“My House Was Given Away First”
“Mum, he broke my helicopter!”
I’m standing by the window with a glass of juice, watching the first October leaves swirling outside. I hear Charlies voice float in from the living room before I even have a chance to turn around. Hes seven. Seven, but hes already got the pitch of an adult when he feels truly wronged.
“No ones broken anything, dont be silly,” comes Mrs Margaret Wilkins’ voice from the other room. Level, ruler-straight, not a single crack in her tone.
I step out from the kitchen. Charlie is in the centre of the lounge, clutching his red and blue plastic helicopter to his chest. The blades spin when you press a button. We bought it together, back in August. He wouldnt let go for three days, fell asleep with it in his arms.
“Give me the toy,” Mrs Wilkins says and reaches for the helicopter. Her hand is bony, a gold band glinting on her ring finger.
“Its mine,” Charlie saysnot shouts, just says, quiet and steady, the way children do when theyre frightened but trying not to show it.
“Mrs Wilkins,” I step forward, “thats his present. We chose it together.”
She looks at me with that hollow look Ive become familiar with over ten years. Not angryempty. As if Im a lamp or a chair thats suddenly found a voice.
“Emily, please dont interfere. The toy was bought with Simons money. So, it belongs to the family.”
“But Charlie is family.”
“Im talking about another family.”
Just like that. Calm and direct. It takes a moment for me to process. I stand there, mind foggy, and repeat her words to myself: another family. In the next room, the anniversary table is set. White tablecloth I spent two hours ironing, crystal glasses from my grandmother. Ten years. Today is exactly ten years since Simon and I married.
“Give me the helicopter,” Mrs Wilkins says again, suddenly yanking the toy from Charlies hands.
Charlie cries. Not a tantrumjust steady tears, as if someones turned on the tap. He looks at his empty palms.
I lead my son into his room and sit him on his bed. He nuzzles into my side, sobbing quietly. I stroke his hair, thinking I should go back out and say something. Something strong. A line in the sand. But I havent found the right words in a decade.
“Mum, why does she want my helicopter?”
“I dont know, sweetheart.”
“Is she mean?”
I hesitate.
“Shes… different,” I say finally. “Just different.”
He doesnt believe me. I can see it in his frown. Children sense a lie long before adults, even if they cant name it.
Simon returns just after half two. I hear the click of the front door, muffled words to his mother in the hallway. Quick, low. His footsteps in the hall. Im stirring soup on the hob, though its long since ready.
“Em, everything alright?”
“Your mum took Charlies helicopter.”
A pause. I dont look around.
“Did she say why?”
“Said its for another family.”
Another, longer pause.
“Youve misunderstood, Im sure.”
Now I turn. He stands in the kitchen doorway, coat still on, eyes unfocused, not looking at me.
“Simon, what does another family mean?”
“Emily, not today. Todays our anniversary. Not now.”
“Exactly now.”
He finally looks at me. Theres something in his eyes. Not guiltweariness. Like someone whos finally dropped a heavy load.
“Ill ring you from the study,” he says, and leaves.
I watch the door close. The soup cools forgotten on the cooker. In the dining room, Mrs Wilkins is rearranging something on the table. The clink of plates, ordinary sounds of an ordinary day. But something inside me shifts, slow and unstoppable, like earth before a landslide.
Simon and I married when I was twenty-eight. I worked as an accountant at a small construction firm; he sourced building materials. We met at a corporate do, both there by accident. He was three years older, calm, not given to many wordswhat people call reliable. Thats what I wanted. After my father, a solicitor who forever championed everyones cause but ours, I wanted something simple: someone who came home, shared supper, and didnt vanish.
Mrs Wilkins and I… We never quarrelled; we simply never clicked. From day one, she treated me as something passing. Weather, soon to change. I thought it just a mother-in-law thing. Everyone told me: “Theyre all like that, nothing personal.” I believed it.
