s what I’m saying—you lot need everything spelled out. Easier to lounge on the sofa,” Emma muttered under her breath, though the heat had gone out of her voice. She didn’t want a full-blown row—just couldn’t snap out of it straight away.
“Cheers, love. Go on, do your homework—I’ll manage.”
Tom bolted to his computer. Emma opened the fridge, sighed, and started rearranging groceries. The venting had helped. She adored her boys—just one of those days where everything rubbed her the wrong way. Cooking wasn’t men’s work, anyway.
After dinner, she scraped leftover pasta into a container, adding a meatball. She nearly tossed in another but stopped herself.
“Taking that to the Masons again? You’ll spoil her. Then you’ll moan she’s taking advantage,” her husband jabbed, payback for her earlier nagging.
“Not the Masons—Sophie. Probably hasn’t eaten. Her mum drinks away their money. Poor kid. Saw her dragging her mum home last week—woman was plastered. Bright girl, but no luck with parents.” Emma laced up her shoes.
Her husband said nothing.
Emma went downstairs to the third floor and rang the battered doorbell. The door looked like a shoulder shove would open it—not that anyone would bother. Nothing worth stealing, not even the cockroaches stuck around.
“Who is it?” A small voice piped up from inside.
“Sophie, it’s Auntie Emma. Open up—brought you some food.”
The lock clicked, and the door cracked open, revealing a wary nine-year-old eye.
“Here, eat. Your mum asleep?”
Sophie opened the door wider, took the container, and nodded.
“Right, I’ll be off then. You eat up—skin and bones, you are. Don’t leave any for your mum.”
Another nod, and the door closed.
“Wish she were mine,” Emma sighed, climbing back upstairs.
She peeked into her son’s room. He hurriedly snapped his laptop shut, but she’d seen the game.
“Don’t hide it. Homework done?”
“Ages ago.”
“Tomorrow, after school, invite Sophie over for some soup. Her mum drinks away their food money. Kid’s always starving.”
“Alright, Mum,” fourteen-year-old Tom agreed without question.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“Sure.” He reopened his game.
The next day, passing the Masons’ door, Tom pressed the buzzer.
“Go away, Mum’s not home,” Sophie called through the door.
“Oi, kid. Mum told me to bring you up.”
“Why?” A long pause.
“Come up and see.”
The door creaked open. Sophie eyed him suspiciously.
“Well? Coming or what?” He feigned indifference, stepping towards the stairs.
“Wait!” She vanished inside, reappearing with an empty container.
“There’s soup in the fridge. Can you heat it?” Tom mimicked Emma’s tone.
“I’m not a baby,” Sophie huffed, following him.
“Do two bowls. Kitchen’s that way—I’ll change.” He vanished into his room.
By the time he returned, steam curled from two bowls. Sophie had even laid out bread.
“Nice one. Race you?” Tom grabbed a spoon and wolfed his down.
Sophie ate slowly, watching him. Afterwards, she washed up. Tom didn’t offer to help—she’d eaten, she could clean.
“Come on, I’ll show you a game.”
“Teach me how to earn money online instead,” Sophie said.
Tom laughed. “Sharp, aren’t you? You got a computer?”
“Where from?”
“Then how—?”
“Just show me.”
“Honestly? No clue. But I’ll ask my mate Dave. He brags about it.”
From then on, most days after school, Tom fetched Sophie. They’d eat, and he’d teach her computer basics. She picked it up instantly, blushing at his praise.
Once, her mum answered the door, Sophie peeking behind her.
“Bit young to be chasing boys, ain’t ya?” her mum slurred.
“I help with her homework,” Tom lied smoothly.
Sophie’s eyes darted between them.
“Fine. Don’t be long.” Her mum swayed back inside.
“You’ve got no key. How’ll you get back? She doesn’t seem drunk today.”
“She will be.” Sophie tugged a string around her neck, revealing a key tucked under her dress.
“Right. So if you ever bolt, you’re sorted.”
When Tom’s mates came over, Sophie reluctantly left.
“What’s her deal? Fancy you?” she heard one snicker.
“Shut it. She’s just a kid. Teaching her the laptop.”
“I’m not a kid,” Sophie scowled, flipping them off.
Summer holidays came, and Tom went off to camp or his gran’s. Sophie moped, always asking Emma when he’d be back.
“By school time,” Emma promised.
Years passed. Sophie matched Tom’s tech skills, only using his laptop now. At uni, he got a new one and gave her his old one—she hid it, terrified her mum would pawn it.
They barely saw each other now. Sophie had shot up, filled out—but Tom still saw her as the scrawny kid next door. Only a blind man wouldn’t notice her lovesick glances whenever they crossed paths. Emma wasn’t blind.
“Tom, we need to talk. Does Sophie still come 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.”
“Grown now. And you’re a looker,” Emma said proudly. “Her dad drank himself to death—froze in a ditch. Mum’s a mess. Miracle she’s even got work. If anyone’d hire her to scrub floors…”
“No issue with her—clever, capable. Daughter material. But those rotten genes’ll catch up. I want healthy grandkids. Find a proper girl. Stop encouraging her.”
Tom scoffed. “She’s like a sister. Barely comes by. Besides, I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Really? Why haven’t we met her?” Emma brightened.
“Soon. You’ll like her.”
That weekend, Tom brought home Alice—pretty, poised. Emma dubbed her “Princess No-Smile” under her breath. The girl picked at her food, answered in monosyllables. “Properly brought up,” Emma decided.
Alice became a fixture, shutting herself in Tom’s room. Emma never intruded—except when Sophie visited. Then Alice’s indifference irked her.
“Cold as marble. Tom won’t be happy. Can she even cook? Sophie—now there’s a girl. Sharp, helpful, smiling. But those genes…”
Meanwhile, Sophie watched from her window as Tom walked Alice through the courtyard, heart burning. Her mum drank less lately—not for lackOne evening, as Tom helped Sophie patch up another peeling wall, she turned to him with a paintbrush in hand and said, “You know, even the best genes can’t fix a rubbish upbringing, but love might just cover the cracks,” and he kissed her right there, with the wallpaper half-stuck and their future wide open.
