The new wife of my father carted away every one of Mums belongings while I was at the office
Verity, are you even listening? I asked when youll hand in the report!
Excuse me? I snapped, then remembered. Sorry, Marion. Itll be ready by Friday.
By Friday? Today is already Thursday, my colleague scolded, shaking her head. Youve barely been here lately. Is it that Lucy again?
I clenched my fists under the desk. Just hearing my fathers new wifes name tightened a knot in my throat.
I dont want to talk about it.
Dont shut yourself off, Marion moved her chair closer. You need to have a serious talk with your father. Hes lost his head. He married her just six months after Mums funeral!
Eight months, I corrected automatically. Dads an adult; he knows what hes doing.
Exactly, he doesnt know! Men his age are especially vulnerable. And Lucy is young, probably after your flat already.
I wanted to argue, but deep down I knew Marion was right. Lucy was eighteen years younger than my father. Theyd met at the local health centre where she worked as a nurse. My father had still been driving Mum to her appointments back then.
Ive got to go, I gathered my papers and slipped them into my bag. We agreed I could leave early today.
Off you go. Just promise youll call if anything comes up.
I nodded and stepped out. A fine November drizzle fell as I lifted my coat collar and hurried to the bus stop. The ride home was about twenty minutes, then another five minutes on foot. Id lived with my parents in a twobedroom flat on the third floor of a ninestorey council block. After Mum died Id thought about moving out, renting somewhere, but my wages were modest and the market was so pricey that a months rent seemed impossible.
Dad had persuaded me to stay.
Verity, dont leave me alone, hed said. Im as helpless without your mother as a man without hands. I need you near.
So I stayed, cooking, cleaning, washing, trying to fill the hollowness Mum left behind. Then Lucy appeared.
At first Dad merely mentioned a pleasant nurse. Then he started taking longer walks. Six months later he announced he was getting married.
Listen, love, he said, I cant do this alone. I need a woman beside me. Mum would understand.
I didnt argue. I slipped out of the room, locked the door, and wept into my pillow until dawn.
The wedding was a whisper. In fact, it was a secret; not even I was invited. I learned the news after Dad brought Lucy home, passport stamp in hand.
Meet my wife, he announced.
Lucy was tall, bleachblond, lipstick bright as sunrise, nails long and polished. She could have been thirtyfive, though Dad claimed she was fortytwo.
Hello, Verity, she said, extending a hand. Hope well be friends.
I shook her cool fingers and drifted to the kitchen, where on a shelf sat Mums favourite rosepatterned teacup. I lifted it, poured water, my hands trembling.
At first Lucy was careful, smiling, asking about work, offering help. I kept my distance, answering shortly. I couldnt forgive my fathers haste. Mum had just passed and hed already found another.
Gradually Lucy settled in, rearranged the bedroom furniture, swapped the curtains in the living room, bought a new set of dishes and tucked Mums things deeper into the wardrobe.
Your mother had taste, she remarked, but those things are old now. Its time for a fresh look.
I said nothing. What could I say? The flat belonged to Dad; legally I was a guest.
A month later the hints began.
Verity, youre a grown woman. Youre thirtythree now; you should be building a life of your own. Living with your parents forever you get the picture.
This is my home, I snapped.
This is your fathers home, Lucy corrected softly, and now its mine as well.
Dad never intervened in those arguments. He seemed deaf and blind, drifting through the flat with a blissful smile, constantly hugging Lucy around the waist, calling her pet names. I no longer recognised him. Where was the steady, restrained man who had spent thirty years with Mum in love and accord?
When I stepped off the bus, I quickened my pace, yearning to be home, strip off the drenched shoes, sip a hot tea. Perhaps Dad would be out; hed said hed visit a friend. Then I could sit in the kitchen, remember Mum.
Each day I thought of her: the way she baked cabbage pies, read aloud in the evenings, stroked my head and promised everything would be alright. Even when illness took her, even when doctors gave up hope, she smiled.
Dont be sad, my girl. Ill always be with you.
I fumbled for my keys, opened the door. The flat was silent. I slipped off my soggy shoes, hung my coat, and went to my room.
At the threshold I froze. The room looked altered. I could not instantly tell what had changed, but an emptiness pressed against my breath.
The bed was where it had always been, the wardrobe there, the desk by the window unchanged. Yet Mums little jewelry box, always perched on the nightstand, was gone. The embroidered napkin Mum had sewn before I was born, the framed photographsnothing.
I lunged to the wardrobe, flung it open. On the top shelf had rested Mums blue shawl, the one Dad gave her on their anniversary. It was missing.