Charlie was born in year three of the marriage. Difficult labour, long recovery. Simon was there. Stayed late at hospital, fetched food, sat with me through the sleepless nights. And I thought: this is itwhat its all for, the tiny person tying us together.
Mrs Wilkins came to see her grandson, looked and said, “Oh, a boy,” then left. Didnt visit again that year.
Then life changed. Simon travelled moreconferences, meetings, contracts. I didnt mind. I worked, raised our son, kept the house. We lived on the edge of Guildford, in the two-story house wed bought togetheror rather, Id paid for it most, as Simon was struggling workwise. He said it was temporary. I agreed. I always agreed.
By year five, Mrs Wilkins fell seriously ill with a heart problem. Simon said she needed expensive treatment. “Its too much for me alone.” I handed over a good chunk of my savings, then more. Then there was a cousin needing an operation. I cant even remember who or why now. I just handed it over. For family, for us. I believed.
The anniversary table that October evening looked beautiful. Id made an effort. Roast, salads, a cake from a bakery in town, candles. When you set a table for ten years of marriage, you want it to matter.
No guests. Simon said he was tired of crowds, wanted just us. I agreed yet again. There was just Simon, me and Mrs Wilkins. Charlie had eaten earlier and retreated to his roomafter the helicopter trouble, he wanted no part of dinner, and I didnt force him.
Conversation didnt flow. Mrs Wilkins sat silently, the way people do when theyre waiting for something. Simon drank water, tapped his phone. I picked at my food, thinking: ten years is a lot. You can learn and forgive much in ten years. Perhaps this is what normal looks like.
Thats when the doorbell rang.
Simon was on his feet firstfar too quick. I noticed; he moved as if hed been waiting. He headed to the hall. The door opened. Womens voices: one adult, one child. Mrs Wilkins set down her glass and stood up too.
“Theyve come,” she muttered, clear enough for me to hear.
“Whos come?”
She didnt answer. Went to the hall. I remained, the only one at the anniversary table, with its candles, crystal glasses, and a bakery cake.
Eventually, I followed.
Standing in the hallway was a womanmaybe thirty-five, petite, brunette, beige coat. Pretty. I register this instantly, unintentionally. Pretty. By her side, a tall boy, broad-shouldered for twelve, blond. Simons chin, Simons cheekbones. Eyes Ive seen across breakfast for a decade.
I look at this boy, and white noise fills my mind again.
“This is Anna,” Simon saysto the room, not to me.
Mrs Wilkins places a gentle hand on the boys shouldertender, careful, so unlike how shes ever been with Charlie.
“And this is our Peter,” she says. Theres warmth in her voice Ive never heard.
Anna glances at meneither hostile nor friendly. Just watching, a little wary, as though stepping into someone elses lounge and not sure where to stand.
“Emily,” Simon says, “we need to talk.”
“Alright,” I hear my voice replysteady, but unfamiliar, as though someone else is using it. “Lets talk.”
We go into the lounge and sit. Anna stays in the hall with Peter; Mrs Wilkins stands by the window, arms foldedsomeone whos made her decisions.
“Peter,” Simon starts, “is my son. Hes twelve.”
I do the maths. Two years before our marriage. Or thereabouts.
“His mother, Anna. We were together before you. For a long time.”
“And after,” I say.
He doesnt argue. Which is answer enough.
“We never really ended things,” he finally admits. “I cant explain… we just didnt.”
“You supported her.”
“Yes.”
“All these years.”
“Yes.”
“With my money.”
A long silence. Mrs Wilkins doesnt move.
“Its more complicated than you realise, Emily.”
“Try me. Ive got ten years. Explain.”
He rambles about Anna being his first love. How Peters birth was unexpected. He couldnt leave his child, he says, hesitating. The money Id handed over for Mrs Wilkins treatment partly went to Annanot all, but enough. Then the houseour housewas put in Mrs Wilkins name last year, with Simons authority. To safeguard it.
“Safe from what?”
“From a potential divorce settlement,” he admits.
