The Substitute Wife

Chapter 6

Emma

One week in and I’m feeling settled into my new routine. In fact, I’m surprised how fast it’s all becoming comfortable. I’ve almost finished unpacking all the moving boxes in the main house. It’s Friday and I’m working on the last box in Sophie’s room today. It already feels cozier with her things put away.

I finished fluffing the pillows on the bed, and began to unpack the last box. It’s mostly books but tucked into the side there’s a framed photo. It’s a picture of Jack, his ex-wife, and a baby Sophie, all smiling in front of a Christmas tree. The woman in the picture—the resemblance between us is surprising. Maybe even a little unsettling. In all my unpacking, I haven’t come across any other photos with Sophie’s mom in them. We have similar hair and facial features, although her eyes look blue like Sophie’s. I quickly set the frame back down in the box, shaking off the uneasy feeling creeping up my spine.

Just then my phone buzzed. A text from Jack.

Jack: How are you feeling after your first official week? Sophie hasn’t called to demand a new nanny, so I assume you’re doing something right.

I smirked.

Emma: Shocking, I know. I’ll try not to let my success go to my head.

Jack: I’d appreciate that.

The three bubbles that indicated he was typing appeared and disappeared a few times but no other message came through. A small smile lingered on my lips as I pocketed my phone and turned back to unpacking. I didn’t know what to do with the framed photo but I couldn’t quite stomach putting it out on the bookshelf. I knew it wasn’t my place to decide, so I tucked it on the top shelf in Sophie’s closet. If Jack wanted it out, he’d be able to find it easily enough.

It was my first Friday pick up, and it looked different from the other days. University School’s front steps were teeming with well-dressed parents, their voices a mixture of laughter, hushed gossip, and overly cheerful greetings. There were parents each day, but also a healthy mix of nannies and grandparents. Friday pick up had more of a party atmosphere. A “see and be seen” vibe. I made a note to mention this new bit of school culture information to Jack.

Standing in my usual spot to the right of the front steps, I barely had a chance to take it all in before a polished blonde with sharp eyes approached me.

“You must be Sophie’s mother,” the woman said smoothly, her gaze sweeping over me. “I saw you with Jack at drop off Monday.”

“Oh, I’m actually—”

“It’s nice to see you here. It’s wonderful that you’re involved now. I don’t know if Jack mentioned it but he and I both worked at the same hospital in New York. We’re so glad to have him in Chicago now.”

I blinked. “Right, well—”

“Victoria,” another woman interjected with a tight smile. “I think she—”

But Victoria was already linking her arm with me like we were old friends. “A word of advice? The birthday party situation here is brutal. Invitations go out like social currency. Just something to keep in mind.”

I barely had time to process that before Sophie ran up, her sparkly backpack bouncing against her shoulders. She glanced at Victoria and then up at me hesitantly. “Can we go?”

I took Sophie’s hand, throwing a polite smile to Victoria before making our escape. The younger woman who had tried to interject earlier caught my eye and gave me a knowing look before turning back to her own child.

Sophie was unusually quiet on our walk home. Something was off.

“I’d say this was a pretty good first week. What about you?”

Sophie shrugged, kicking invisible rocks as we walked. I kept on, “I finished unpacking your room today. Want to stop by the hardware store on the way home and we can pick out paint?”

She didn’t look up. “Maybe another time.” she mumbled. Yikes, this wasn’t good. We detoured to the nearest fro-yo shop and I didn’t ask any more questions. The sweet treat improved Sophie’s mood and I didn’t mention school for the rest of the afternoon.

Jack

I stepped through the front door, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension knotting at the base of my neck. It had been a long day—surgery prep for Monday, rounds, meetings—but the sound of laughter drifting from the kitchen stopped me in my tracks. The grip on my briefcase loosened as I listened. Sophie’s giggles, high and uninhibited, were a sound I hadn’t heard in a long time. And then there was Emma’s voice, light and teasing, coaxing even more laughter from my daughter.

Following the laughter, I found Emma at the stove, a wooden spoon in hand, expertly stirring a pan of what smelled like garlic butter and fresh herbs. She was barefoot, her hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, tendrils escaping around her face. Sophie sat cross-legged on the counter beside her, clutching a bowl of shredded cheese, tossing in handfuls at Emma’s instruction.

I couldn’t help standing there, watching. The two of them looked so at ease together, like we hadn’t met Emma only a week ago. Like she had always been here. Something in my chest twisted at the sight. Emma must have sensed me because she turned her head slightly, meeting my gaze. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air shifted, thickening between us. It might have been the way the soft kitchen light cast a glow on her face or the easy way she moved in my home, but something flickered inside me—something warm, something dangerous.

Emma’s lips parted like she was about to say something, but shut her mouth.

“You cook?” I asked, stepping farther into the kitchen.

“Hi Daddy!” I walked over and kissed the top of Sophie’s head.

Emma blinked, like shaking off a daze, before grinning. “I do. And I figured if I was going to unpack your kitchen, I might as well put it to good use.”

I raised an eyebrow. Emma gave me a playful look. “I’m a saint.” she continued “And you, Dr. Greene, were one day away from eating takeout on paper plates indefinitely.”

Sophie giggled. “Emma says you have ‘single-dad kitchen syndrome.’”

I let out a chuckle, dropping my briefcase by the doorway. “And what does that mean?”

Emma flipped off the burner and set the pan aside. “It means you have one of everything: one frying pan, one pot, one spatula… but, oddly, three corkscrews.”

“I like to be prepared.”

Emma shot me a knowing grin. “Right. For what, a surprise wine-tasting party?”

Before I could think of a response, Sophie hopped off the counter, “Can we eat now?”

Emma ruffled Sophie’s hair before grabbing the pan. “Let’s eat.”

We sat around the kitchen island, conversation flowing easily. I didn’t realize how much I had missed family dinners, the kind where laughter filled the space, where Sophie talked about her day in excited bursts instead of single-word answers. Emma asked all the right questions—who she sat with at lunch, if she liked her teacher, if anyone was mean—and Sophie, to my astonishment, answered all of them.

Sophie’s shoulders slumped when Emma asked about anyone being mean. “Yeah. There’s a birthday party this weekend. I didn’t get invited.”

My jaw tightened. “Did you want to go?”

Sophie hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Emma and I glanced at each other over Sophie’s head. It wasn’t fine. But I didn’t know how to fix it. I couldn’t go beat up a kid. From the look in her eyes, Emma didn’t know what to do either.

Sophie twirled her fork in her pasta and said, “So, a bunch of people at school think Emma is my mom.”