No, no, no
My hands trembled as I rummaged through the remaining items. Mums robe, her books, the photo album at the bottomgone. Everything had vanished.
I bolted into the hallway, burst into my parents bedroom. Everything was stripped away: Mums perfume on the dressing table, her hairbrush, even her cosmetics Id never dared discard.
Whats happening here? I whispered.
The flats front door opened, voices drifted in.
what a relief, finally rid of that junk, Lucy said. I dont see why we should keep dead peoples things. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Youre right, dear, Dad replied. We need to move on.
I slipped back into the corridor. Dad and Lucy stood by a coat rack, shedding outerwear. Seeing me, Lucy smiled.
Ah, Verity, youre home. We were tidying up while you were out.
Where are Mums things? My voice was hoarse.
What things?
All of them! The box, the photos, the books, the clothes! Where are they?
Lucy sighed as if it were a trivial matter.
I took them. Gave some to the church, threw the rest out. Verity, your mum died over a year ago. Its time to let go.
You what did you do?!
The ground seemed to drop from under me. Dad stood silent beside Lucy, eyes fixed elsewhere.
Dad, did you hear what she said? She threw Mums things away!
Verity, dont shout, Dad finally spoke. Lucys right. You cant live in the past. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Unhealthy attachment? I couldnt believe my ears. Those are my memories of Mum! Theyre all I have left!
You still have the memories, Lucy said gently. Isnt that enough?
Not enough, I replied, firm. Give them back. Now.
Im afraid thats impossible. The skip has already been taken away.
The skip?
The rubbish bin, Lucy shrugged. It was full of old dresses, yellowed papers. I kept a few photos; theyre in the wardrobe.
I stepped closer. Lucy instinctively backed away.
You had no right, I whispered.
Im the lady of the house now. I decide what stays and what goes.
Youre not the lady! Youre an intruder!
Verity! Dad raised his voice for the first time. Apologise at once. Lucy is my wife, and you must respect her.
Respect her? The woman who threw away everything that reminded me of Mum?
Your mother is dead, Dad said harshly. Shes gone, understand? Its time you accepted that.
How can you say that? You lived together for thirtyfive years! She gave birth to me! She
Enough, Dad waved his hand. Im tired of this. Tired of your endless hints, your silence, your stare at Lucy. I have a right to be happy.
At the cost of Mums memory?
Memory isnt the issue. I love Lucy. I want to live with her. If you cant accept that
He didnt finish, but I understood.
Fine, I said. Ill move out.
Wait, Verity, Lucy interjected. No ones evicting you. Lets set some ground rules. This is our home, my husbands and mine. You can stay if you respect our boundaries.
What boundaries? I asked, weary.
Dont enter our bedroom. Dont touch my things. Dont turn the flat into a museum of your mother.
I looked at Dad; he avoided my gaze.
Alright, I said. As you wish.
I returned to my room and shut the door. I sat on the bed, clasping my hands around my head. Tears wouldnt come; instead a cold, allconsuming void settled in.
Mums thingsher jewellery box, the embroidered napkin, the photoswere gone, replaced by a heap of rubbish somewhere on a council skip, mingling with food waste and tattered bags.
A knock sounded at the door.
Verity, may I come in? Dads voice called.
I stayed silent. The door opened a crack, Dad stepped inside.
Sweetheart, lets talk.
What about? I asked without turning.
Lucy just wants to make the house cosy again. She didnt mean to hurt you.
By throwing everything that reminded me of Mum away?
Dad sighed.
Verity, I know its hard. It was hard for me too. But life goes on. I met Lucy, and she gave me a chance to feel alive again. Is that a bad thing?
And Mum? Have you forgotten her?
No, I remember NatalieMumevery day we spent together. She wont come back, but I cant spend the rest of my life in mourning.
Dad, now sixtyfive but somehow younger, seemed renewed. Lucy had indeed breathed new life into him.
Im not against your happiness, Dad, I said. But why did you have to destroy Mums memory?
Lucy didnt destroy memory, Dad replied. She just cleared away things that held us back.
It held us back, you say.
Verity, please give us a chance. Let Lucy show shes a good person.
Good people dont dump other peoples belongings without asking.
Dad shook his head.
Youre stubborn, just like your mother. Natalie was always firm.
He left, the door closing softly behind him. I opened the wardrobe again, searching for the photographs Lucy claimed shed saved. On the top shelf, in a plain plastic bag, lay three pictures: Mum on her wedding day, Mum cradling a baby Verity, Mum smiling in the garden wearing a straw hat. Only three out of hundreds.