I look at himthe man I spent ten years with. Who ate at my table, held my hand through childbirth, told me everything was alright.
“Does Charlie know?” I ask.
“No. Hes just a boy.”
“Hes seven. Cried today over the helicopter your mother gave to another child, and he understood enough. He just didnt know the words.”
Finally, Mrs Wilkins speaks.
“Emily, listen to me. Peter is the heir. The true heir. Firstborn son. You must understand.”
“Charlie is your grandson too.”
“Charlies different. Peter is the eldest. He carries the family blood, as a rightful heir should. We had to make it right.”
“Make it right,” I repeat. Words sound correct, but the meaning is hollow. “At my expense.”
“Things are complicated.”
“Notheyre lies. Its fraud.”
“Emily”
“And deception. The money I sent for treatment. The paperwork for the house. Its called fraud.”
Mrs Wilkins mouth tightens; a hard glint in her eyes.
“You wont prove anything. The documents are legal. You gave the money willingly; no one forced you.”
“I was deceived.”
“Prove it.”
Something in me shiftsslowly, not in a flash. Like eyes adjusting to darkness. Something stops being warm and turns coldcalm, clear, like spring water.
“Alright,” I say. “Fine.”
I stand, walk to the hall. Anna is there with Peter. The boy is examining the helicopterMrs Wilkins must have pressed it into his hands. Charlies helicopter.
“May I have that?” I say to the boy.
He hesitates, but hands it over. Children always do if you say it firmly enough.
I walk the toy to Charlie.
Hes lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. When I come in, he turns his head.
“Here you go,” I say, holding out the helicopter.
His eyes go from the toy to me.
“Mum, who are those people?”
“Guests.”
“Are they staying?”
“No,” I say. “Not for long.”
I return to the living room. Simon and his mother are sitting together now. Anna stands in the doorway. We all look at one another. A strange playfour grown-ups in a house, now not mine.
“Well then,” Mrs Wilkins announces, rising. Theres finality in her movement; she seems taller now. “We all need to discuss this sensibly. Emily, youre smart. You know causing a scene helps no one. Its better to agree terms.”
“Terms?”
“You leavewith Charlie. Well give you three months to find somewhere. Simon will pay maintenance, of course. But the house remains here. Peter finally gets the home hes missed. Its fair.”
I stare at her.
“You want me out of my own house?”
“Its not yours anymore, darling. The paperwork is watertight.”
“You forged the documents.”
“Nothings forged. Simon signed everything himself.”
“Simon,” I turn to my husband. “You want us to leave?”
He gazes at his lap.
“Simon.”
“Emilyits for the best, for everyone.”
“For everyone but Charlie and me.”
“Well look after the boy”
“As you have these last years? By giving away his toys?”
“Its a small thing.”
“Not to a seven-year-old.”
Anna speaks quietly from the doorway. “Shes right.”
Everyone looks at her. She studies the carpet.
“About the boy. What happened was wrong.”
“Anna,” Mrs Wilkins snaps, “stay out of this.”
“Im only speaking.”
“I saiddont interfere.”
Anna is silent, but somethings changed in her facea shift I notice, and remember.
I pack Charlies things in ten minutes: a backpack, his favourite dinosaur book, the helicopter, a change of clothes. The house is silent as I pack. No one helps. No one says goodbye.
We leave through the front door. I dont slam it; I just close it, soft and careful.
Its October outside. Leaves crunch underfoot. Charlie walks beside me, quiet, then asks:
“Mum, are we going to Grandma Ninas?”
“No,” I say. “A hotel for now.”
“And after?”
“Well see.”
He nods, with that seriousness children have when they know they must accept something they dont yet grasp.
The taxi ride is quiet. I watch out the window, not thinking about whats just happenedthere arent words for it yet. Instead, I think about logistics: the deed, the money, the house partly bought with savings Id scraped together over eight years before marriage. I remember something in law about transactions made under deception being void. I have evidencebank statements, payment receipts.
