Emily was at her breaking point.
She couldn’t understand what had changed in James—had he stopped loving her? Just last night, he’d stumbled in late again and passed out on the sofa like a stranger.
That morning, as he slouched into the kitchen for breakfast, Emily stood her ground across from him.
“Jim, can we talk? What’s going on with you?”
He didn’t look up. “What now?” he muttered, sipping his tea.
“You’ve been different since the twins were born.”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Jim, we’ve been living like flatmates for two years. That you didn’t notice?”
He scoffed. “What did you expect? The house is a mess, smells like baby food, and there’s screaming all day. You think anyone enjoys that?”
“They’re your children, Jim.”
He stood, pacing like a caged animal.
“Normal wives have one quiet kid who plays with blocks. But you? You had to go and drop two at once! My mum warned me about women like you—no ambition, just baby machines.”
“Women like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The kind with no purpose.”
“You made me drop out of uni, remember? You said you wanted me to stay home and raise the kids!”
Emily sank into a chair. After a long silence, she whispered, “I think we should get a divorce.”
He barely blinked. “Fine by me. Just don’t expect child support. I’ll send what I can.”
He left without another word. She might’ve cried—if the twins hadn’t woken up right then, hungry as ever.
A week later, Emily packed their things and moved into a tiny bedsit her gran had left her. The building was old, the neighbours strangers. Still, she decided to introduce herself.
Next door lived a gruff middle-aged man, and on the other side, a dramatic older woman. Emily knocked on the man’s door first.
“Hi, I’m your new neighbour. Brought some cake—fancy a cuppa?”
He looked her over and grunted, “Don’t like sweets,” then slammed the door.
So she tried the other door. Margaret let her in—mainly to deliver a list of rules.
“Right, I nap in the afternoons, binge telly all night. Keep your kids quiet or I’ll file a noise complaint. No running in the halls, no mess, no touching anything!”
As Margaret droned on, Emily’s heart sank. Life here wasn’t going to be easy.
She enrolled the twins in nursery and took a job there as a teaching assistant. The hours lined up, and although the pay was barely enough, James had promised to help.
For the first three months—while the divorce dragged on—he did. But once the papers were signed, the money stopped.
Emily quickly fell behind on rent. Margaret grew increasingly hostile. One evening, as Emily fed the boys pasta (again), Margaret barged in, silk dressing gown fluttering.
“Darling, have you sorted your bills? I’d hate to lose Wi-Fi because of you.”
Emily sighed. “Not yet. I’ll speak to James tomorrow—he’s pretending his kids don’t exist.”
Margaret eyed the table. “Pasta again? Honestly, you’re a dreadful mother.”
“I’m a good mother,” Emily snapped. “And you’d better keep your nose out—unless you want it broken.”
Margaret let out a high-pitched screech. The commotion drew Thomas—the gruff neighbour—who listened silently, then returned with cash.
“Here,” he said, tossing money onto the table. “For the rent. Just shut her up.”
Margaret hissed as he walked away. “You’ll regret this.”
Emily didn’t take the threat seriously. A mistake.
The next day, she confronted James.
“I’m broke,” she said. “We’re running on fumes.”
He shrugged. “Not my problem. Go ahead—take me to court. My official salary’s nothing. Don’t bother me again.”
She walked home in tears. A week to payday. Empty cupboards. And then—another knock at the door.
A police officer.
“Ma’am, we’ve received a complaint. Allegations of neglect and verbal threats.”
Emily was stunned. “What? That’s ridiculous!”
“Still, I’ll need to report this to social services.”
That evening, Margaret returned.
“If your little monsters wake me up again, I’ll make another call. Believe me.”
“They’re children! They’re not soldiers—you can’t train them to be silent!”
“If you fed them better, maybe they’d sleep instead of running wild!”
The twins hugged Emily tightly.
“Eat up, darlings. Auntie’s just… cranky,” she whispered, turning away to hide her tears.
She didn’t notice Thomas quietly slipping into the flat. He placed a full bag of groceries in the kitchen and left without a word.
After payday, Emily knocked on his door.
“Thomas, here’s £200. I’ll pay the rest—just tell me how much.”
“Keep it,” he said, closing the door.
Later that night, Margaret shrieked from the hallway: “Animals! Raised in a barn!”
Emily sent the boys to their room, cleaned the mess, and collapsed on her bed.
“Mummy,” one of them asked. “Are we going to be okay?”
She pulled them close. “I’ll figure it out, sweetheart. Just hold on.”
The next evening, a heavy knock. Emily opened the door to find two stern women, the officer, and a man in a suit.
“Valentina Harper?”
“Yes?”
“We’re from social services. We need to assess the children’s living conditions.”
They inspected everything—fridge, bedding, the flat. Then came the words she dreaded:
“Pack their things.”
“What? You can’t do this!”
The boys cried, clinging to her legs. She fought, screamed, pleaded.
“Mummy! Don’t let them take us!”
An officer pulled them away while a man pinned her arms. She collapsed to the floor as their screams echoed down the stairs.
And then she saw it—her gran’s old fire axe, dusty, forgotten.
She picked it up, held it for a moment… and smiled.
The first swing splintered Margaret’s door. Screams erupted as the woman scrambled under her bed—until Thomas burst in and dragged Emily back, wrenching the axe from her hands.
“Idiot! What good will this do?”
“Nothing matters anymore…”
He pulled her into his flat and forced a sedative into her. As she drifted, he stormed next door.
“Happy now?”
“Oh, Thomas… I didn’t mean—”
“Withdraw the complaint. By tomorrow. Or next time, I might not stop her.”
The weeks that followed were a blur of court hearings, interviews, drug tests. Emily had nearly given up—but Thomas, stoic and stubborn, kept her going.
As the custody decision loomed, she turned to him.
“Thomas… I owe you everything.”
He gave a small, sad smile.
“Had kids once. Couldn’t save them.
Yours? Still time.”