Your kids from your first marriage arent staying here, she said, eyes flashing.
Emily, weve already been over this. I dont get why you keep bringing it up. Those shabby cupboards are ruining the whole look!
Megan stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, her fresh manicure catching the light as she gestured toward the old but sturdy kitchen suite. Andrew let out a weary sigh, set his cooling tea mug down, and stared at the ceiling. Morning was already off to a rough start.
Mark, I told you. Ive got a big contract on the go, but the payment wont come for another two months. We cant just splash three thousand pounds on a new kitchen now. This one still holds up.
Still holds up? youre borrowing words from my grans vocabulary. Shes not sturdy, shes just oldfashioned. I want our home to feel cosy and look nice. I want to invite friends without feeling embarrassed by cracked corners. Is that really too much?
Andrew ran a hand through his hair. At fortyfive, after his first wife died, hed spent the last five years alone with his two children. Life was a relentless loop of work, house chores, school runs, PTA meetings a grind with no obvious way out. Then Megan appeared, bright and lively, bursting into his drab routine like fireworks, making him feel like a man again, not just a lone dad. He fell hard, fast, like a schoolboy with his first crush. Their lowkey wedding was simple, just close family, and a month later Megan was officially his wife and the lady of their threebed flat.
I get it, Andrew said, trying to soften his tone. I want you happy too. Lets wait a bit. Ill finish the project and then we can order whatever you want glossy white, just like youve imagined.
Megans shoulders relaxed. She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, the scent of expensive perfume mixed with something sweet and coffeelike.
Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you. I just want us to build a proper nest, fresh and new.
Just then their teenage daughter, fourteenyearold Mabel, padded barefoot into the kitchen, her long blonde braid swinging. She looked eerily like her late mother.
Dad, morning. Have you seen my sketchbook?
Good morning, love. I think it was on the coffee table in the lounge yesterday, Andrew replied.
Mabel gave a quick, nervous glance at Megan.
Morning, she murmured.
Morning, Megan replied coolly, stepping away from Andrew. Maybe you should wash up and tidy yourself before joining us for breakfast.
Mabel flushed deep red, muttered an apologetic sorry, and slipped out into the hallway. Andrew frowned.
Megan, why that tone? Shes just a kid.
Exactly, Andrew. Kids need discipline or theyll grow into messes. Im only trying to help.
Soon after, their seventeenyearold son, Tom, stomped in, tall and brooding, casting a wary look at Megan.
Anything to eat? he grunted, swinging the fridge door open.
Want some scrambled eggs? Andrew asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Sure.
Megan drifted to the window, clearly weighed down by the presence of his children. She never said it outright, but every gesture, every glance showed it. Andrew hoped, though, that over time they’d find a rhythm and that his new family could be happy.
After breakfast, Andrew retreated to his workshop a small room hed turned into a carpenters haven. He was a furniture restorer, a true craftsman. The smell of pine, varnish, and linseed oil always steadied him. Right now he was coaxing an old rocking chair back to life, carefully carving the worn armrest. The work demanded his full attention and gave him a brief escape from the heavy thoughts swirling in his head.
He loved Megan her laugh, her energy, the way she looked at him. But each day he saw more clearly that their worlds were on different planets. Megan thrived on glossy soirées, trendy galleries, pricey restaurants. He lived among wood shavings, school dramas, Mabels watercolor splatters on the walls, and quiet evenings with a book plus the lingering memory of Anna, his first wife. He never compared them; Anna was different quiet, homebound, creating warmth with love rather than fancy décor. A photo of her, smiling with a handful of daisies, still sat on a shelf in his workshop, sometimes seeming to chide him: What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you taking your kids?
That evening, when he walked back home, boxes were stacked in the hallway.
Whats all this? he asked, eyeing the neatly piled items.
I thought we could clear out the clutter, Megan said brightly, stepping out of the living room. You have no idea how much junk youve accumulated. Look, this horrendous vase, old magazines, a bunch of kids crafts.
Andrew rummaged through a box and found a misshapen clay hedgehog that Mabel had made in year five. He remembered how proud shed been.
Megan, thats not junk, he said as calmly as he could. Those are our memories.
Darling, memories belong in the heart, not gathering dust in corners. We agreed to start fresh, didnt we? A new life needs new space, free of the past.
She smiled, but there was a cold edge in her eyes. He carried the boxes back, placed the hedgehog on a shelf, and felt an invisible wall rising between them.
A week passed, tension mounting. Megans comments about the kids grew more frequent Toms music too loud, Mabels spilled paint, dishes left unwashed. The children withdrew, hardly speaking when she was around. Tom started disappearing with friends, coming home late. Mabel hid in her room, drawing bleak landscapes. Andrew felt torn, trying to be a loving husband and a caring dad.
One night he found Mabel crying.
Whats wrong, love?
She handed him her sketchbook. One page held a vivid portrait of her mother, strikingly lifelike.
Its beautiful, Andrew said, his voice soft. You have talent. Why the tears?
Megan saw it, Mabel whispered. She said I shouldnt live in the past and that I could draw Moms portrait if I wanted to please you, as if I should forget her.
Andrews chest tightened with a lowburning anger. He decided hed speak to Megan that night.
He waited until the kids were asleep, then slipped into their bedroom. Megan was in front of the mirror, applying some cream.
We need to talk, he began, no preamble.
Again? Im exhausted, Andrew. Ive had a hard day at the salon, she snapped.