And I remember Dad.
DadJames Robert Carter, solicitor for thirty-five years. We havent spoken in three years, ever since Simon and he had a row at Sunday lunch. I took Simons side. You do that when youre in loveeven when theyre wrong. Afterwards, Simon grew cold whenever my father came up. Eventually I stopped calling. Three years of silence. Dad tried for months, then gave up. Maybe he was hurt. Or just respected my choice.
At the hotel, I tuck Charlie in, then sit staring at my phone. Dads number is still saved. Three years is a long time. He might not answer. Might have moved on. He might say, “Told you so,” and hed be rightbut I cant bear that now.
I think of Charliesleeping, gripping his helicopter. I dial.
Dad answers on the second ring.
“Emily?”
“Dad,” I say. Its all I can manage.
Pause. Then his voice, gruff as I remember:
“Where are you?”
“In a hotel in Woking.”
“Alone?”
“With Charlie.”
“Whats happened?”
“A lot. Ill explain everything. I need your helplegally.”
“Come to me,” he says. No questions, no recriminations. “Now. Im awake.”
I never expected it to be so simple. Three years of separation, and he just says: come.
Another hour in a taxi, Charlie asleep on the backseat. Dad lives in London, in the same Putney flat I grew up in. He opens the door himself, wearing old cords and a faded jumper. Hes a bit older. His hair is nearly all grey now. The eyes are the same.
He hugs me. Brief, strongthe way people do who arent used to displays, but know how to make you feel steadier.
“Come in. Put Charlie on the sofatheres a throw over it.”
We sit at the kitchen table, and I tell him everything. From the money, the bogus treatments, the transfer of the house, Anna, Peter, and Mrs Wilkins giving away Charlies helicopter. Dad listens, only making notes in his battered notebook.
When I finish, he thinks.
“Do you have the house purchase documents?”
“Should do. Havent looked in years, but yes.”
“Proof of bank transfers?”
“Some on my phone. Some in my statements.”
“Marriage certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says. “Listen carefully. A deed transferring jointly owned property during marriage, without both spouses witnessed consent, is void. Its clear in the law. Your home is marital propertyno dodgy paperwork will change that. You’ll get it back. Might take months in court, but youll get it.”
“How long?”
“Three, four months, if you make the case right.”
I look at him.
“Dad, I havent called you in three years.”
“I know.”
“Im sorry.”
He gives me that direct, lawyerly lookno soft edges.
“Youre grown now, Emily. You made your choice. Your right to. Now, a new situation. You need help. And Ill help you. Simple as that.”
“You dont resent me?”
“Ill think about that later. First, lets sort the house.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
The next two days, I live at Dads, sorting paperwork, calling banks, requesting statements. Dad drafts our case, writes up letters. Charlie wanders the big flat, stocking up on fresh memories. He barely knows his grandfather; they take to one another, bonding over chess lessons.
On the third day, I go to the house aloneDad warns against it, but I need more documents, photos, a few of Charlies things.
The house sits quietSimons car isnt there. Mr Wilkins opens the door.
“Why are you here?”
“Collecting a few things.”
“Anything else?”
“Just our things.”
She lets me in. TV echoes from the lounge. I look for my desk, find the right drawertheres the marriage certificate, the purchase agreement, the receipts. I bundle them.
Then a lower drawer, slightly ajar, catches my eye. I dont know why I open it. Just do.
There are bank statementsnot mine. For Margaret Wilkins. Letters folded together. A white envelope. I pull it outa notice from HMRC, the tax office, regarding unexplained overseas transactions. The figures are staggering. This isnt just about me; its systematic transfer of assets through front companies, over years. The dates match periods I was sending money “for treatment”.
Mrs Wilkins appears at the study door.
“What are you doing?”
I look at her.
“You cheated more than just me,” I say. “Youve moved money offshore. HMRC is onto you.”
