The doorbell rang.
“Dad, I’ll get it – it’s Mum!” Twelve-year-old James put his controller on the sofa and ran to the hallway.
The locks on the new metal door turned stiffly. I had to push hard on the handle to twist the key. Behind the door stood Sarah, a bag from an electronics shop in her hand. For five years she hadn’t shown up at all. The child maintenance she paid was tiny because it was calculated from the minimum official wage. But now she stood there in a new suede jacket, smiling.
“Hello, owners!” Sarah stepped into the hallway and nearly tripped over a shoebox that hadn’t been put away yet. “Hi, James! Look what I brought you. It’s the latest model – hard to find in the shops.”
James was surprised. Over the last five years Sarah had only sent brief messages twice a year – on his birthday and at Christmas. Sometimes she’d transfer fifteen pounds. James understood his mother wasn’t interested in him and hadn’t expected such an expensive gift.
“Why are you here, Sarah?” I asked quietly. I felt uneasy because an unexpected visit from an ex-wife usually means trouble.
“Why? To see my son!” Sarah put the box on the shoe rack and started taking off her boots. “I heard you moved. Nice area, new block. Well done, David – you’ve sorted yourself out. Make me a cup of tea, please. We need to talk seriously about our son’s future.”
It had been tough for me to buy this flat. For five years I’d scrimped, worked two roles at a logistics company and done reports late into the night. I saved every pound I could. I didn’t take holidays, didn’t buy new clothes, didn’t go to cafés. A two-bedroom flat on the outskirts of London in a new-build seemed impossible. But the developer handed over the building ahead of time, and we moved in.
I immediately put the property in James’s name so he’d have his own home in the future, safe from any problems. All my relatives and friends knew about it and were pleased. But Sarah somehow found out about the purchase, too.
“Come into the kitchen,” I said, not wanting to argue in front of James. “James, go to your room and open your present. Your mum and I need to talk.”
James took the box and disappeared into his room. The kitchen still smelled of materials from the recent renovation and new furniture. The cabinets were from Ikea, assembled by my brother. Sarah sat on a stool, put her elbows on the table and looked around.
“Yeah, not bad,” she said. “About sixty square metres? Big kitchen. How much does a place like this cost now? Eighty thousand pounds?”
“Ninety thousand,” I answered, filling the kettle. “And I earned every penny myself. I also used the child trust fund, and my parents helped a bit. You’ve got nothing to do with this flat.”
“David, why do you get angry straight away?” Sarah shook her head. “We got divorced – it happens. We were young and made mistakes. But we only have one son. I’ve been working all these years too, building my business. My income is much higher now. I came to see how my child lives.”
I listened, amazed at her cheek. When we left her one-bedroom flat – which belonged to her mother – Sarah checked our bags to see if I’d taken anything extra. She even took the blender my parents gave us as a wedding present. Back then it hurt; now I just felt disgust.
“You’ve seen it. Drink your tea and go. We’re busy,” I said, putting a cheap teabag cup in front of her. We’d got used to saving on everything – good tea was a luxury.
***
Sarah pulled the cup closer but didn’t drink. She put on a serious face and leaned across the table.
“David, I came on business. Someone told me you put the flat in James’s name. So he’s the sole owner. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is. Why does that bother you?”
“Honestly, you’ve been daft!” Sarah seemed shocked. “That’s financially reckless. He’s only twelve. Do you realise how risky it is? If something happens to you, there’ll be problems with social services and courts. Plus, giving a child everything on a plate spoils him. He won’t appreciate anything.”
“I don’t need your advice on raising our son,” I said, gripping the table edge to calm my anger. “For five years you didn’t care whether he was spoiled. I bought shoes a size too big so they’d last, and took second-hand jackets from friends. Where were you then with your financial wisdom?”
“Alright, no need to fight,” Sarah raised her hands. “I want the best for you both. I’ve got a good plan for making money from that square footage.”
“My company is opening a new logistics branch. I need capital for expansion. We could take out a large loan secured against the flat. Or we could sell this two-bedroom, invest the money in the business, and in a year I’ll buy James a three-bedroom flat in the city centre. We’d earn fifty per cent per annum.”
