When I opened the door to my ex-husband, my jaw nearly hit the floorthere he was, standing next to a blonde in glossy heels.
“Mum, why does Auntie Claire have such pretty shoes, and you dont?” asked six-year-old Emily, pressing her nose against the window to get a better look at the neighbours feet.
Emma set down her now-cold mug of tea and sighed. Emily was perched on the windowsill in her favourite pink pyjamas, curiosity lighting up her little face.
“Whats wrong with my shoes?” Emma forced a smile, though something inside her twisted.
“Theyre not ugly, just old,” Emily clarified, ever the diplomat. “Auntie Claires are shiny with proper heels. Youre always in trainers.”
Emma wrapped an arm around her daughters shoulders. Outside, Clairetheir impeccably groomed, recently divorced neighbourstrutted past in her pristine coat, designer handbag swinging, those blasted heels clicking smugly on the pavement.
“Darling, shoes dont make someone beautiful,” Emma murmured. “Its whats inside that counts.”
“But shoes *help*,” Emily insisted. “Dad used to buy you nice things, didnt he?”
Emma stiffened. James had left six months ago, muttering something about “not feeling happy anymore” before vanishing into his new, unencumbered life. The divorce wasnt final, but the marriage was long dead.
“He did,” she said carefully. “But things are different now.”
“Whens Dad coming back?”
The daily question. Emma never had an answer. James saw Emily once a week, scooping her up for a few token hours before returning her like a library book. Every time, Emily hoped *this* visit would be the one where he stayed.
“I dont know, sweetheart. Maybe hell call today.”
As if summoned, her phone buzzed. James.
“Hi,” she answered, striving for calm.
“Hey. Hows Em?”
“Fine. Asking about you, as usual.”
“Right. Listen, we need to talk. Properly.”
His tone was all business, and Emmas stomach knotted.
“About what?”
“Not over the phone. Im coming over. Now.”
“Emilys here.”
“It involves her too.”
He hung up before she could protest. Emma turned to her daughter, still staring wistfully out the window.
“Dads on his way.”
Emilys face lit up. “Really? Is he staying for dinner?”
“I dont know, love. He just wants to talk.”
Emily dashed off to change into her “special occasion” dress, leaving Emma to pace the kitchen. Something was off. James never asked for “serious talks”just custody handovers.
She tidied her hair, swapped her jumper for a clean blouse. Not for *him*, obviously. For herself. Whatever happened, shed face it head-on.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Emily burst out in her frilly blue dress, beaming. “Dads here!”
Emma opened the doorand froze. James stood there in a suit that cost more than her monthly rent, reeking of unfamiliar cologne, radiating smugness. And beside him? A woman. Blonde. Mid-twenties. Wearing *those* heels.
“Hi,” James said, as if this were perfectly normal.
Emmas face burned. Emily peeked around her, eyes wide.
“Dad, whos that?”
“Emily, this is Lucy,” James said, patting her head. “My… girlfriend.”
Lucy flashed a smile so fake it couldve been made of plastic. “Hi, Emily! Your dad talks about you all the time.”
“Can we come in?” James asked. “We really need to chat.”
Emma stepped aside, teeth clenched. Lucys gaze swept over the scuffed furniture, the peeling wallpaper, the crayon art on the wallsher nose wrinkling like shed smelled something foul.
They settled in the lounge. Emily wedged herself beside James, eyeing Lucy with suspicion. Emma sat opposite, back straight.
“So. Whats this about?”
James cleared his throat. “Lucy and I are serious. Were moving in together.”
“Congratulations,” Emma said flatly. “Why tell me?”
“Because we want Emily to live with us.”
The room tilted. Emily gaped at her father. “Live *where*?”
“With us, poppet. Big house, your own room. Youll love it.”
“What about Mum?”
James and Lucy exchanged a glance. Lucy leaned in, oozing faux warmth. “Mum will stay here. Youll have me as your new mum.”
Emilys frown couldve soured milk. “I *have* a mum. I dont want another one.”
“Emily, dont be difficult,” James chided. “You always said you wanted us to live together. Now we can.”
“Not without Mum!”
Emma inhaled sharply. “James. A word. Alone.”
“No secrets,” he said breezily. “Lucys family now.”
“*Family?*” Emmas nails dug into her palms. “You cant just *take* her like a suitcase!”
“No ones treating her like an object,” Lucy cut in. “But be honestshed have a better life with us. We can afford *proper* things.”
Emma stood. “Emily, go to your room.”
“But Mum”
“Now, please.”
Once Emily slunk off, Emma rounded on them. “Have you lost your *mind*? You waltz in here with your… your *upgrade* and announce youre stealing my child?”
“Emma, be reasonable,” James said, all patronising calm. “Look at the facts. Youre working two jobs, barely scraping by. We can give her *everything*.”
Lucy nodded. “And she needs a fathers influence. Stability.”
“*Stability?*” Emma choked. “You abandoned us for a woman half your age, and now youre parenting experts?”
“Hey, cool it,” James snapped. “We grew apart. It happens.”
“*I* didnt grow apart. *You* ran.”
Lucys smile turned venomous. “I wont be insulted in my own”
“Your *what*?” Emma stepped closer. “Tell me, Lucydoes she hate broccoli but love fish fingers? Is she terrified of thunderstorms? Allergic to strawberries? Know how to calm her when she wakes up screaming? *Do you?*”
Lucy faltered. “Ill… learn.”
“Exactly. I *know*. Because Im her *mother*.”
James sighed. “We just want whats best for her.”
“Funny. So do I.”
A whimper came from Emilys room. Emma stormed in to find her daughter curled into a ball, sobbing.
“Sweetheart, whats wrong?”
“I dont want to live with Dad,” Emily hiccuped. “That ladys *mean*.”
“Why?”
“Her eyes are nasty. And she looked at our house like its rubbish.”
Emma held her tight. “Dad loves you, Em. He just wants”
“But *I* want *you*!” Emily clung to her. “Dont let them take me, *please*.”
From the lounge, voices roseJamess smug, Lucys shrill.
“Mum,” Emily whispered, “is our house really bad?”
Emmas chest ached. “Do *you* think its bad?”
Emily glanced aroundher sticker-covered walls, the wonky bookshelf Grandpa built, the drawings taped proudly above her bed.
“Its *cosy*. Their house probably feels like a… a *museum*.”
Emma laughed through tears. “Exactly, love. Cosy beats fancy any day.”
When they returned, James dropped the bomb: “Emilys spending the weekend with us. To adjust.”
“No!” Emily crossed her arms.
“Dont be silly,” Lucy simpered. “Ive got lovely dresses for you. And shoes your size!”
“I *hate* your shoes!”
James glowered. “Emily, *manners*.”
“Take it to court,” Emma said coldly.
James scoffed. “I can afford the best lawyers. Can you?”
“You cant buy her, James.”
“Watch me.”
Later, as Emily slept, Emma stared out the window. The fight ahead would be ugly. But one thing was certain: shed burn the world down before she lost her daughter.