Her face changesfor the first time in ten years, I see something besides that chilly calm. Not fear exactlysomething deeper. She says softly, “Put those back.”
“No,” I reply.
I add the papers to my bag, brush past her in the hall, and take my old coat from the peg.
“Emily,” she says, her tone switched, “you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I do,” I reply. And leave.
Dad studies the documents and HMRC letter for two hours. Paces between rooms, makes calls, returns again. I wait, listening to Charlie chatting to Dads cat in the corridor.
“Emily,” Dad calls.
I join him.
“This is very serious,” he says, hand on the paperwork. “It goes beyond tax evasion. Sustained fraud, three companies, all registered under false names. The taxmans just begunour evidence is the missing link. This is a serious weapon for our side.”
“In what way?”
“In criminal courtits fraud and evasion. The moment we submit this with our claim, everything changes. Mrs Wilkins goes from turfing you out, to facing a criminal investigation. That changes everything.”
“Did Simon know?”
“Hard to say. Maybe not allmaybe enough. The court will have to establish that.”
“I need to move back inwith legal paperwork.”
“Well get bailiffs, and an order to freeze everything until court. Give it three days.”
“Alright. I can wait three more days.”
Dad studies me.
“You alright?”
“Im alright,” I sayand, weirdly, its true. Not good. Just alright. Theres a difference.
Those three days, I think a lot. At night, while Charlie sleeps, I run over everything. Not about Simon; about myself. How Id trained myself not to see, to re-label awkward things as sensiblemoney for medicine, work trips, Mrs Wilkins coldness, absences at parties. All the signs, woven into a pattern I refused to admit because seeing it hurt, because it demolished everything I believed.
I dont blame myselfwell, not for long. Trusting those you love isnt weaknessits human nature.
I think of Annaher face in the hallway, saying, “Shes right,” about the boy. Whats her story? Twelve years as the other woman. Secret life. Money arriving from someone elses account. A son without a father at home. A different version of a rubbish deal.
On the fourth day, I call Anna. Dad has tracked down her number.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Its Emily. Simons wifeex-wife,” I add.
She pauses. “I’m listening.”
“Anna, I need to ask you plainly. Did you know the money Simon gave you wasnt his?”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of it was minemy savings, handed over for Mrs Wilkins treatment.”
A long pause.
“No,” Anna finally says. “I didnt. Simon always said the money was from his business.”
“Would you confirm that officially?”
“Why?”
“Because Mrs Wilkins will probably try to pin the money trail anywhere but herselfincluding you. If you received payments through her, you could get dragged in.”
Long silence.
“She never told me,” Anna says, voice growing tense. “She said they were just transfers. Living money.”
“Through offshore companies?”
“I never asked. Money just came through.”
“Anna, Im not your enemy. I know youve been used too. But if this goes to courtand it willyoull need to be clear about your involvement, on record.”
“You want me to speak against her?”
“I want you to tell the truthwhat you knew, what you didn’t. Its in your interests more than mine.”
More silence.
“I need to think,” Anna says.
“Alright. Take Dads numberhes our lawyer. He can explain where you stand.”
I give her the number and hang up.
Dad gives me a lookold hands giving ground to younger brains.
“You called her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She stood up for Charlie. Shes got something real about her. And shes scared. Scared people who want to do right make good witnesses sometimes.”
“Youre thinking like a solicitor,” he says.
“Im your daughter,” I reply.
He smilesfor the first time in days.
Anna calls Dad the next day. They speak for a long time. Dad emerges with a full page in his notebook.
“Shes giving evidence,” he tells me. “Voluntarily. On all three points: receiving money, transfers through Mrs Wilkins, and the arrangements.”
“Does she know what that means?”
“Shes weighed down by it. She was heavily controlledwhere she went, who with, even how Peter dressed. Mrs Wilkins saw Peter as useful, not as a child.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
“Emily?”
“Yes?”
“Do you pity her?”
I think.
“A bit. But pity wont stop me.”
“Good. Exactly right.”
