A Mommy for Christmas by Caroline Anderson

clinic. They’ll be wondering what’s going on and Jo will be sinking without trace. I tell you what, I’ll be ready for that take-away tonight. I don’t know what happened to lunch.’
    â€˜You need to eat, Kate, you’ll fade away,’ he mimicked, and she threw the paper at him, stood up and walked out, a smile she tried to hide peeking out around the edges of her façade. He put the paper back on the table and followed her, whistling softly under his breath.
    Life was suddenly looking a whole lot better…
    Â 
    It was funny how quickly something could become a habit.
    He brought supper round to hers in the end that night because the children had settled without a murmur—a lovely Thai curry which he had delivered, much healthier than the Indian cholesterol-fest she’d taken to his place, in deference to their livers, he said—and they ate it in the kitchen, with the communicating door open so they could listen. Then the following night, because there was a bit left in the bottle of wine he’d brought round, she took it back and they sat and watched the television for an hour and argued about a documentary and she went to bed with a smile on her face.
    They weren’t on call that weekend, blissfully, and she decided to give herself the luxury of a lie-in on Saturday morning.
    She reckoned without the sound of James’s children, though, all the little shrieks and squeals and the sound of running feet on the landing. And his deep, gruff voice shushing them, then the giggles because he must have caught them and picked them up, because the shrieks got louder and the running feet stopped.
    She realised she was smiling. Nuts. She should be cross at losing her lie-in, but she found she wasn’t. Far from it. It was lovely to hear the sound of happy children.
    Especially James’s happy children, after all they’d had to endure recently.
    She got up, showered quickly and went downstairs in her scruffy old robe, her hair twisted up in a towel, and put the kettle on to boil while she got dressed. Then she heard a crash and a scream, and without even thinking about it she whipped the door open and ran through, to find James sitting at the bottom of the stairs with Rory on his lap, rubbing his knee and hugging him, while Freya hovered on the top step with her eyes like saucers.
    â€˜Freya, sweetheart, come here, he’s all right,’ she said softly, running up the stairs to her and scooping her up. She carried her back down and sat on the bottom step next to them with the toddler snuggled on her lap. ‘Are you OK, Rory?’
    â€˜I fell downstairs,’ he said, hiccuping, and James pulled his head in hard against his chest and rubbed it lovingly.
    â€˜You’re all right, darling. It’s OK. Let’s just put some ice on it.’
    â€˜It’s OK now,’ he said. Wriggling off his father’s lap, he got to his feet and limped through to the kitchen. ‘Can I still have the last cake?’ he asked, and James rolled his eyes and grinned at her.
    â€˜Is that what this is about? The last cake?’ she asked, and he chuckled.
    â€˜Yeah. I thought he’d get dressed, but he just ran and opened the stairgate and slipped on his pyjamas. They always fall down, he’s got such a skinny little bottom. He’s OK.’
    He’d said that so many times she wondered who he was trying to convince, but, following Rory into the kitchen, it seemed that he was probably right, because the boy was sitting at the table with his legs swinging, munching happily on a muffin and looking victorious.
    â€˜F’eya muffin!’ Freya said, holding out her hand and opening and shutting it like a little starfish, but Rory wasn’t giving up his muffin for anyone, and James was starting to look desperate, so she intervened.
    â€˜I tell you what, I’ve got some lovely chocolate biscuits next door,’ she told them, and Rory