Hang in There a Bit Longer, Mum!

Hold on a bit longer, love,

Wheres Dad? I cant stand this! Wheres Dad! Papa! the boy shouted, his voice slicing through the thin air like a knife.

Emma Clarke stood in the middle of the living room, her cheeks flushed with shame. Small fists clenched at her sides.

Your dads at work, hell be home in about an hour. Calm down, sweetheart. Lets talk, she said as evenly as she could, though inside a tight knot twisted in her throat.

I dont want to talk to you! Youre useless! I only want Dad! Jack stamped his foot, his cry rising to a harsh scream.

Tears welled up, threatening to spill over. Emma stared at her tenyearold son, bewildered. She had given him her whole life: years of remote work, every spare minute spent beside him. When he started school, she switched to the office, yet they still roamed museums, visited the zoo, walked the parks, read bedtime storieseverything for him, everything for him.

I dont love you! Im fed up with you! Im tired of you! Jacks words pierced Emma like cold wind. She turned away, hand over her mouth, trying not to break down in front of him. How had it come to this? She was his mother; she loved him more than anything. Why did he see a hollow void where she stood? Why did he cling to his father and shun her?

Jack, please, stop shouting. Dad will be back soon, she pleaded, her voice trembling.

I dont want to wait! I want him now! Youre a terrible mum!

A sudden ring cut through the chaos. Jack lunged, snatching the phone from Emmas hand.

Dad! Dad! he yelled into the receiver, eyes fixed on the screen.

Emma stepped back. It was indeed Davids voice, a familiar baritone booming through the speaker.

Hey, champ! Hows it going? he sounded bright and caring.

Dad, I miss you! Mums driving me mad, when are you coming? Jack pressed the phone to his ear, his face lighting up instantly.

A pause. Emma held her breath, waiting for his reply.

Sorry, love, Im stuck at the office. Still a couple of hours. Hang on, sweetheart, Ill be home soon.

Hang on, sweetheart The words lodged in Emmas mind like a heavy chain. It felt as though she had become a burden, a weight she must endure.

Okay, Dad, Ill wait! Jack beamed, the room suddenly brighter.

Emma turned and fled to her bedroom, legs shaking, throat parched. She closed the door softly and collapsed onto the bed, letting a torrent of tears drown her.

Why? Why did neither son nor husband value her? Why had she become a hurdle that needed tolerating? She pressed her face into the pillow, trying to weep quietly, feeling the injustice crush her. She had dreamed of this child, planned every moment of love, and nowhe rejected her. The teenage years loomed, promising that his temperament would only worsen.

Minutes stretched agonizingly. From the next room, the sound of a video game hinted that Jack had finally settled without her. Emma stared at the ceiling, wondering how to live with this ache, how to keep being a mother to someone who turned away.

Around nine oclock, she sent Jack to bed. He grumbled, still demanding his father, but fatigue finally won. He drifted off.

At midnight, the front door clicked. David slipped into the hallway. Emma met him, arms crossed, eyes hard.

You know he waits for you every day. How can you be late again? she hissed, barely containing her rage.

David shrugged off his jacket, hung it without a glance.

It was a corporate event, I couldnt leave early. Work, you know.

Is the corporation more important than your own child? Than his emotional wellbeing? Emma whispered, trying not to wake Jack.

Dont make a scene. Im earning the money for this family.

And what am I doing? Just going to work?

David stalked off to the bedroom, indifferent to the familys turmoil. Emma was left standing, the hallway echoing her solitude. She slept on the sofa, tossing and turning all night, haunted by the thought: was this truly her life?

Morning found laughter spilling from the kitchen. Jack and David sat at the table, chatting about school. Emma entered, forced a smile.

Good morning, she said, pouring coffee.

Jack didnt look up. David nodded at him, still engrossed.

Yesterday we had this impossible maths problem, Jack announced to his dad. I solved it myself!

Well done! Did Mum help you? David asked.

Why would I need Mum? I did it alone.

Emma tried to intervene. Jack, can you show me the problem? Im curious.

Jack kept talking with his father, ignoring her. David gave no acknowledgment. Emma felt like furniturepresent but invisible.

Weeks passed in the same loop. Jack shouted, demanded his dad, brushed off Emmas attempts at connection. David arrived late, spent mornings only with his son. Emmas presence grew increasingly superfluous.

One evening, after a trivial argument over toys, Jack tossed them onto the floor, snarling that he wouldnt obey because he wanted his fathers attention. Something inside Emma finally snapped.

When David returned, she said, Im filing for divorce.

He looked up, stunned.

What?

You heard me. Im filing.

David set his phone down, narrowed his eyes.

And where will you go? You have no flat. Your parents live in Manchester. The house is mine; after a split theres no room for you here!

Emma met his stare.

I know its my house. Thats why Ill ask the court to leave the child with you.

Davids face went pale.

How? I cant manage alone! I have work!

I have work too.

But hes still a child; he needs his mother!

He needs his father. He says so every day. Jack will get what he wants.

David opened his mouth, but Emma was already out the room. The decision was made.

A month later, the case went to court. Emma stayed with a friend, Iris, searching for a flat. Jack didnt call or text. A socialservices officer, a middleaged woman in a tidy suit, interviewed Jack alone. At ten, his opinion counted.

The child wishes to live with his father. He says he feels uncomfortable with his mother and prefers Dad, the officer recounted.

Every word pierced Emmas chest. The judge read the verdict:

Given the childs preference, the fathers higher income, and his ownership of suitable accommodation, custody is awarded to the father.

Later, in the corridor, David grabbed Emma.

Take the boy! I cant watch him, I have work, Im travelling! What am I to do?

Emma turned.

I have a job too. Ill find a place. The court says he stays with you, and Ill pay maintenance, see him every few weeks.

But youre his mother!

And youre his fatherthe one he loves. Enjoy it.

She walked away, never looking back.

Emma moved into a tiny studio in Croydontwenty square metres of cramped kitchen, a combined bathroom, a modest bed. It was hers, a space where no one shouted, no one ignored. The first night she wept for the loss of husband, child, family, but also for the relief of no longer being demeaned.

Visits from Jack became rare, a few weeks apart. When he came, the anger resurfaced.

Its your fault the family fell apart! Dads hardly home now! I have a nanny! I hate you! he shouted from the sofa.

After each encounter, tears fell, but Emma kept moving. She secured a wellpaid job, furnished her flat, enrolled in evening classes. Her former motherinlaw, Valentina Peterson, called almost weekly.

How could you abandon the child to David? What kind of mother are you now? Valentinas voice trembled with outrage.

Hes his son too, Emma replied calmly. Jack chose to stay with his dad. Why should I force him?

But children dont understand!

Jack is ten, not five. He got what he wanted.

Years slipped by. Emma built a new lifesteady work, a cosy flat, hobbies, friends. The constant stress faded.

Five years later, a grownup Jack stood at her doorstep.

Mum, I was wrong. I see now how I hurt you, how I helped break us up, he said, voice softer.

Emma brushed his hair, a gesture from long ago.

Its all right. I hope your own children never treat you like that.

The warmth she once felt for him had dimmed, but it remainedan ember she could not quite extinguish. She never became the bad mother society might label her; she simply survived, kept her spirit, and that, above all, mattered.