27
Emily stood in her one-bedroom rental barely holding it together, Morgan was on her hip, screaming.
It had been nineteen months since her week with Leo, and Morgan was nearly one.
Emily was still trying to figure out how to be her mother.
Not just the logistics. The actual being.
Like there was supposed to be some switch that flipped when they handed Morgan to her, and hers was broken.
Morgan had been screaming for two hours straight that afternoon.
She’d gone past the red-faced stage, and was deep into that over-tired, full-body-possession thing toddlers do when they’ve decided sleep is the enemy.
Morgan was heavy, and Emily had to keep an arm firm against her back to keep her from launching backwards. She was singing that Plain White T’s song on repeat because it was the only thing that sometimes worked.
‘No, Mummy! No no no!’
Morgan was twisting and every muscle in Emily’s body ached. Her shirt was stained with various bodily fluids. She’d reheated the same coffee three times and still hadn’t managed a single sip.
The flat was a disaster zone. Teething rings strewn across the room. Half a banana oxidising on the couch. A mountain of washing in the corner that Emily had been meaning to fold for a week. She was living in survival mode, getting through each day only to start at zero the next morning.
Emily switched Morgan to her other hip. Got a heel to the ribs for her trouble.
‘Okay. Yeah. “No thank you, Mum.” Message received.’
So Emily walked up and down the tiny hallway of her flat, humming her own lullaby. Her knees ached. Her back was wrecked. She probably smelled like a gym sock marinated in milk.
And then, miracle of miracles, Morgan’s screams started winding down to exhausted little grizzles.
Emily risked it. She went into the bedroom and lowered her daughter into the cot with extreme care.
The second Morgan’s back touched the mattress, she twisted up again.
One last protest. But Emily knew this dance by then.
Hand on her legs. Not holding them down, just… grounding.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
The same rhythm Emily had used for months. Barely touching. More suggestion than contact.
Morgan’s thumb found her mouth. The whining stopped.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Emily stayed another full minute, her hand hovering over Morgan’s tiny chest, feeling her breathing settle.
Emily backed out like she was defusing a bomb.
When she reached the hallway, Emily finally exhaled.
And stood on a toy block.
Down she went, grabbing for the wall on the way. Her hand caught a picture frame, bringing it crashing down. The glass shattered, slicing her palm. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
Frozen there on her knees. Not from the pain, though that was real enough. But from the absolute terror that she’d wake Morgan. That they’d start the whole dance again.
Morgan grunted and rolled over.
Silence.
Emily let herself breathe again.
Blood was running down her wrist. Not stitches-deep, but steady.
She wrapped her hand in a tea towel from the kitchen, held it tight to her chest. The dustpan was buried in the broom cupboard, which doubled as overflow storage in that tiny flat.
Wedging herself in there one-handed, shifting cereal boxes, formula tins, and bulk nappy packs just to find the thing, her phone buzzed on the bench.
PI—Dan M.
Emily answered before the second ring.
‘Hey,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘Sorry, I’m whispering, I’m dealing with a small dictator.’
Dan’s voice came through with that steady dad-energy he had. ‘I know it’s been a big few weeks, but before I say anything, how are you doing?’
The reflex kicked in. Emily’s usual ‘I’m fine’ was halfway up her throat, that automatic deflection she’d perfected. But nothing came out.
Standing there staring at the blood on the tea towel, at the high chair crusted with Weet-Bix, at that cold coffee she’d never drink. And something just…cracked.
‘I’m not great,’ Emily heard herself say. ‘Actually.’
Then an embarrassed little laugh escaped. She pressed the back of her hand to her face like she could push the words back in.
‘It’s just, she doesn’t sleep. And I don’t know what I’m doing, and I haven’t seen another adult in three days except the checkout girl at Coles who asked if I was paying cash or by card, and that was the highlight of my week.
And every time I think I’ve got a handle on things, Morgan changes the rules. ’
Dan just listened. Didn’t interrupt.
‘Sorry,’ Emily said. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
‘You don’t have to apologise to me, Emily.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I wish I was calling with better news. But I’ve finalised everything I can on Leo.’
His usual warmth was still there, but there was something firmer underneath now.
‘I want to be honest with you,’ he said. ‘You didn’t give me much to work with.’
Emily’s shoulders tensed. ‘I told you everything I remembered.’
‘No surname. No contact number. No country of origin. The Langham wouldn’t release guest records, and his booking had been made through a third-party agency. Paid in advance. No trail.’