We head to the house a week later: Dad, two bailiffs, and me. Its one of those grey London autumn days. Charlie stays with Dads neighbour, who makes him biscuits and lets him watch telly.
We park outside. I look at the front steps. Eight years going up and down them. Spring, autumn, with Charlie in my arms, bags of shopping, bunches of flowers from the garden. This was my houseI poured years, energy, and savings into it.
“Ready?” Dad asks.
“Ready,” I say.
Simon opens the doorhes clearly unprepared for bailiffs and paperwork. For Dad.
“Whats this?”
“Bailiffs order,” one officer says. “Were freezing property under the courts direction. Please dont interfere.”
Simon glances at me.
“Emily…”
“Let us in, Simon.”
He stands aside. Inside, Mrs Wilkins is waiting. She recognises Dadthey met at our wedding, and over the years, but this is different now.
“James Carter,” she says neutrally, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Mrs Wilkins,” Dad replies.
In the lounge sits Anna, and Peter beside her. He looks up, book in hand.
“Anna,” Mrs Wilkins says: part question, part accusation. “You brought them?”
“I gave evidence. Not the same,” Anna replies.
“You betrayed us.”
Anna holds her look. “You lied to me for twelve years. Promised we were protected. Peter too. We were just tools, like Emily.”
She indicates me. We lock eyes. Two women on opposite sides of the same wall, but, perhaps, really the same side after all.
“You dont know what youre doing,” Mrs Wilkins says, clipped.
“I do,” Anna replies.
“Youll get nothingno rights, no documents.”
“I have a son. And a solicitor now.”
Mrs Wilkins heads for her, resolute. I move, but Dads there first.
“Lets remain calm,” he says, glancing at the bailiffs. “Any untoward action will be logged.”
Mrs Wilkins halts, breathless. Peters watching, open-mouthed.
Simon stands by the wall, silent. I stare at this man I lived alongsidewho lived two lives as easily as if nothing was amiss.
“Simon,” I say. “You do understand whats happening legally?”
“I do.”
“Your mother laundered money. Some of it was mine. Thats fraud.”
“I didnt know about the offshore accounts.”
“Maybe. The court will decide.”
He finally meets my gaze for the first time in weeks. “I never wanted it to come to this.”
“It came to this because of what you didevery day,” I say.
He has no answer.
The bailiffs inventory items, scan documents. Dad oversees everything. I pack up whats mine: photos, the glasses from my grandmother, Charlies drawings from his wall, a stack of books.
Mrs Wilkins, from her chair, says: “Youre breaking up a family.”
I dont turn.
“This family broke long ago,” I reply quietly.
“Peterare you considering him? Hes still a child.”
“And Charlie is my son. He had a grannyonce.”
She says nothing.
Anna approaches as I collect the family pictures.
“Im sorry,” she says softly.
“For what in particular?”
“For all of it. For not thinking about you.”
“You didnt know enough about me.”
“I knew he was married,” she admits.
“Thank you for saying that. It’s honest.”
“What happens to Peter?” Her voice is tight. Protective.
“I dont know. But if youve been honest, and now have a solicitor, no one can take away your rights as his mother.”
“He needs a father.”
“Lots of kids do. It doesnt always work out.”
She nods and goes back to Peter, taking his hand. They lean together.
I watch them and think of Charliehell be eating biscuits, working out chess moves. How, and when, Ill explain this all to him, I dont yet know. Some truths you can only tell a child when theyre ready.
As we depart, Mrs Wilkins stands. Straightens. Shes as tall and upright as the day we met.
“Youll never win,” she says.
“Im not playing a game,” I answer. “Im just reclaiming whats mine.”
Dad holds the door. The bailiff carries a box of documents. I carry a bag of photos and crystal glasses.
On the steps, I pause, glancing at the apple tree near the fence out frontmostly bare, a few yellow leaves clinging on. We planted it five years after moving in. Charlie was two; he poked the soil, declaring, “Itll grow apples.” And I laughed.
