One fine Saturday, as usual, I was playing a board game with my lad, Harry. Out of nowhere a knock echoed at the front door. I swung it open and there stood someone I hadnt thought about in years my exwife, Emma.
Emma and I had been married for seven years, and Harry was six. Life was pretty decent; we adored our son and often daydreamed about adding a daughter to the mix. I was seriously longing for a little girl named Poppy.
Time went on, and Emma began to treat me with a chill that felt like an English winter. Something was off, and before long we ended up sleeping in separate beds. She blamed it on exhaustion and a lack of mood
Then a few mates gave me a reality check. They told me theyd seen Emma getting a lift to work from some handsome fellow whod opened the car door for her with a gentlemanly flourish.
I didnt want to believe it; I clung to the hope that love would survive, especially because we had a child. I decided not to drag my feet any longer and asked Emma straight away, that evening, if shed been unfaithful. She had nothing to say, packed her bag and walked out, leaving Harry with me.
Naturally, I was over the moon that Harry was still with me, but I was also taken aback by Emmas cold indifference toward her own son. Was she truly such a bad mum? Did she not love him at all?
The early days were anything but easy. There were countless moments with Harry when I was at a loss. I rang family, asked friends for advice, and scoured the internet for parenting tips. At first, my boy missed his mother, but eventually he stopped pining.
Four years later things started looking up. I didnt skimp on anything for Harry; we took plenty of trips around the UK, from the Lake District to the Cornish coast, and I even splurged a bit with a £500 holiday to the Isle of Skye.
Then, just as habit would have it, we were midgame again when another knock rattled the door. I opened it to find Emma, looking exactly as she did four years ago only a touch fresher. Harry, however, paid her no mind. Emma stood there, clueless, then lunged forward, hugging and kissing Harry, apologising profusely, babbling about her fiery love, but the lad simply turned away.
I thought a cuppa might smooth things over, so I invited everyone in for tea. The first ten minutes were as awkward as a silent church service, but eventually Emma blurted out she wanted to take Harry away. I gave my son a chance to decide. I could see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, so I suggested he could spend a few days with his mother and see how it felt.
All the while, a nagging thought of loneliness lingered in my mind. If Harry liked living with Emma, would I be left on my own?
The next morning Harry came back, bright as ever. He told me his mum wasnt alone, and that he wanted to stay with me. Hed keep in touch with Emma, but wasnt ready to move in with her just yet.
And so life went on, a bit muddier than a Thames mudbank but somehow still manageable, with plenty of tea, a dash of irony, and a lot of love for a boy who chose his dads sofa over a new adventure.
