I Know What’s Best — Oh, what now? — Dmitry wearily crouched in front of his daughter, examining th…

I know better

Oh, for heavens sake, sighed David, crouching down in front of his daughter and inspecting the pink patches on her cheeks. Again…

Four-year-old Emily stood in the middle of the living room, astonishingly patient and far too serious for someone whose main occupation should be crayons and chaos. Shed got used to these little medical inspections, to the fretful faces of her parents, the endless creams, and those little boxes of tablets.

Sarah came over and knelt next to her husband, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind Emilys ear.

These medicines dont work at all. Nothing. Like giving her water and calling it a miracle cure. And the GPsoh, dont get me started! Three rounds of different treatments and not a single improvement.

David got up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the grey morning threatened to be as uninspiring as the previous hundred. They bundled Emily in an oversized puffer coat and, half an hour later, were perched in the sitting room of his mums place.

Margaret tutted, shook her head, and stroked her granddaughters back.

I mean, shes only small and shes having half the pharmacys worth of medicine. Its so much for her little body to handle, Margaret said, pulling Emily onto her lap. The girl snuggled close, as she always did. Its just heartbreaking.

Wed give anything to stop, honestly, Sarah said, perching on the edge of the sofa, her fingers locked together. But the rash never lets up. Weve stripped out pretty much everythingshes living off plain food. And still, it doesnt help.

And what do the doctors say?

Nothing definite. They cant narrow it down, Sarah replied, waving her hand. Blood tests, skin pricks, all the restand all we have is this. Cheeks like polka dots.

Margaret sighed and fussed with Emilys collar.

Well, fingers crossed shell grow out of it, love. Some kids do, you know. But for now… well, its a worry.

David gazed at his daughter. Tiny, absolutely. All huge, thoughtful eyes. He stroked her hair, and was suddenly hit by a warm memory: himself as a boy, sneaking sausage rolls from the kitchen, pleading for toffees, eating his mums homemade jam straight from the jar. And here was Emily… Boiled veg. Boiled chicken. Water. No fruit, no sweets, not even the usual kid grub. Four years old, and her diet was stricter than a health retreat.

Were running out of things to cut, he murmured. Theres almost nothing left.

They drove home in silence. Emily fell asleep in the back seat, and David kept glancing at her in the mirror. Sleeping soundly, at least. Not itching, for once.

Mum called, Sarah announced quietly. She wants Emily next weekend. Got tickets to a puppet show, wants to treat her.

The theatre, eh? David shifted gears. Well, thatd be nice. Might help distract her.

I thought so. She could use a break.

…Saturday morning, David parked outside his mother-in-laws terrace, lifting Emily from her car seat. His daughter blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyesan early wake-up wasnt her favourite thing. He scooped her up, and she nestled against his neck, warm and as light as a sparrow.

Sheila swept out onto the porch in a riotous floral dressing gown, throwing her arms wide as if greeting a shipwreck survivor.

Oh, my darling, my sunshine! Sheila enveloped Emily, squeezing her tightly. Shes so pale and skinny. Those cheeks have just vanished. Youre starving her with these crazy diets. Poor lamb.

David shoved his hands deep in his pockets, fighting the urge to snap. Same conversation, every time.

Were only doing whats best for her. Not by choice, believe me.

Best? Sheila pursed her lips, surveying her granddaughter as though shed spent six months in a Victorian workhouse. Shes just skin and bones. She needs feeding up, its not right, the way youre treating her.

She carried Emily inside without a backward glance, and the door clicked shut. David stood alone on the path, some half-formed thought nudging at the back of his brain, like a lost sock you never quite find. He rubbed his forehead, lingered another minute, listening to the unfamiliar silence, then shrugged and went back to the car.

Child-free weekendswhat a bizarre, nearly forgotten luxury. On Saturday, David and Sarah tackled the supermarket aisles, filling their trolley with the whole weeks groceries.

Back home, David finally won his long battle with the leaky tap in the bathroom, while Sarah took on the wardrobe, heaving out decades-old clothes for charity. Typical domestic humdrum, but without a child, the flat felt hollow, almost wrong.

By evening, they ordered a pizzathe forbidden one, with mozzarella and fresh basil that Emily couldnt have. Opened a nice bottle of red. Sat around the kitchen table, chatting about nothing much. Work, future holidays, the never-ending home improvements.

