I thought we were friends, yet youve taken my husband away, Emma shouted, her voice cracking like a cracked teacup. Polly Harper slammed the sketchbook shut with a force that sent the pages fluttering like startled birds. To you its all childish doodles, a frivolous pastime!
Martha Collins pressed her palms to her temples, the migraine that had begun at dawn now drumming a relentless tattoo against the back of her skull. I didnt mean it that way, Polly, she said wearily. Design work is fickleorders today, none tomorrow. Accounting is a steady slice of bread, always there.
Thats your slice of bread, not mine! Polly leapt from her chair, lightning flashing in her eyes. I dont want to spend my life crunching numbers. I want to create, to bring beauty into the world. Aunt Sophie understands me; shes the only one who believes in my talent.
The mention of Sophie made Marthas heart clamp. Again Sophieher best friend from school, the pillar shed leaned on during the darkest years, now becoming more of a mentor to Emma than her own mother.
Sophie lives in a different world, my dear, Martha whispered. She runs a successful boutique, talks of high art, while we scrape by from one paycheck to the next.
Exactly! Polly erupted, snatching her coat and dashing for the door. I cant live like this!
The front door slammed shut, and a ringing hush settled over the cramped twobedroom flat. Martha sank into a chair, cradling her head. Each argument drained her like a leaky bucket. At fortyfive, shed spent the last decade carrying the weight of everything alone. Since Ian, her husband and Emmas father, left with nothing but a pile of unpaid bills and a vague, Sorry, weve grown apart, life had become an endless race for survival. She worked at the local library, took odd jobs typing at night, and denied herself any comfort so Emma would have what she needed.
All the while Sophie lingered in the background. Theyd shared a bench at school, brighteyed Sophie and quiet, homebound Martha. When the divorce hit, it was Sophie who pulled her from the abyssbringing groceries, coaxing her on walks, listening for hours as tears fell like rain. Well get through this, Martha, shed say, wrapping her arms tightly. Hell bite his elbows when he sees what hes lost.
Martha clung to that hope. She rose, brushed herself off, and kept movingfor her daughters sake. Sophie had become almost family, a godmother figure, the Aunt Sophie who always understood.
Martha walked to the window; the city lights of London flickered like distant stars. Somewhere, her hurt daughter roamed, perhaps in Sophie’s cosy studio in Shoreditch, where the air smelled of expensive coffee and hairspray, soft music played, and conversations drifted toward lofty art rather than utility bills.
The kitchen phone buzzed. A text from Sophie flashed on the screen: Emmas with me. Dont worry, Ill talk to her. All will be well. A sting of irritation mixed with gratitude rose in Martha. She was relieved Emma was safe, yet angry that Sophie again assumed the role of peacemaker, as if Martha couldnt handle her own child.
She brewed a cheap tea bag, sat down, and stared at an old framed photograph: three smiling figuresMartha, Ian, and a tiny Emma cradled in her arms, youthful and carefree. How long ago that had been? Iantall, darkhaired, with laugh lines around his eyes, loved jazz, strong coffee, and travel books. He vanished one night, saying he needed solitude, then a week later called to say he wouldnt return.
Sophies voice echoed in Marthas memory, soothing: Hes a fool, Martha, just a fool. Youll meet someone better. Yet Martha never did; her world revolved around Emma.
The following days passed in strained silence. Emma returned from school, ate, and retreated to her room. Martha hesitated to speak, fearing another clash. On Saturday morning, Sophie called.
Hey, Martha! Crisishealthinspection teams due, and my cleaners ill. Could you swing by and help tidy? Ill owe you, and maybe you can patch things up with Emma; she was about to come over.
Martha balked, feeling guilty, but the thought of a neutral space nudged her forward.
Ill be there in an hour, she replied.
Sophies boutique Cleopatra greeted her with mirrored walls and a scent of floral perfume. Sophie, ever immaculate in a sleek trouser suit, met her at the entrance. Martha dear, my saviour! Change into something comfortablejust a quick dustoff and floormopping in the main hall. Ill handle the paperwork. Emma will be here soon.
Martha slipped into a back room, changed into an old Tshirt, and began scrubbing. She didnt envy Sophies success; shed earned it. Yet standing among the glossy décor, she felt her own instability keenly.
She was finishing when Emma appeared, eyeing her with a scowl, mop in hand. We need to talk, Martha said softly.
About what? Dropping my dreams for a boring college? Emma snapped.
No. About us. Marthas words hung in the air.
Sophie emerged, two phones in handher own and Emmas left charging. Girls, dont fight! Martha, dont be mad; shes just a kid with big ambitions. Emma, your mum only wants the best for you. Lets have a cup of tea, shall we? Ill make yours with a dash of cinnamon.