I grabbed my phone and dialled Marion.
Can I crash at yours?
What happened? Marion sounded alarmed.
Ill explain when I get there. Can I stay?
Of course, come over.
I packed a bag, slipped the three photos, a change of clothes, and my small makeup case into it, and left the flat. In the kitchen, Dad and Lucy were sipping tea, Lucy animatedly gesturing.
Im leaving for a few days, I announced.
Where to? Dad turned.
To a friend.
Dont be foolish, Marion interjected. We all argue. Lets start fresh.
From scratch? I smirked. You threw away my mothers memories. How do you expect me to forget?
It was just stuff!
For you it was just stuff. To me it was the last thread linking me to Mum.
You have memories, Lucy said. Is that not enough?
It isnt enough, I said firmly. It never will be.
I stepped out into the intensifying rain, hurrying towards Marions flat, a fifteenminute walk away. Wed been close, but after Mums sickness Id barely left the house.
Marion opened the door as if waiting.
Good heavens, youre soaked! Let me get you a towel.
Inside, the flat was warm, the scent of fresh baking filled the air, and a plump orange cat curled on the sofa.
Dry off, Marion handed me a towel. Tell me everything.
I recounted the whole nightmare. Marions face grew pale.
She went mad? she exclaimed. How could she dump someones things?
She thinks shes the lady of the house.
Your dad backed her?
He said I must let go of the past.
Marion muttered under her breath.
Maybe its not all lost? When did they take the skip?
Today afternoon, I think. Lucy said it was already gone.
Did you try calling the waste service?
I shook my head; it hadnt occurred to me.
Lets try, Marion said, dialing.
Hello, could you tell me if the skips on Elm Street, number 32 have been emptied today?
The operator confirmed they had, and that the contents were headed for a landfill, mixed with everything else.
Marion looked apologetic.
Nothing you can retrieve now.
I nodded, as if Id expected that.
The important thing is you still remember Mum, she said, hugging me. Things arent needed for that.
They are, I whispered. Sometimes I just want to touch something that still smells of her.
I understand, Marion said, holding me tighter. Well get through this.
Night fell, and we sat together until the room grew dark. Later Marion went to the kitchen.
Did you eat today? she asked.
I cant remember, I admitted.
She fetched me a meal, promising wed decide tomorrow what to do next.
Sleep eluded me. I tossed on the foldout couch Marion had set up, the orange cat nesting against me, offering little comfort.
Morning came, Marion left for work, leaving me alone.
Rest, Ill be back tonight. Dont think about it, she said.
But how could I not? I showered, drank coffee, stared out the window at the bleak sky. My phone rang several timesDads number. I let it go to voicemail.
Later a message from Lucy appeared:
Verity, can we meet and talk? I didnt mean to hurt you. Lets sort things out.
I stared at the screen, then typed back:
Where?
Maybe the café near your house, where the old bakery used to be.
Six p.m., then.
I put the phone down, wondering what Lucy wanted. Another attempt to push me out, perhaps?
At six, I arrived. Lucy was already there, stirring her coffee, a tentative smile on her lips.
Thanks for coming.
I sat opposite her, saying nothing. The waitress approached, but I declined.
I wont stay long, I said.
Lucy took a sip, then set the cup down.
I get why youre angry, she began. I married your father, moved into his flat, and there were other womens things everywherephotos, clothes, even the scent of her perfume. I felt like an intruder in my own home.
This isnt my home, I replied calmly. Youre just living in it.
Im his wife, legally that makes it my home too.
So its about the flat?
No! Its about respect. I want you to see me as a wife, not as a replacement for your mother.
He married you. Isnt that enough?
Its not enough when every day he looks at a portrait of another woman, when her dresses hang in the wardrobe, when his daughter watches me as an enemy.
I sighed.
Lucy, Ive never been your enemy. It just hurts to watch Dad forget Mum so quickly. They were together thirtyfive years. He remarried less than a year after she passed.
He hasnt forgotten her, Lucy said softly. He just doesnt want to be alone. Your father needs someone beside him.
And I? Was I not enough?
Youre his daughter. Thats different.
I knew she was right, but accepting it was excruciating.
Fine, I said. But why dump Mums things? You could have asked.
It was a surprise for your father. He complained about clutter, said the flat felt cramped. I helped him.
By throwing away everything that reminded me ofShe stepped out into the rain, feeling the weight lift as the citys fog swallowed the past, and whispered to the wind that memory, like a fragile candle, would always flicker somewhere inside her.
