It has been years since that bitter winter in the little terraced house on Abbey Street, and I still hear the clash of voices echoing off the cracked plaster.
Your children from your first marriage wont be living here, Blythe declared, her tone as sharp as the frost on the windowpane.
Andrew, weve been over this, I had said, trying to keep my patience from spilling over. Why do you keep bringing it up again? Those shabby cupboards ruin the whole kitchen!
Blythe stood in the centre of the kitchen, arms crossed, her immaculate manicure flashing in the weak morning light as she flicked a hand toward the old but sturdy cabinets. I let out a heavy sigh, set my cooling tea down, and realised the day was already off to a grim start.
Blythe, Ive explained, I began. Ive just landed a big commission, but the payment wont arrive for two months. We cant just throw thirtythousand pounds at a new kitchen right now. The current one still holds up.
Sturdy? she snorted. That word belongs in my grandmothers lexicon. She wasnt sturdy; she was oldfashioned. I want our home to feel cosy and elegant, to be able to invite friends without blushing at the worn corners. Is that really so much to ask?
At fortyfive, after my first wife Anna died five years ago, I had been living alone with my two children, drifting through work, school meetings, and endless chores. It was a life of simply existing. Then Blythe burst into my grey world like a fireworks display, making me feel a man again rather than a solitary father. I fell for her quickly, head over heels, and we married modestly, signing the register and sharing a quiet dinner with a few close friends. A month later she was my lawful wife and the mistress of our threebedroom flat.
I understand, I said, softening. I want you to be happy too. Lets wait a bit. Ill finish the project, and then well order everything you dream of white, glossy, just as you like.
Blythes expression melted; she moved closer, hugging my neck, the scent of expensive perfume mingling with a faint coffee aroma.
Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you, she whispered. I just want to build our nest, make everything fresh.
At that moment our daughter, fourteenyearold Ivy, slipped barefoot into the kitchen, her long blonde braid trailing behind her. She looked remarkably like her late mother.
Morning, Dad, she said. Have you seen my drawing pad?
Good morning, love, I replied, glancing toward the hallway table where Id left it yesterday.
She gave Blythe a quick, startled glance.
Good morning, she murmured softly.
Good morning, Blythe replied coldly, stepping away from me. It would be nice if you washed up and tidied yourself before coming down for breakfast.
Ivy flushed deeply, muttering an apology before retreating down the corridor. I frowned at Blythe.
Why so harsh? Shes just a child.
Exactly, Blythe answered. A child who needs teaching order, otherwise shell grow into a mess. Im only trying to help.
Soon after, our son, seventeenyearold Harry, entered the kitchen, his tall, sullen figure casting a shadow over the table.
Anything to eat? he grumbled, opening the fridge.
Scrambled eggs, perhaps? I asked, trying to ease the tension.
Sure, he said.
Blythe moved to the window, watching the children with a thinly veiled disdain. Their presence clearly weighed on her, though she never said it outright. I hoped time would smooth the edges and that we could become a happy family.
After breakfast I retreated to my workshop, a modest room fitted for my work as a furniture restorer. The scent of shavings, varnish, and linseed oil always calmed me. At that moment I was repairing an antique rocking chair, coaxing out the intricate carving on its armrest. The meticulous work demanded my full concentration and offered a respite from the heaviness of home life.
I loved Blytheher laughter, her energy, the way she looked at me. Yet daily I saw that the world she inhabitedglitzy parties, designer exhibitions, pricey restaurantswas a different universe from the one I shared with my children: the smell of wood dust, Ivys watercolor sketches on the walls, Harrys loud music, and the quiet evenings with a book. And there was always the memory of Anna, my first wife, whose love had made a modest cottage feel warm without any fancy décor. Her photograph still perched on a shelf in my workshop, smiling with a bunch of wild daisies, seemed to watch me with a silent reproach: What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you taking your children?
One evening, returning to the flat, I found a pile of cardboard boxes in the hallway.
Whats all this? I asked, eyeing the neatly stacked items.
I thought it was time to clear out the clutter, Blythe replied cheerfully, emerging from the sitting room. You have no idea how much junk has built up. Look at this dreadful vase, the old magazines, the childrens crafts.
I lifted a box and found at the top a misshapen clay hedgehog that Ivy had made in year five. I remembered how proud Id been of her then.
Blythe, that isnt junk, I said as calmly as I could. Its our memories.
Sweetheart, memories belong in the heart, not gathering dust in corners. We agreed to start a new life, and a new life needs fresh space, free of the past, she replied with a smile that didnt reach her eyes. I placed the hedgehog back on the shelf, feeling an invisible wall rise between us.
A week passed, and tension grew. Blythes remarks about the children multiplied: Harrys music too loud, Ivy spilling paint again, the dishes left unwashed. The children withdrew, speaking little in her presence. Harry began staying out later with his mates; Ivy retreated to her room, drawing melancholy landscapes. I was torn between being a loving husband and a caring father.
One night I found Ivy in tears.
Whats wrong, love? I asked.
She handed me her sketchbook. One page held a portrait of her mother, eerily lifelike.
Its beautiful, I said, feeling a surge of pride. You have real talent. Why are you crying?
Blythe said I shouldnt live in the past, Ivy whispered. She told me not to draw her mothers portrait if I wanted to please you, as if I should forget my mum.
I hugged her tightly, a low fury bubbling inside. I decided then that I would confront Blythe that very night.
