Well, Aren’t You a Right Numpty?

Enough, Max, she snapped, the words spilling out as if they were nothing more than the morning news. I cant keep living like this. Im filing for divorce.

Emmas voice was oddly casual, even surprised at how easy it sounded. All the years of simmering resentment, sleepless nights waiting for him until dawn, the endless justificationseverything was compressed into two short sentences.

Max turned his head toward her, a flicker of bewilderment crossing his face.

Come off it youre serious? About what?

About everything, Emma shrugged with a weary smile. The smell of other womens perfume on your shirts. The texts I stumbled on. The way you look through me as if Im just a piece of furniture that should have been tossed out ages ago, but you cant be bothered. The coworker youre cosy with. The neighbour upstairs. Even that barmaid at the little bistro where we marked our anniversary.

Everything, she said, Im just exhausted.

The divorce dragged on for months, turning into such a draining saga that Emma sometimes forgot to eat. Courtroom drama, endless paperwork, relentless hearingseach day felt like wading through a thick, unending nightmare. She showed up to the hearings in the same dress shed worn before she got pregnant, the fabric stretched tight over her hips, the back zipper refusing to close. A plain cardiganher only decent piece without lint or warped sleevesbecame her makeshift shield.

Across the table, Max sat in a fresh, sharp suit. The jacket fit like a glove, his tie a flamboyant pattern that screamed latest fashion. Emma stared at that tie, trying to recall the last time shed bought anything for herself. Just the day before shed scraped together enough for a pair of winter boots for Arthur£5 from a shop in the next borough. Shed been crammed into a jampacked bus, worrying about the trousers Arthur would need for summer, a new jacket, a hat.

Then the solicitor placed a stack of documents on the table.

According to the bank statements, the lawyer said in a calm, businesslike tone, over the past eighteen months the defendant has spent an amount in restaurants and entertainment venues equal to the familys annual budget.

Emma stared at the figures, unable to stitch them into any coherent picture. Restaurants. Nightclubs. A line for a floristshe knew he never sent her bouquets. A jewellerearrings, a pendant, a ring. None of it was for her.

Meanwhile, she was calculating whether she could afford a single banana for Arthur. Not a bunchthat would be a luxury. She sliced apples thinly to stretch them over several days. She boiled porridge in water because milk had become pricey, and sipped empty tea, convincing herself it was better for the figure.

Max cleared his throat, readjusted the tie.

These are my own earnings, he declared.

After the hearing Max caught up with her at the car park, grabbed her elbow and spun her around.

Think youll win anything? his voice dripped with venom. Ill take Arthur, you hear me? Ill take him.

Emma stared silently at the man shed shared five years with, the father of her son. Shed given up her career, her qualifications, herself for him.

Youre hopeless, he continued triumphantly. You cant do anything. Poverty? Ill raise a man, not a wimp. And youll pay child support, not the other way around!

Hhopeless, hed muttered before, too.

Youre hopeless, you dont understand the basics.
Youre hopeless, you forgot again.
Youre hopeless, what can I even get from you?

And Emma swallowed it, because she loved him, because she believed in family, because thats how it was supposed to be.

His calls kept coming, demanding she hand over Arthur so he wouldnt corrupt him, so the alimony money wouldnt be wasted on whoknowswhat.

Finally, during another call, Emma snapped.

Fine, she said. Take him.

Silence hung on the other end.

What?

I said fine. Ill bring Arthur tomorrow.

And she did.

Arthur stood in Maxs hallwaya small boy with a dinosaurshaped backpack and a bag stuffed with his favourite pyjamas, a space book, and a plush rabbit with a missing ear. Max stared at his son as if the child had materialised from thin air.

Here you go, Emma set the bag down. Raise him.

Mum? Arthurs voice trembled.

Emma knelt, wrapped him in a tight hug, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and sunshine.

Youll stay with Dad for a bit, alright? Think of it as an adventure. Ill miss you and call every day.

She left without looking back, slipped around a corner, pressed her palms to her face and let out a breathless laugh. God, what was she doing? She was just fed up with Maxs voice and his constant nitpicking.

An hour later Max called.

Emma uh whens Arthur starting nursery? Tomorrow or what?

Nursery? Emma blinked. Max, he goes to nursery every weekday from eightam. Didnt you know?

From where would I Right, Ill sort it. He never did.

He dropped Arthur off with Mrs. Valentine Petrovic that eveningjust for a couple of hours while I sort things outand then vanished.

Four days later Emmas exmotherinlaws number flashed on her screen. The woman let a brief, sharp smile play on her lips before answering.

Lost your conscience, have you? Valentines voice rang with indignation. You dump the child and go off gallivanting? Im sixtysomething, my blood pressure is through the roof!

I didnt bring him to you, Emma said evenly, almost kindly. I brought him to his father, the man who swore hed raise a proper bloke, beating his chest, threatening court.

Hes working! Hes got no time!

What about me? I work too. Every day. And I manage on my own.

He

Valentine, I gave Arthur to Max because he asked. Let him raise him as he promised. I cant help you any further.

Silence hung, then a few short beeps.

Two days later Valentine called again, her voice weary, deflated.

Come and collect Arthur. I cant do this any longer.

Emma arrived that evening. Arthur lunged at her, clinging to her legs, his face pressed to her stomach.

Mum, mum, mum

He chanted it like a mantra as Emma ruffled his hair.

Alright, love, adventures over. Lets go home.

Valentine stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a look of mild irritation flickering across her faceno remorse, just the annoyance of a plan gone sideways. The daughterinlaw turned out not to be the hopeless wreck theyd imagined.

Max vanished. No calls, no texts, no looming threats. His parents only visited once, years later. By then Arthur was seven, in Year 2, swimming lessons and a passion for building LEGO sets.

One afternoon the boy opened the door to strangers.

Who are you? he asked.

Arthur, dear! Valentine shouted, arms wide. Its usgrandma and granddad!

Arthur frowned, turned back.

Mum, there are strangers here.

The exchange was brief and uncomfortable. Valentine complained that her grandson didnt recognise her, didnt greet, didnt rush into an embrace. Mr. Nicholas shook his head, muttering about modern parenting.

They left, tossing out a final jab that the boy was terrible and illbroughtup, just as hopeless as his mother. Emma shut the door and laughed. What did they expect?

Time sped by. Arthur turned eleven, stretching tall, looking more like Emmas stubborn father than a child. Hed inherited her chin and that sharp, mischievous glance. He never asked about his dad. Maybe one day he will, and Emma will answer honestly, without sugarcoating or spite. For now they manage, just the two of them.

One evening Emmas friend Katie burst into the kitchen, mascara smudged, tears streaming.

Hes threatening to take Sergei, Katie sobbed. He says hell hire a solicitor, collect documents I dont know what to do!

Emma poured tea, nudged the sugar bowl.

Katie, she said with a wry smile, you want advice?

Anything. Im losing my mind.

Give him the child yourself.

Katie froze, tea mug in hand.

What?

Pack your things, take Sergei to his dad. Say raise him and go. Three daysmaybe less. Problem solved forever.

You serious?

Absolutely. Tested on my own experience.

Katie stared, bewildered, a flicker of hope in her eyes.

And then? she asked.

Then you live normally. No more being useful only as a family checkbox on social media.

Emma thought of Max, his parentsghosts of the past. Shed learned her lesson, straightA material.

And so the story went on, with a dash of irony, a pinch of resilience, and a whole lot of British stubbornness.