14October 2025
I woke to the smell of stale tea and the sight of Melanie standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, her manicured nails catching the morning light. She flicked an impatient hand toward the ageing but sturdy builtin cupboards. I sighed, set my cup down, and braced for another round of the same argument.
Emily, weve been over this, I said, trying to keep my voice level. Ive landed a big contract, but the payment wont come for two months. We cant just splash three hundred pounds on a new kitchen now. This one still holds together.
Sturdy? she laughed, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. Thats a word my grandmother would useshes not sturdy, shes old-fashioned. I want our home to feel cosy and presentable, not a dump where I have to blush when friends visit. Is that too much to ask?
I ran a hand through my hair. At fortyfive, after my first wife died five years ago, Ive been living alone with my two teens, running on autopilot: work, the house, school runs, parentteacher meetings. Its been a neverending treadmill with no clear exit. Then Melanie burst onto the scene, bright and lively, like fireworks in my grey existence, making me feel like a man again rather than a solitary dad. We fell headoverheels, kept it simple, got married in a modest ceremony, and a month later she was my lawful wife and the lady of our threebed flat in Salford.
I get it, I said, trying to bridge the gap. I want you happy too. Lets wait a bit. Ill finish the project and then we can order that glossy white kitchen youve been dreaming of.
She softened, slipped her arms around my neck, the scent of expensive perfume and fresh coffee drifting from her. Sorry, I didnt mean to press you. I just want to build our nest, fresh and new.
Our teenage daughter, fourteenyearold Ethel, slipped into the kitchen barefoot, her long blonde braid swinging. She looked a lot like her late mother.
Morning, Dad. Have you seen my sketchbook?
Morning, love. I think it was on the side table in the lounge yesterday.
She gave me a quick, nervous glance at Melanie, then muttered a hesitant Morning. Melanies reply was cool, Good morning. And perhaps you should wash up and tidy yourself before breakfast.
Ethels cheeks flushed a deep crimson, she whispered an apology and slipped away. I frowned.
Melanie, why the harshness? Shes just a child.
Exactly, Melanie snapped. A child who needs rules, otherwise shell grow into a slob. Im only trying to help.
Just then, Harvey, seventeen, lumbered in, his expression sour. He opened the fridge and grunted, Anything to eat?
Do you want some scrambled eggs? I offered, hoping to defuse the tension.
Sure, he replied.
Melanie retreated to the window, clearly weighed down by the presence of my kids. She never said it outright, but every gesture, every look told me she felt the burden. I hoped, over time, we might all find a rhythm. I wanted this new family to work.
After breakfast I retreated to my workshopa modest room Id fitted out for carpentry. Im a furniture restorer, and the scent of pine, varnish, and shellac always steadied me. Today I was fixing an antique rocking chair, coaxing the intricate carving back to life. The work demanded my full attention and offered a brief escape from the storm brewing at home.
I love Melanieher laughter, her energy, the way she eyes me. Yet each day I see the widening chasm between her world of chic parties, art galleries, and pricey restaurants, and my world of wood shavings, Harveys school dramas, Ethels watercolor sketches, and the quiet evenings with a book. My first wife, Anna, was differentquiet, homely, filling our home with warmth, not gloss. A photo of her, smiling with a bunch of wild daisies, still sits on a shelf in the workshop, as if watching me. Sometimes I feel shes scolding me, What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you leading your children?
Evening brought a surprise: boxes stacked in the hallway.
Whats all this? I asked, eyeing the neatly packed items.
I thought we should declutter a bit, Melanie said cheerfully, emerging from the living room. You have no idea how much junk has piled up. Look at this awful vase, the old magazines, the kids crafts.
I opened a box and found a small, crooked clay hedgehogEthels fifthgrade project. I remembered how proud shed been.
Melanie, thats not junk, I said as calmly as I could. Those are our memories.
Sweetheart, memories belong in the heart, not gathering dust in corners, she replied, smiling with a cold glint in her eye. We agreed to start a new life, and a new life needs fresh space, free of the past.
Her words cut deeper than any argument. I carried the boxes back, placed the hedgehog on a shelf, feeling an invisible wall rising between us.
A week passed and the tension only grew. Melanies remarks about the children became frequentHarveys music too loud, Ethel spilling paint again, dishes left unwashed. The teens retreated, speaking little in her presence. Harvey started disappearing with his mates, returning late; Ethel locked herself in her room, painting melancholy landscapes. I was torn, trying to be a loving husband and a caring father.
One night I found Ethel crying.
Whats wrong, love? I asked.
She handed me her sketchbook, where a portrait of her mothera vivid, lifelike likenesswas on the page.
Its beautiful, I said, you have real talent. Why are you sad?
Melanie said I shouldnt live in the past, Ethel whispered. She told me I could draw a picture of her if I wanted to please you, as if I should forget Mum.
I held my daughter, a low fury bubbling inside. I decided tonight would be the night I finally spoke to Melanie.
When the children were asleep, I entered the bedroom where Melanie was applying some cream in front of the mirror.
We need to talk, I began, cutting straight to the chase.