She set the phones on the receptionists desk and drifted to the staff room. Martha exhaled. Nothing seemed to change. Emma buried herself in her phone, while Martha glanced at the two devices. One screen lit up with a brief message from a contact signed simply I. Missing your coffee and you. <3 Marthas heart missed a beat. I. Ian? Impossible. Sophie had once mentioned a complicated, divorced man shed metnothing like her former husband. Hundreds of men named Ian existed. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. The conversation never materialised. They sipped coffee while Sophie chattered about the latest hair trends, Emma nodding, and Martha sitting silent, feeling an invisible wall rise between them. That mysterious text replayed in her mind. Later, she pulled an old address book, found Ians number she hadnt dialled in years. Hello, its me. How are you? she thought, then put the phone down. A few days later, Sophie invited them to the cinema. In the dim hall, a romcom unfolded as Martha watched Sophies fingers twitch on her phone, quickly typing. A familiar initial I. appeared on the screen. After the film they stopped at a café. Martha, Im thrilled! Sophie exclaimed, stirring sugar into her tea. I think Im truly in love. Hes reliable, intelligentlike a stone wall. Were happy for you, Aunt Sophie, Emma replied. Who is he? Do we know him? No, not from our circle, Sophie replied hastily. We met by chance. Hes recently returned to the city after years up north. North Ian had taken a rotational job in a remote oil town after the split. The coincidence was eerie. A chill ran down Marthas spine. Whats his name? she asked, voice flat. Ian, Sophie answered, then changed the subject. Emma, theres a renowned art school advertising prep courses. Want to try? I can pay. Marthas thoughts spiralled. Ian, the same Ian who had once been her husband, now appearing in Sophies lifeher confidante, her lifeline after divorce. The picture, once a vague sketch, now bore sharp, grotesque edges. Sophies encouragement of Emmas lofty dreams suddenly seemed a ploy to snatch what shed taken from Martha. Mom, whats wrong? Emmas voice cut through her stupor. You look pale. Nothing, Martha muttered. Just a headache. Lets go home. At home, she locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the tap, and let the water drown her sobs. The tears were bitter, scorching. It wasnt just betrayal by a lover; it was the sting of a friendship ripped apart, the death of a man shed once loved, the crumbling of naive trust. She needed to act, but how? A public scandal? An accusation? Too simple, too humiliating. She decided to wait for undeniable proof. A week later, Sophies birthday came. She threw a party at a countryside restaurant and, of course, invited Martha and Emma. Dont miss it, Martha! she chirped over the phone. Ill introduce you to my Ian. Youll love him! Martha felt the air thin. Fine, well be there, she replied. The day passed in a fog. She chose a dress, did her hair, applied makeup, and stared at herself in the mirror, seeing a strangers face with feverish, glittering eyes. Emma, unaware, twirled nearby, excitement bright in her eyes. The restaurant was opulentlive piano, white linens, guests in elegant attire. Sophie, radiant in a silver gown, flitted from guest to guest. Spotting Martha, she beamed. Finally! Come in, my dears! Martha, you look stunning! Let me introduce you Ian! She called out. Ian arrived, older, with silver at his temples, yet the same eyes. He froze upon seeing Martha. A swirl of emotions crossed his facesurprise, fear, shame. Martha? he stammered. Good afternoon, she replied coldly, meeting his gaze. Sophie, flustered, shuffled between them. You you know each other? More than you know, Martha said with a bitter smile. Hes my exhusband. Emmas father. Silence settled over the room; the piano seemed to hold its breath. Guests watched the trio. Sophies face turned ashen. Emmas eyes darted between mother, father, and her beloved Aunt Sophie, bewildered. Mom, is this true? she whispered. Yes, love. Hes your dad. Martha stepped toward Sophie, who clutched Ians arm as if fearing he would vanish. Happy birthday, dear, Martha said quietly. I thought we were friends. Turns out youve been comforting me while stealing what I lost. Was it easy? Courting my husband behind my back? Giving me advice while committing the very betrayal you warned me against? Sophie stammered, I I didnt know how to say it. It just happened We met six months ago, he never mentioned Hes your friends husband? Martha snapped. You knew everything. She turned to Ian. Youre nothing but a coward. You fled one woman, ran to another. Nothing changes. Grabbing Emmas hand, she looked into her daughters tearfilled eyes. Lets leave, love. We dont belong here. They walked out amid astonished glances. At the doorway, Sophie stood alone, bewildered, while Ian lowered his head, avoiding their sight. The ride home was silent. In the flat, Emma broke down. Mom, how could Aunt Sophie? And dad? Martha held her, stroking her hair. Shh, sweetheart. People sometimes do terrible things, even those we love. What matters is that we have each other. That night they lingered at the kitchen table, Martha recounting her life with Ian, her friendship with Sophie, sparing no detail. Emma listened, her childish hurt softening into adult understanding. Soon after, Sophie cut off contact. Martha ignored the flood of apologetic messages, deleting them without reading. A few days later Ian appeared at their door. Martha, we need to talk, he said, eyes downcast. We have nothing to discuss, she replied sharply. Leave. But Emmashes my daughter! You only remembered that now? Ten years you ignored her. Go, Ian. Dont come back. She slammed the door, leaning against it, heart racingnot from pain, but relief. The heavy stone shed carried for years finally dropped. Life moved on, uneasy but possible. The void left by Sophies absence was hard to fill. Occasionally, her hand reached for the phone at night, yearning for a familiar voice, but she brushed the impulse aside. Her bond with Emma deepened; they became inseparable. Emma grew up quickly, stopped demanding the impossible, helped around the house, and found a modest sidejob drawing portraits for online commissions. One evening Emma placed a bundle of cash on the kitchen table. Here, Mum. Its for the art course. I earned it myself. Martha looked at her daughters serious, adult face, tears welling. Youre my pride, she whispered. No, Mum, youre mine, Emma replied, hugging her tightly. Youre the strongest. Martha held Emma, realizing she hadnt lost everything. Shed lost a friend and an illusion, but shed gained something far richerher childs respect and love. The road ahead would be hard, honest, and together they would walk it, side by side.