She gripped the tea towel tighter. ‘He wasn’t some con artist. He was just…travelling.’
‘You told me he was tuning a guitar backstage.’
‘He was just a guy. I didn’t ask for his CV. I didn’t think to get a number because I didn’t think I’d need one. I was on the pill.’
Dan didn’t speak for a moment. ‘But he didn’t offer up that information. And I think that says a lot.’
The kitchen felt colder. Or maybe that was just the blood loss.
‘Most people leave a breadcrumb or two,’ he continued. ‘A surname. A Facebook request. Something. This guy left nothing.’
Emily couldn’t argue. There was nothing to argue with.
‘If he’d wanted to be found,’ Dan said, ‘he would’ve been.’
The words hit hard. Leo had chosen to vanish. He’d made sure of it. While Emily had been building fantasies about Morgan having a father, he’d made damn sure he’d covered his tracks.
‘Right,’ she whispered.
‘But I did find something else during background checks. A probate notice under your name. From Van Lierde & Associates. They’ve been trying to reach you.’
Emily was still processing Leo’s deliberate vanishing act. ‘Van who?’
‘Van Lierde. They’re managing the estate of an Alan Blake.’ Her breath caught. ‘My dad’s brother, I think? I’ve never met him, and they haven’t spoken in years.’ Emily paused. ‘I haven’t spoken to my dad in over a year either.’
Dan made this soft hmm sound. ‘According to the solicitors, Alan passed away three years ago. No spouse, no kids. Your father was listed as next of kin but was explicitly excluded from the will. You’re the sole beneficiary.’
Emily stared at the wall, trying to take it in.
‘Check your email,’ Dan added.
‘How much?’
He paused in a way that said brace yourself.
‘One hundred thousand euros.’
Emily sat down hard. The chair scraped against the tiles.
‘I’ve checked the paperwork,’ he said. ‘There are no red flags. It’s legitimate.’
Emily’s mind raced between the impossibility of that amount and how much she needed it. Rent was overdue. Daycare wanted payment. She had been living on two-minute noodles for a week so Morgan could have proper food.
‘I’m not good at this,’ Emily said at last. ‘Taking help.’
‘It’s not help. It’s a door.’
After Emily hung up, she opened her laptop, its screen still cracked from when Morgan had knocked it off the coffee table. Two emails waited.
Subject: Notice of Funds Held in Trust—Action Required
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday, 2.18 pm
Dear Ms Emily Blake,
We are writing to inform you that, following an extended holding period, funds currently administered by our fiduciary office have been scheduled for release to your name, subject to standard identification and disbursement protocols.
The sum of €100,000.00 has been allocated to you as the sole named recipient under private instruction. Please note that details relating to the original transferor or originating agreement are sealed under client confidentiality and cannot be disclosed.
Her eyes moved over the rest of the email as she struggled to take in the enormity of the sum.
Emily stared at the screen and read it again, slower.
No mention of Alan. No mention of family or death or why she was being offered six figures from some legal office she’d never heard of.
Just ‘private instruction’ and cold, legal language that felt less like an inheritance and more like a clerical error in her favour.
And a city she’d never heard of. The email signature read:
Van Lierde & Associates
Legal & Fiduciary Services
Montverre City, Sovereign State of Montverre
Emily closed the tab. Clicked the second email.
Subject: Summer Availability—Fill-in Opportunity
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday, 9.12 am
Hey Em!
Hope you’re well! Just checking to see if you’re around/keen for a Summer Breakfast fill-in slot. Would be a short run, mid-December to early Jan.
You’d be co-hosting with Mack. He was one of the favourites on Big Brother this year, super charming in the house, just started media training. Bit green, obviously, but very likeable on air.
We thought you’d be the perfect anchor to ease him in, help set the tone.
Let me know if you’re interested, no pressure!
Cheers,
Jodie
Content Director
Emily hadn’t watched much of Big Brother. A few episodes, maybe. Enough to recognise the name, not enough to have an opinion. But that didn’t matter.
It was breakfast.
In Melbourne.
Even as a fill-in, and as clichéd as it sounded, it really was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
To think, that morning Emily had been debating whether to call her mum. Admit defeat. Pack up her life into boxes and crawl back out to western Victoria with her tail between her legs.
Now she had a hundred thousand euros and a job offer sitting in her inbox.
‘Mack and Emily for Summer Breakfast,’ she said aloud, testing it. The name felt wrong in her mouth. Too soft. Emily needed something sharper. A fresh start.
‘Mack and Blake for Breakfast.’
Yeah. That worked better.