Again? Andrew, Im exhausted. Ive had a rough day at the salon, she replied.
Why did you hurt Ethel? Why bring up the portrait?
She turned, face flat and indifferent. I just gave my opinion. Its abnormal for a teenager to cling to the past. She needs to move onfor her own good.
Her mother is dead! I snapped. She has the right to remember, to draw her, to speak about her. Its part of who she is!
The past is holding us back from a new life! Melanies voice rang. I didnt marry you to be a curator of your exwifes museum. Her photos, her recipes, her thingsnow even her endless drawings! I cant take it any longer!
She rose, eyes flashing. The woman I fell in love with seemed replaced by a strangerbitter, selfish.
I want to be the lady of this house, she said, voice shaking with anger. A proper lady! I want to change everything, my way! But your children stand in the way.
I felt the chill of her intent.
What are you trying to say?
She inhaled deeply, then stepped close, eyes locked on mine.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I need a normal familymy own familynot a shared flat with two sullen teenagers who hate me.
She fell silent, letting the weight of her words settle. Then, as if delivering a verdict, she said:
Your children from your first marriage will not live here.
The silence that followed was deafening. I stared, words failing me, as if the floor might give way beneath me.
What? I managed, though I heard her perfectly.
You understand, she said, calmer now. They have a grandmotherMia, Annas mother. They could stay with her, or we could rent them a flat once Harvey turns eighteen. There are boarding schools, after all. Well visit, well help, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house to be ours, just ours.
She spoke about it as casually as if we were choosing new sofas, as if the children were merely old things to be cleared out for fresh space.
Youre out of your mind, I croaked. Send my own children to Grandma? To a boarding school?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Many do it. Its a civilized solution. You have to choose, Andreweither we build our new life together, or you keep living in the past with your kids. Either me, or them.
She turned away, flopping onto the bed, facing the wall. The ultimatum hung in the air.
I left the bedroom, stumbled to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and halfspilled it as my hands shook. I sat at the very table wed fought over this morning. God, how small that seemed compared to the storm raging now.
I felt like a traitorbetraying Anna, whod asked me to look after her children, betraying Harvey and Ethel, whod already lost so much. I was the only adult left to decide between them and this new woman.
I quietly opened Ethels bedroom door. She slept, clutching a worn teddy bear, the sketchbook and her mothers portrait perched on the nightstand. I peeked into Harveys room; he lay sprawled, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their fortress, the one Id been helping to build.
Sleep eluded me all night. I roamed the flat like a ghost, staring at familiar things: the repaired chair wed fixed together, the shelf where Id helped Ethel arrange her books, Annas wellworn recipe book with its dogeared pages of Victoria sponge. All of it was my life, not the glossy magazine spread Melanie wanted.
I recalled how Melanie entered my life when I was broken, bringing laughter, celebration, the feeling that life could go on. I was grateful, almost willing to ignore her selfishness, her coldness toward my children, her dismissal of my past. I told myself it was all minor, that things would smooth over. I wanted happiness so badly I almost made the gravest mistake of my life.
By dawn I was oddly calm. The decision settled itself, plain and inevitable.
Melanie was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, looking fresh and beautiful as if yesterdays fight never happened.
Good morning, love, she sang. I hope youve thought it through.
I poured my coffee in silence, slid into the seat opposite her.
Yes, I said evenly. I have thought it through.
I met her gaze, and any trace of love or doubt had evaporated, leaving only a cold, empty void.
You can start gathering your things, I said quietly but firmly.
She froze, cup halfway to her lips.
What? What did you just say?
I said gather your things. Youre no longer welcome here.
Her mask cracked, revealing anger and bewilderment.
You youre kicking me out? Because of them? You choose them over me?
Its not them, I corrected. Its my children. Ive never chosen between you and them, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt furniture you can discard. I guess I forgot that. Thanks for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shrieked. Youll end up alone in your little den with memories and two calves! No decent woman will ever put up with you!
Maybe, I replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the most precious thing I have.
I stood and headed back to my workshop, not wanting to hear any more. The door slammed behind me, the cupboards rattling. Somewhere upstairs I heard the thud of Melanie hurling her belongings into a suitcase.
I took up my tools, my handshands accustomed to building and repairingshaking slightly. I glanced at Annas photograph, her smile still warm.
Half an hour later the house fell silent. The front door clicked shut as Melanie left. In the hallway lay a silk scarf shed abandoned in her haste. I tossed it into the bin. The flat was quietan unfamiliar peace, not the oppressive silence of solitude but a calm, soothing hush where everything seemed finally in its place.
Harvey and Ethel emerged, bleary-eyed, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and relief.
Wheres Melanie? Ethel asked.
Shes gone, I answered simply.
They exchanged glances, no glee, no spitejust a shy, tentative relief and the unasked question of what comes next.
I pulled them into a tight embrace, the kind I hadnt offered in ages.
She wont be coming back, I said, feeling Ethel nestle against me and Harvey, surprisingly adult yet still a boy, place his hand briefly on my shoulder. Now things will be alright. I promise.
I dont know what the future holds for us. I only know Im homein my real home, with my real family. And no one will ever force me to choose again.