I listened, unable to believe what I was hearing. This woman had come to take her own son’s only home and pour the money into her risky venture.
“Are you out of your mind?” I whispered, so James wouldn’t hear. “The flat belongs to a minor. No bank will lend against a minor’s property. And social services won’t allow a sale unless you immediately buy James another home that’s at least as good.”
Sarah smiled.
“David, that’s no problem. I know lawyers who can work the system. We can get around social services. We temporarily register James at my mother’s place in Norfolk – the cottage is big enough to meet the regulations. Then we transfer the flat to you or me, and use it for deals. I’ve done the maths. We can operate as business partners for James’s sake.”
Just then James came into the kitchen. He held the new tablet and smiled happily.
“Mum, thanks so much! It’s really fast. Can you help me set up my profile? My old phone can’t handle the apps anymore.”
Sarah instantly changed her tone and spoke very warmly:
“Of course, son! We’ll sort it out right now. I’ll always help you, remember that. We’ll see each other often now. In fact, I’m thinking I should move in with you. There’s plenty of space – we’ll have fun together. I’ll help with your homework and sign you up for a sports club.”
I felt sick. I saw her real goal. She didn’t just want the money from the flat – she’d decided to come back because we now owned something valuable. Five years ago she’d thrown us out with one suitcase, saying she was tired of a crying baby and my exhausted face. Now that James was older and I had my own flat in London, she wanted to claim her fatherly rights.
“James, go to your room,” I said as calmly as I could. “Your mum and I will finish talking, and she’ll come to you.”
He nodded and left. Sarah looked at me with confidence.
“See how the boy treats me? He needs a mother’s influence. You’re raising him alone – you look pale and tired from work. Accept my offer, David. I’ll come back into the family, and we’ll live properly. We’ll use the flat for business and make a lot of money. You can quit that hard job and look after the house.”
“Your mother lives in an old wooden cottage in Norfolk that’s falling apart,” I said, looking straight at her.
“You want to deregister our son from a new London flat and register him in a house without central heating? All so you can take out a loan and waste it on your projects? I remember your previous ideas – coffee vending machines and selling car parts. Those left only debts, which my parents paid off so the bailiffs wouldn’t take our appliances.”
Sarah stopped smiling. Her face hardened, her lips tightened.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” she said loudly. “I’m his mother! I have a legal right to raise my son. If I go to court to have him live with me, you’ll find it very difficult. My official income is three times yours. Social services will see that you work two jobs and spend little time with your child, while I have a flexible schedule and plenty of financial resources.”
I felt both amused and disgusted by the threats. Five years ago I would have been scared, cried, and begged her not to do it. But over those years I’d worked hard and lost my fear. I’d learned to handle debt collectors after Sarah left me with her unpaid payday loans. I’d learned to fill out forms and deal with government officials.
“Go ahead and take me to court,” I said calmly, pouring myself a glass of water. “File your petition. The judge will be very surprised when they see your arrears in child maintenance. How much do you owe from last year? Three thousand pounds? The court enforcement database is public, Sarah. Your new jacket and your son’s present look nice. But the law protects parents who support their child every day, not once every five years.”
Sarah stood up quickly. All her arrogance had vanished.
“You’re just jealous that I’m doing well now!” she shouted. “Stay in your little flat and rot here alone. Do you think you’ll succeed? James will grow up and come to live with me because you can’t give him anything except this flat!”
“Get out, Sarah,” I said, opening the front door. “And take your tablet with you. We’ve lived without your presents for five years, and we’ll manage without them.”
Sarah went into James’s room and took the box from the bewildered boy.
“You people don’t know how to appreciate nice things!” she yelled as she put on her shoes by the door. “You won’t get another penny from me. You’ll come begging for help when you can’t pay the bills!”
The front door slammed shut. The hallway fell silent. James came out of his room, crying. He was upset about losing the tablet, but he understood the situation. He walked over, wrapped his arms around my waist and hugged me.
“Dad, it’s okay. I can manage with my old phone. The main thing is we’ve got our new flat.”
I stroked his head. I had no more hopes for that woman. We could live on our own, without her dangerous plans and her sudden desire to be a mother – a desire that would have cost us dearly.