The tree will grow on without me, and bear fruit. Someone else will pick it.
I walk down the path to the car.
“You alright?” Dad asks.
“I am,” I reply.
We go to collect Charlie. On the way, Dad talks through the next stepstiming, court, how Mrs Wilkinss case could go nationwide, given the sums involved. Dads already called the police economic crime unit; the criminal process is underway. Simon will have to account for signing documents he knew werent above board.
“Could he lose everything?” I ask.
“At best, a fine; at worst, jail time, if its found he knew enough. The court will decide.”
“I dont want revenge,” I say. “Just the legal share of my house, and fairness over the money.”
“Youll get half the houseeither a buyout or you sell and split the sale. Itll work out.”
Charlie opens the door at Dads neighbours, clutching a wooden chess pawn.
“Mum, Grandpa taught me the knights move.”
“Thats important,” Grandpa says, serious.
Charlie laughs.
I watch the two of them, and the tightness inside me eases, just a little. Not all the wayjust a crack, like a window opened a notch to let in air.
On the drive to London, Charlie chatters about knights and pawns and how Grandpa says you should always think three moves ahead. I listen, gaze out the windowtrees, fields, terrace houses, shops.
I dont dwell on specifics. Just the vague sense: ahead is court, division of property, child support for Charliewhat he deserves, whatever happened between Simon and me. A criminal case for Mrs Wilkins will unfold; Simon will answer for his part. Thats his path, not mine.
Ill find a new place for us. For once, I feel steadyget a flat at first, maybe. Sort things out. Ive got some money and a job. My fathers support.
I dont hate Simon. Odd, but there it is. I expected rage, but feel only fatigue and resignationsadness for what I thought was true. Hatred would take energy I simply dont have. That energy is needed elsewhere.
I think of Anna and Petertheir world isnt stable, either. Peters lost his patchwork version of security, Anna her crutches. Ive no spite for themlife has handed them enough.
I think of the apple tree.
“Mum?” Charlie asks.
“Yes, love?”
“Are we not going back to that house?”
“I dont know yet. Maybe. Maybe well get a new one.”
“Lets get a new one,” he says. “Mrs Wilkins is mean.”
“I remember.”
“And she took my helicopter.”
“I gave it back, didnt I?”
He thinks.
“True,” he says. “You did.”
“I always make sure you get back whats yours,” I tell him. “Remember that.”
He nods and leans on me, warm and calm. Dusk gathers outside; the citys lights grow closer.
Dad drives in silence. He doesnt need to say anything elsejust being there is enough.
I check my phone. Theres a message from Simon, sent over an hour ago. I open it. “Emily, I want to talk. No lawyers. Just talk.”
I hold the phone, looking at the words.
Just talk. We lived ten years together and maybe never really did. Or we did, just not about the things that mattered. Or I didnt listen, or he never said the truth.
I put the phone away. Dont reply.
Charlie nods off, his hand gripping the chess pawn Grandpa gave him as a keepsake.
“Dad,” I say quietly.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for picking up.”
A pause.
“You would have called, one day.”
“Im not sure.”
“I am,” he replies. And thats enough.
Our car merges into city lightshundreds, thousands, each belonging to someones life, their story, their home.
I look ahead, thinking: tomorrow, Ill get up, take the next step. Then the next. And then the next again.
Thats alright. Thats how life moves.
“Mum,” Charlie mumbles, half-asleep.
“Mmm?” I answer.
“You said youre asleep too.”
“I did,” I whisper. “I mean, Im asleep right beside you. Im here.”
“Oh,” he mutters, satisfied. And closes his eyes.
I watch the city lights flick pastyellow, white, blueall jumbled together. There are many of them ahead. And we are driving towards them, not knowing for certain whats to come. Good, hardmaybe both, probably both.
But were moving. Charlies with me. Dads at the wheel. And the helicopter rests in his backpack on the seat beside us.