Why did you hurt Mabel? Why bring up the portrait?
Megan turned, her face calm, almost indifferent.
I just gave my opinion. I think its unhealthy for a teenager to cling to the past. She needs to move on, for her own good.
Her mother died! Andrews voice rose. She has every right to remember her, to draw her, to talk about her! Its part of who she is!
And that part blocks us from building a new life! Megans tone rang out. I moved in to be your wife, not a curator of your old family museum! Everywhere I look photos, recipes, now endless drawings! I cant take it any longer!
She leapt up, eyes flashing. Andrew barely recognized the vibrant woman hed fallen for. Before him stood a stranger angry, selfish.
I want to run this house, she said, breathless with fury. A proper home! I want everything my way! But your children are in the way.
Andrews skin grew cold. He sensed where she was heading.
What are you trying to say?
Megan inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, then stepped close, looking straight into his eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I want a normal family, my family, not a shared flat with two gloomy teenagers who hate me.
She fell silent, letting the weight of her words settle, then delivered the line that hit like a verdict.
Your children from your first marriage wont be living here.
The silence that followed was deafening. Andrew stared, unable to form a reply. It felt as if the floor was giving way beneath him.
What? he managed to stammer, though hed heard everything.
You get it now, Megan said, calmer. Grandma can look after them, or we could rent them a flat once Tom turns eighteen. There are boarding schools, care homes they can stay elsewhere. I just want this house to be ours just ours.
She spoke as if discussing a new sofa, not his children. It sounded like she was talking about tossing out old furniture, not about people.
Youre serious? Andrew croaked. Send my own kids to Grandma? To a boarding school?
Its a civilized solution, she shrugged. Lots of people do it. You have to choose either we build our new life together, or you keep living in the past with your kids. Its you or them.
She turned, lying down on the bed, deliberately turning her back to the wall. The ultimatum was set; she waited for his decision.
Andrew left the bedroom, his legs feeling like theyd been hammered. He poured himself a glass of water, but his shaking hands spilled half of it. He sat at the kitchen table the very one theyd argued over that morning and thought how trivial that dispute seemed now.
He felt like a traitor. A traitor to Anna, whose memory hed promised to protect. A traitor to Tom and Mabel, whod already endured loss. And now he, the sole parent, had to pick between them and this new woman.
He slipped quietly into Mabels room. She was asleep, clutching a teddy bear, the sketchbook and her mothers portrait lying on the nightstand. He peeked into Toms room; the boy was sprawled, arms out, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their home, the fortress hed built with his own hands.
Sleep never came. He paced the flat like a ghost, eyes lingering on familiar things the chair hed restored with Tom, the shelf theyd built with Mabel for her books, Annas wellworn recipe book with its dogeared pages of pies. All of it was his real life, not the glossy magazine picture Megan wanted.
He remembered how Megan had entered his life when he was broken and lonely, bringing laughter, a sense that life went on. Hed been grateful enough to overlook her selfishness, ignoring how she dismissed his past, his children. He told himself it was all small stuff, that things would smooth out. Hed wanted happiness so badly he almost made the biggest mistake of his life.
In the morning, a calm settled over him. The decision came almost on its own, simple and clear.
Megan was already at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, looking fresh as if the heated argument hadnt happened.
Morning, love, she sang. I trust youve thought it through.
Andrew poured his coffee in silence, sat opposite her.
Yes, he said evenly. I have thought it through.
He met her gaze, and any trace of love or doubt was gone, replaced by a cold, empty stare.
You can start gathering your things, he said quietly but firmly.
Megan froze, cup halfway to her lips.
What? What did you just say?
I said, pack up. Youre not living here any more.
Her face twisted, the pleasant mask slipping to reveal anger and bewilderment.
You youre kicking me out? Because of them? You choose them over me?
Its not them, Andrew corrected. Its my children. Ive never chosen between you and them, because you cant choose. A family isnt a piece of furniture you can toss aside. I guess I forgot that. Thanks for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shouted. Youll end up alone in your little den with your memories and two brats! No decent woman will ever put up with you!
Maybe, Andrew replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the most precious thing I have.
He stood and headed back to his workshop, not wanting to hear another word. The door slammed behind him, echoing through the flat, followed by the clatter of Megan throwing her belongings into a suitcase.
He sat at his bench, took up his tools. His hands hands of a maker, used to building and fixing trembled. He glanced at Annas photograph, her warm smile still shining.
Half an hour later, the house fell quiet. The front door clicked shut as Megan left.
Andrew stepped into the hallway. A silk scarf shed abandoned lay on the floor; he tossed it into the bin. Silence settled, deep and peaceful, the kind that hadnt been felt in years. It wasnt the oppressive silence of loneliness, but a calm that told him everything was finally where it should be.
Sleepgroggy Tom and Mabel emerged from their rooms, eyes widening at the empty corridor.
Wheres Megan? Mabel asked.
Shes gone, Andrew replied simply.
The kids exchanged a look no glee, no spite, just a quiet, tentative relief and a question theyd been too scared to ask.
Andrew moved forward and pulled them both into a tight hug, the kind he hadnt given in ages.
She wont be coming back, he said, feeling Mabel nestle against him and Tom, a bit older and still a little prickly, rest his hand on his shoulder. Now things will be alright. I promise.
He didnt know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he was home, in his real home, with his real family. And no one would ever force him to choose again.
