Your children from your first marriage wont live here, declared the new wife.
Andrew, weve already gone over this. I dont understand why you keep bringing it up again. Those shabby cupboards ruin the whole look!
Marion stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest. Her flawless manicure glinted as she snapped a hand toward the old but sturdy kitchen set. Andrew let out a heavy sigh and set his cup of cooling tea down. Morning had already gone awry.
Marion, I told you I have a big contract now, but the payment wont arrive for two months. We cant just throw thirtythousand pounds at a new kitchen. This one still holds together.
Strong? she smirked. Andrew, thats a word from my grandmothers lexicon. She wasnt strong, she was oldfashioned. I want our house to feel cosy and pretty. I want to invite friends without blushing at the battered corners. Is that too much?
He brushed his hair back. At fortyfive, after his first wife died, he had spent the last five years alone with his two children. He was living, not truly existing. Work, home, lessons, parentteacher meetingsall a relentless carousel with no exit. Then Marion appeared, bright and lively, bursting into his grey life like fireworks, making him feel like a man again, not just a single dad. He fell in love quickly, desperately, like a schoolboy. They kept the wedding modest, signed the registers, and celebrated with close friends. A month later Marion was his lawful wife and the lady of the threebed flat.
I understand, he said gently. I want you to be happy too. Lets wait a bit. Ill finish the project and well order everything you dream ofwhite, glossy, just as you want.
Marion softened, moved close, and slipped her arms around his neck. She smelled of expensive perfume and something sweet, coffeelike.
Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you. I just want to build our little nest, make everything new.
At that moment his teenage daughter, fourteenyearold Imogen, entered the kitchen, barefoot, her long blonde braid swaying. She looked a great deal like her late mother.
Dad, good morning. Have you seen my drawing pad?
Morning, sunshine. I think it was on the coffee table in the lounge yesterday.
Imogen nodded, casting a quick, frightened glance at Marion.
Good morning, she whispered.
Good morning, Marion replied coldly, stepping back from Andrew. And perhaps you should wash and comb yourself before breakfast.
Imogen flushed deeply, muttered sorry, and slipped out into the hallway. Andrew frowned.
Marion, why that tone? Shes just a child.
Exactly, Andrew. A child who needs order, otherwise shell grow into a mess. Im only trying to help.
Soon after, his seventeenyearold son, Owen, appeared, tall and sullen, giving Marion a hostile look as he crossed the threshold.
Anything to eat? he growled, opening the fridge.
Would you like some scrambled eggs? Andrew asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Sure.
Marion deliberately moved to the window. The presence of his children clearly weighed on her, though she never said it outright. Andrew hoped time would smooth the edges; he longed for a happy new family.
After breakfast he retreated to his workshopa small room fitted for carpentry. Andrew was a furniture restorer, a true craftsman. The scent of wood, varnish, and stain always soothed him. At that moment he was working on an antique rocking chair, reviving an intricate carving on the armrest. The meticulous work demanded his full attention and offered an escape from heavy thoughts.
He loved Marionher laugh, her energy, the way she looked at him. Yet each day he saw more clearly that her world and his childrens world were two different universes. Marion adored society parties, fashionable exhibitions, pricey restaurants. She was used to comfort and admiration. His world smelled of sawdust, echoed with Owens school troubles, Imogens watercolor splashes on the walls, and quiet evenings with a book. It also lingered with memories of Anne, his first wife. He never compared them; Anne had been differentquiet, homebound, creating warmth with love rather than luxury. Their house had been filled with a gentle glow, not glossy shine. A photograph of Anne perched on a shelf in the workshop, smiling with a bunch of wild daisies, sometimes seemed to gaze at him reproachfully: What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you taking your children?
That evening, back in the flat, boxes awaited him in the hallway.
Whats all this? he asked, eyeing the neatly stacked items.
I thought we could clear out the clutter, Marion chirped, emerging from the living room. You have no idea how much junk has piled up. Look, this dreadful vase, old magazines, childrens crafts.
Andrew opened one box and found a misshapen clay hedgehog that Imogen had made in fifth grade. He remembered how proud hed been of her then.
Marion, thats not junk, he said as calmly as possible. Those are our memories.
Darling, 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 smiled, but her eyes held a cold glint. He stayed silent, returned the boxes, and placed the hedgehog on a shelf. An invisible wall seemed to rise between them.
A week passed. Tension in the flat thickened. Marions remarks grew sharper: Owens music too loud, Imogen spilling paint again, dishes left unwashed. The children withdrew, speaking little in her presence. Owen started disappearing with friends, returning late. Imogen locked herself in her room, drawing bleak landscapes. Andrew was torn, trying to be a loving husband and a caring father.
One evening he found Imogen crying.
Whats wrong, love?
She handed him her sketchbook. On one page was a portrait of her mother, vivid and alive.
Its beautiful, Andrew said. You have real talent. Why are you sad?
Marion said I shouldnt live in the past, Imogen whispered. She told me I could draw her mothers portrait only if I wanted to please you, as if I should forget mum.
Andrews chest boiled with a silent fury. He decided to confront Marion that night. He waited until the children were asleep, then entered their bedroom where Marion was applying some cream to her face.
We need to talk, he began without preamble.
Again? Andrew, Im exhausted. Ive had a hard day at the salon.