When the children were finally asleep, I entered the bedroom where Blythe sat before a mirror, applying some cream.
We need to talk, I said without preamble.
Again? Andrew, Im exhausted. Ive had a hard day at the salon, she replied.
Why did you hurt Ivy? Why bring up the portrait?
She turned, her face calm and almost indifferent.
I merely voiced my opinion. Its abnormal for a teenager to cling to the past. She should move onfor her own good.
Her mother is dead! I raised my voice. She has the right to remember, to draw, to speak of her. Its part of who she is!
It hinders us from building a new life! Blythes voice rang. I came here to be your wife, not a curator of your former familys museum! Everywhere I lookphotos, recipes, her thingsit feels like a shrine. And now these endless drawings! I cant take it any longer!
She sprang up, eyes flashing like lightning. The Blythe I had fallen for seemed gone, replaced by a strangerbitter, selfish, angry.
I want to be the lady of this house, she snarled. A proper lady! I want to change everything my way! But your children stand in my way.
I felt the chill of her intent. What are you trying to say?
She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, then stepped close, looking straight into my eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I want a normal familymy own family, not a house full of two brooding teenagers who despise me.
She fell silent, then delivered the line that would seal our fate.
Your children from your first marriage will not live here.
The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at her, my mouth dry, feeling the floor give way beneath me.
What? I managed to ask, though I had heard every word.
You understand, she replied more calmly. They have a grandmotherAnnas motherwho can take them. Or we could rent them a flat once Harry turns eighteen. There are boarding schools, after all. Well visit them, help them, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house to be ours, just ours.
She spoke as if discussing a new set of chairs, as if my children were merely old furniture to be discarded.
Youre insane, I croaked. Send my own children to their grandmother? To a boarding house?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Many do it. Its the civilized way. You have to choose, Andreweither we build our new life together, or you keep living in the past with your kids. Its either me or them.
She turned and lay down on the bed, deliberately turning her back to me. The ultimatum hung in the air; she waited for my answer.
I left the bedroom, my legs stiff, and shuffled to the kitchen. I poured a glass of water, but my hands trembled so badly that half of it spilled. I sat at the very table wed argued over that morning. Lord, how trivial that was compared to what had just happened.
I felt like a traitortraitor to Anna, to whom Id promised to look after their children; traitor to Harry and Ivy, whod already lost so much. And now, as their father, I was forced to choose between them and a new woman.
I gently pushed open Ivys door. She slept, clutching a worn teddy bear, a sketchbook and the portrait of her mother lying on the nightstand. I peeked into Harrys room; he lay sprawled, a band poster above his head. This was their world, their fortressone I had painstakingly helped build.
That night I could not close my eyes. I roamed the flat like a ghost, staring at the restored chair Id fixed with Harry, the shelf wed assembled with Ivy for her books, Annas handwritten recipe book with its dogeared pages. All of it was my real life, not the glossy magazine picture Blythe wanted.
I remembered how Blythe had entered my life when I was broken, bringing laughter, celebration, the feeling that life could go on. I was grateful enough to overlook her selfishness, her coldness toward my children, her disregard for my past. I told myself it was all minor, that things would smooth out. I wanted happiness so desperately that I almost made the gravest mistake of my life.
The next morning I was calm. The decision came as naturally as the sunrisesimple, inevitable, right.
Blythe was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, looking fresh as if yesterdays argument had never occurred.
Morning, love, she chirped. I hope youve thought it through.
I poured myself a coffee and sat opposite her.
Yes, I said evenly. I have thought it through.
I met her gaze, and there was no longer any love or doubt in my eyesonly a cold, empty void.
You can start gathering your things, I said quietly but firmly.
Blythe froze, coffee cup trembling.
What? What did you say?
I said you should collect your belongings. Youre no longer welcome here.
Her mask of composure cracked, revealing anger and bewilderment.
You youre evicting me? Because of them? You choose them over me?
Its not them, I corrected. These are my children. I never chose between you and them, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt furniture you can discard. I seem to have forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she screamed. Youll be left alone in your den with your memories and two little calves! No decent woman will ever live with you again!
Perhaps, I replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the most precious thing I have.
I walked back to my workshop, not wanting to hear any more. The door slammed behind me, rattling the dishes in the cupboards. From the bedroom came the clatter of Blythe hurling her things into a suitcase.
I sat at the workbench, my handshands of a makershaking slightly as I picked up my tools. I glanced at Annas photograph; she still smiled at me with that warm, understanding grin.
Half an hour later the house fell silent. I heard the front door close; Blythe had left.
I stepped into the hallway. Her silk scarf lay abandoned on the floor. I lifted it and tossed it into the bin. The flat was quietso quiet it felt like a longforgotten peace, not the oppressive silence of loneliness but a calm that settled after a storm.
Harry and Ivy shuffled out of their rooms, blearyeyed. They stared at the empty corridor.
Wheres Blythe? Ivy asked.
Shes gone, I answered simply.
Their faces showed no triumph, no malicejust a tentative relief and a question they had feared to ask.
I crossed over and embraced them both, tighter than I had in years.
She wont be coming back, I said, feeling Ivy nestle against me and Harry, grown and prickly, place a tentative hand on my shoulder. Now things will be alright. I promise.
I could not foresee what the future held for us. All I knew was that I was home, in my true home, with my true family. And no one would ever force me to choose again.