This is… nice, Sarah murmured, then bit her lip. I meanjust quiet. Calm.

I know, David covered her hand with his. I miss her too. But we do need a break now and then.

On Sunday, David headed out for Emily as the sun began to dip, warming the streets to a golden glow. Sheilas house sat behind wild old apple trees, cosy in the last pocket of daylight.

David slipped out of his car, nudged open the gatea classic English squeakand stopped dead.

Emily was sitting on the porch steps, Sheila beaming beside her, a look of pure, smug satisfaction plastered across her face. In Sheilas hand: a pasty. Golden. Shiny with butter. And Emily? Chomping away, cheeks covered in pastry bits, radiant, gigglinghappier than hed seen her in months.

David just stared for a beat. Then felt something hot, angry, and volcanic bubbling up.

He stormed over in three strides, yanked the pasty away from Sheila.

Just what do you think youre doing?!

Sheila flinched, blinking as if a pigeon had just flown into her face.

Its only a little bit! Nothing to fuss about. Lookits nicer than those soggy vegetablesjust a treat, Dave…

David was having none of it. He scooped Emily upshe went quiet, clutching his coat, wide-eyedand carried her to the car. He belted her in, hands shaking.

Emily gazed at him, frightened, lips quivering on the brink of tears.

Its alright, sweetheart, he soothed, stroking her hair, doing his best to sound calm. Just sit tight. Daddyll be back in a minute.

He closed the door and marched back up to the house. Sheila was still fussing at the porch, wringing her hands.

David, you just dont understand

Oh, I dont understand? Let me tell you, Sheila! Half a year, weve been losing our minds over Emilys allergiestests, specialist appointments, blood workyou realise how much it cost? How many sleepless nights?

Sheila edged nearer the door.

I just wanted the best

The best?! Weve had her on nothing but boiled chicken and courgette! She hasnt seen a pudding in months! And youyou sneak her a greasy pasty behind our backs?!

I was building up her immune system! Sheila retorted, brightening boldly. Just a tiny bit here and thereso shed get used to it and be fine. Honestly, I know what Im doingI raised three kids myself!

David stared, suddenly not recognising her. This woman, tolerated for years for the sake of marital harmony, had been quietly sabotaging his child, convinced she knew better than every doctor in Kent.

Three kids, he repeated softly. Sheila went white. Well, Emily isnt one of your three. Shes my daughter. And you won’t be seeing her again.

What? Sheila clung to the banister. You cant do that!

Oh, can I? David marched away, ignoring her objections. In his rearview mirror, he glimpsed her charging down the path, waving her armshe pressed his foot down and wasnt about to stop.

Back home, Sarah met them at the door, taking one look at David, another at their tearful daughter, and got the picture.

What happened?

David explained. Briefly, tightly; hed run out of emotions with Sheila. Sarah listened, jaw hardening with each word. Then she grabbed her phone.

Mum. Yes, Ive heard. How could you?

David took Emily to the bathroomtime to rinse off pastry and tears. Through the door, Sarahs voice rang out, sharper than hed ever heard. She finished with a cool: Until we get these allergies sortedyou wont be seeing Emily.

Two months later…

Sunday lunches at Margarets were now a fixture. Todays masterpiece: sponge cake with clouds of cream and strawberries. Emily was eating it, greedily, with a spoon nearly as big as her faceher cheeks clean, her smile as wide as the Thames.

Who wouldve guessed? Margaret marvelled. Sunflower oil allergyof all things. Never heard the like.

Doctor said it happens to one in a thousand, Sarah buttered a slice of bread with full-fat butter. We switched to olive oil for everythingrash disappeared a fortnight later.

David just watched his daughter, soaking in every pink-cheeked, bright-eyed bite. A happy child, finally eating like a proper English schoolkid. Cakes, biscuitsanything without sunflower oil. Which, by happy chance, covers a lot.

Relations with Sheila stayed frosty. She called, apologised, wept down the line. Sarah kept it brief; David, not at all.

Emily reached for another scoop of cake, Margaret nudged the plate closer.

Go on, sweetheart. Fill your boots.

David leaned back contentedly. Rain pattered against the windows, but inside, the house was warm and smelled of baking. His daughter was healthy again. Everything else hardly seemed to matter.