Alwyns Resolve
Alwyn had grown up in an orphanage, surrounded by other children like herself and the carers who looked after them. Life had never been sweet, but she had learned to stand up for herself and for the younger ones. She had a sharp sense of justice and could not bear to see the weak mistreated. Sometimes she suffered for it, but she never criedshe told herself she endured for what was right.
Her full name was Albina, but at the orphanage, they shortened it to Alwyn. The moment she turned eighteen, she was sent out into the world to fend for herself. At least she had a tradeshe had trained as a cook and had already been working for a few months as an assistant at a small café. They gave her a room in a dormitory, but it was dreadful, barely fit to live in.
By then, she had been seeing Victor, a man three years older than her who worked at the same café as a delivery driver for a van. Soon enough, she moved into his one-bedroom flat, inherited from his late grandmother.
“Albina, come live with me,” he had said. “Whats the point of that wretched dormitory? The lock barely works, and the place is falling apart.” She agreed without hesitation.
She liked Victor because he seemed older, steadier. They spoke of children once, and he had been firm.
“I cant stand little brats. All noise and trouble.”
“Victor,” she had replied, startled, “but if it was yoursyour own flesh and bloodhow could you say such things?”
“Enough,” he had waved her off. “Ive said my piece. No kids. Ever.”
His words stung, but she told herself that if they married one day, he might change his mind.
At the café, she worked hard, even covering for the head cook, Valerie, when she claimed a headache kept her from workthough everyone knew Valeries headaches came from drinking too much.
“One more slip-up, and youre out,” the café manager, Mr. Edwards, warned her, though he knew Valerie was a fine cook, praised by customers.
“Shes brilliant, that one,” friends would say.
So Valerie clung to her job, enduring the warnings. She knew they kept her only because of her skill. She had noticed, too, how Alwyn was quick to learn, cooking with heart. Mr. Edwards had begun watching the girl closely.
Once, Alwyn overheard him speaking with the head waiter.
“If Valerie skips work once more, shes out. That young Albinashes got promise. Shes not spoiled, shes responsible.” The rest was lost as they walked away.
“So, Mr. Edwards has his eye on me,” she thought. She pitied Valerie but kept the conversation to herself, not even telling Victor.
Time passed. Valerie vanished for a week. Alwyn cooked in her place, and no customer complainedno one noticed the change. When Valerie returned, she was a wreckshaking hands, dark circles under her eyes.
Mr. Edwards called her into his office and dismissed her. Then he came to the kitchen.
“From today, Albina, youre head cook. Youve got talent, and I believe youll rise to the occasion.”
“Thank you,” she said, nervous but determined.
She was overjoyed. The pay was good, and at her young age, she had already earned such trust.
That evening, Victor brought champagne.
“Lets celebrate your promotion,” he grinned. “Youve done well.”
They had been together nearly three years. He didnt drink much, was usually on the road, and never raised a hand to her. There were arguments, of course, but they made up quickly. Yet he never spoke of marriage, and she never pressed him.
Then she discovered she was expecting. The doctor confirmed it. She was overjoyed.
“Ive no family,” she thought, stroking her still-flat stomach, “but this one will be mine.”
When Victor came home, she told him. His face darkened.
“I dont want it. Either you get rid of it, or you leave. I wont have children in my life.”
He spoke calmly, but his tone chilled her. She had hoped he might soften, but his words were final.
“Where will you go?” he said. “Youre from the orphanage. Youve got nothing.”
The next day, after her shift, she returned to the dormitory. The door to her old room, number thirty-five, was peeling, the number scrawled in marker over a faded sign. She pushed it openit wasnt locked.
The hinges creaked. The room smelled of damp and dust. The ceiling flaked, dead flies littered the windowsill. An iron bed with a stained mattress stood against one wall; a rickety table and chair in the corner.
She set down her baga few clothes, books, plates, cups. She touched her stomach.
“Well manage,” she whispered.
Next door, a drunk shouted obscenities. She flinched but then smiled.
“Welcome home, Alwyn.”
The shared kitchen was grimcracked stove, rusted fridge, cockroaches scurrying by the bin.
Back in her room, she bolted the door. For a moment, she wanted to crythen she felt free. Victor had sneered, “Where will you go?”
Well, here she was. Her own space. She would make it work.
She cleaned fiercely. By evening, the room was fresh, the windows clear. The next day, she bought bedding, towels, soap, a new lock. Old Pete, the dorm handyman, fitted it for her, cheerful as ever.
Life settled. At the café, a new waiter, Timothy, watched her kindly. One evening, he walked her home. She invited him in for tea, and that night, she sensed his interestbut she dismissed it. She was expecting another mans child.
Yet Timothy persisted. One day, he said, “Albina, marry me. Ive no one, nor have you. I love youand your child will be mine too.”
She thought of Victors coldness. Timothy was warmth itself.
They wed. When her time came, he waited at the hospital, then rushed home to paint the room, set up a crib. When she returned with their son, the room was transformedfresh wallpaper, balloons, flowers.
She barely recognised it.
Timothy had made it a home.