Why did you hurt Imogen? Why mention the portrait?
Marion turned, her face calm, almost indifferent.
I simply voiced my opinion. I think its unhealthy for a teen to cling to the past. She should move onfor her own good.
She lost her mother! Andrews voice rose. She has a right to remember, to draw, to talk about her mum! Its part of who she is!
And that part prevents us from building a new life! Marions tone rang. I came here to be your wife, not the custodian of a museum of your former family! Everywhere I look there are her photos, her recipes, her things! And now these endless drawings! I cant take it any longer!
She sprang up, eyes flashing. Andrew barely recognized the woman he had fallen for. The cheerful, lighthearted Marion had turned into someone cold, selfish, and angry.
I want to be the lady of this house, she continued, breathless with rage. A proper lady! I want to change everything, do it my way! But your children stand in the way.
Andrew felt the chill of her intent.
What are you saying?
Marion inhaled deeply, steadied herself, and stepped close, looking straight into his eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I want a normal familymy familynot a shared flat with two gloomy teenagers who hate me.
She paused, letting the words settle, then delivered the final blow.
Your children from your first marriage will not live here.
Silence thundered after those words. Andrew stared, unable to speak, as the floor seemed to tilt beneath him.
What? he asked, though hed heard it all.
You understand, Marion said, now calmer. They have a grandmother, Aunt Anne. They could stay with her, or we could rent them a flat when Owen comes of age. There are boarding schools, after all. Well visit, help, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house to be ours alone.
She spoke as if discussing a new sofa, as if the children were merely old items to be cleared away.
Youre youre insane, Andrew rasped. Send my own children to their grandmother? To a boarding school?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Many do it. Its a civilized approach. Andrew, you must choose: either we build our new life together, or you keep living in the past with your children. Either me, or them.
She turned, lay on the bed, deliberately turning her back to the wall. The ultimatum hung heavy.
Andrew left the bedroom, his legs stiff, and shuffled to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, but his trembling hands spilled half of it. He sat at the very table theyd argued over that morning. Lord, he thought, what a trivial thing this is compared to whats happened now.
He felt like a traitorto Anne, whose memory hed promised to protect; to Owen and Imogen, whod already endured loss; and now, as their father, he was forced to choose between them and his new wife.
He quietly opened Imogens bedroom door. She slept, clutching a plush bear, sketchbook and her mothers portrait lying on the nightstand. He peered into Owens room. Owen slept, arms outstretched, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their fortress, which he was about to dismantle.
All night he lay awake, drifting through the flat like a ghost, studying familiar objects: the repaired chair hed fixed with Owen, the shelf theyd built with Imogen for her books, Annes battered recipe book on the kitchen shelf, its pages dogeared from her beloved pies. All of it was his real life, not the glossy picture Marion wanted.
He remembered how Marion had entered his life, broken and lonely. She brought laughter, celebration, the feeling that life went on. He was grateful enough to overlook her selfishness, her coldness toward his children, her disregard for his past. He convinced himself those were small things, that everything would settle. He had desperately wanted happiness, almost to the point of making the biggest mistake of his life.
Come morning, he was calm. The decision arrived on its own, simple and unmistakable.
Marion was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, fresh and beautiful as if the nights argument never existed.
Good morning, love, she sang. I hope youve thought it through.
Andrew poured his coffee in silence and sat opposite her.
Yes, he said evenly. Ive thought it through.
He looked her straight in the eye, and there was no love, no doubtonly a cold, icy void.
You can start gathering your things, he said softly but firmly.
Marion froze, coffee cup trembling.
What? What did you say?
I said you should collect your belongings. Youre no longer welcome here.
Her face twisted, the pretty mask dropping to reveal anger and confusion.
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 two, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt something you discard like old furniture. I seem to have forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shrieked. Youll end up alone in your den with your memories and two little calves! No decent woman will ever live with you!
Perhaps, Andrew replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the most precious thing I have.
He rose and went back to his workshop, refusing to hear any more. The door slammed behind him, rattling the dishes in the cupboard. A crash echoed from the bedroomMarion, in a fury, was throwing her things into a suitcase.
Andrew sat at his workbench, handshands of a maker, used to creating and repairingshaking slightly. He glanced at Annes photograph; she still smiled at him with that warm, understanding grin.
Half an hour later, the house fell quiet. The front door closed with a final click; Marion had left.
He stepped into the hallway. A silk scarf of hers lay abandoned on the floor. He picked it up and tossed it into the bin. Silence settled, a peace that had been missing for years. It wasnt the oppressive loneliness of an empty house, but a calm, reassuring hush where everything finally found its place.
Sleepridden Owen and Imogen emerged from their rooms, eyes wide with surprise at the empty corridor.
Wheres Marion? Imogen asked.
Shes gone, Andrew answered simply.
The children exchanged looks. Their faces held no joy, no spitejust a quiet, shy relief and a question theyd feared to ask.
Andrew moved forward and embraced them both, tightly, as he hadnt done in ages.
She wont be coming back, he said, feeling Imogen cling to him, while Owen, all grown and a little prickly, placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. Now everything will be alright. I promise.
He didnt know what the future held for them. He knew only this: he was home, in his real home, with his real family. And no one would ever force him to choose again.
