24October
I came home later than usual, the October drizzle clinging to my coat as I walked to the bus stop. The sky was a dull grey, the kind that makes you feel the weight of every thought. I still have the habit of replaying the mornings argument in my head, even though I tried to focus on the report I was supposed to hand in by Friday.
Lucy Clarke, my teammate, had been hovering over my desk all week. Emily, are you even listening? I asked when youll finish the report! she snapped, shaking her head. Its already Thursday, you said Friday would be ready. She sighed, Youve been distant lately. Is it because of that Sophie?
Her words hit me like a cold splash. The name of my fathers new wife always knots my throat. I clenched my fists under the table. I dont want to talk about it, I muttered.
Lucy leaned in, her chair scraping the floor. You should speak to Dad. Hes lost his head. He married her just six months after Mums funeral.
I swallowed hard. Eight months, I corrected automatically. Dads an adult; he knows what hes doing.
She shook her head. Thats exactly the problem. Men his age are especially vulnerable. Sophies young, probably only after our flat for a rentsplit.
I wanted to argue, but the truth was painfully clear. Sophie was eighteen years younger than Dad. Theyd met at the local health centre where she worked as a nurse while Dad was still taking Mum to her treatments.
Really, I have to go, I said, gathering my papers. We agreed I could leave early today.
Lucy smiled weakly. Just promise youll call if you need anything, any time.
Outside the office the drizzle turned into a fine, relentless rain. I pulled my collar up and hurried to the bus. It took about twenty minutes to get home, then another fiveminute walk. I still live in the twobed flat on the third floor of the old ninestorey block on StJohns Road. After Mum died I thought about moving out, but my salary barely covers the rent, and the market is absurdly expensive.
Dad had begged me to stay.
Emily, dont leave me on my own, hed said. Im lost without your mother. I need you here.
So I stayed. I cooked, cleaned, washed, trying to fill the hole Mum left. Then Sophie appeared. At first Dad only mentioned a lovely nurse. Soon he was taking longer walks, and six months later he announced he was getting married.
I cant do this alone, love, he said one evening, eyes soft. I need a woman by my side. Mum would understand.
I didnt argue. I slipped out of the room, locked the door, and wept into my pillow until sunrise.
The wedding was a modest affair, more like a quiet acknowledgement than a celebration. Neither my brother nor I were invited. I only learned of it when Dad brought Sophie home, passport stamp in hand.
This is my wife now, he said, beaming.
Sophie was tall, bleachedblonde, bright lipstick, and immaculate nails. She could have been thirtyfive, though Dad claimed she was fortytwo.
Hello, Emily, she said, extending a hand. Hope we can become friends.
I shook her cold fingers and retreated to the kitchen. On a shelf sat Mums favourite daisypatterned mug. I filled it with water, hands trembling.
At first Sophie was careful, smiling, asking about work, offering help. I kept my replies short, distant. I could not forgive Dads haste. Mum had just passed, and he already had another woman.
Gradually Sophie started redecorating: moving the bedroom furniture, swapping the curtains in the lounge, buying a new set of dishes, and tucking Mums belongings deeper into the cupboard.
Your mother had good taste, she remarked, but its all old now. Time for a fresh look.
I said nothing. The flat technically belonged to Dad, and I was just a tenant in his house.
A month later she began dropping hints.
Emily, youre thirtythree now. Its time you think about your own life. Living with parents forever you know what I mean.
This is my home, I snapped.
Its Dads home, Sophie corrected gently, and now its mine too.
Dad never intervened, as if deaf and blind. He wandered the flat with a serene smile, constantly hugging Sophie around the waist, calling her sweet nicknames. He became a stranger to me. Where was the steady, restrained man who had spent thirty years with Mum in love and harmony?
After work I walked faster, eager to get home, slip out of wet shoes, and brew a hot tea. I wanted to sit in the kitchen and remember Mum.
Mums voice flickered in my mind: the way she baked cabbage pies, read stories aloud each night, ruffle my hair and whisper, Everything will be alright. Even when the doctors gave up hope, she smiled.
Dont be sad, my girl. Ill always be with you.
I unlocked the flat door; silence greeted me. I hung my coat, took off my soaked shoes, and entered my bedroom.
The room looked different. Something vital was missing, an emptiness so profound it stole my breath. The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window were all still there, but Mums little jewellery box that always sat on the nightstand was gone. The embroidered napkin shed made before I was born, the framed photographseverything had vanished.
I flung open the wardrobe. On the top shelf used to rest Mums blue shawl, the one Dad had gifted her on their anniversary. It was gone.
No, no, no I whispered, my hands shaking as I sifted through the remaining items. The robe, Mums books, the photo album at the bottomnothing.
I raced into the hallway, burst into the master bedroom, only to find it stripped of Mums perfume on the dresser, her comb, even her makeup bag.
What is happening? I murmured.
The front door opened and voices drifted in.
finally got rid of that clutter, Sophie said, I dont see why we should keep the deads things. Its unhealthy attachment.
Youre right, love, Dad replied, we need to move on.
I stood frozen in the corridor as they stripped off their coats. Sophie smiled at me.
Emily, youre home early. We were just tidying up while you were out.
Where are Mums things? I asked, my voice hoarse.
What things?
My mothers things! The box, the photos, the books, her clothes! Where are they?
Sophie sighed as if the question were trivial.
I took them to the church, threw out what I could. Emily, your mum died over a year ago. Its time to let go.
You you what?! I shouted, feeling the floor disappear beneath me.
Dad stayed silent, eyes fixed elsewhere.
Dad, did you hear what she said? She threw Mums things away!
Emily, dont shout, Dad finally said, his voice low. Sophies right. You cant live in the past. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Its not an attachment, its my mothers memory! Its all I have left!
Memories are enough, Sophie replied gently. Arent they?
I want everything back. Now.
Its impossible. The containers already gone.
The container?
The rubbish bin, Sophie shrugged. It was full of old junk, yellowed papers, old dresses. I left a few photos in the wardrobe.
I stepped closer; she 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 a stranger!
Emily! Dad raised his voice for the first time. Apologise. Sophie is my wife, you must respect her.
How can I respect the woman who destroyed everything that reminded me of Mum?
Mum is dead, Dad said harshly. You need to accept that.
How can you say that? You lived with Mum for thirtyfive years!
Enough, Dad snapped, waving his hand. Im tired of this. Im tired of your silent protests, of you looking at Sophie like shes a intruder. I have a right to be happy.
On the cost of Mums memory?
Memory isnt the issue. I love Sophie. I want to live with her. If you cant accept that He trailed off, but I understood.
Fine, I said, voice flat. Ill move out.
Emily, wait, Sophie interjected. No ones evicting you. Lets set some boundaries. This is Dads house and mine. You can stay if you respect our space.
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. Whatever you say.
I retreated to my room, closed the door, and sat on the bed, clutching my head. Tears wouldnt come; instead a cold, allconsuming void settled in.
Mums things had been the tangible links to herher jewellery box, the embroidered napkin, the photographs. They were now mixed with rubbish in a bin on the council dump.
A knock sounded at the door.
Emily, can I come in? Dads voice was tentative.
I didnt answer. He pushed the door open and stepped in.
Love, lets talk.
What about? I asked without turning.
Sophie just wants to make the house cosy. She didnt mean to hurt you.
By throwing away everything that reminded me of Mum?
Dad sighed. Emily, I know its hard. Its hard for me too. I loved Mum, but shes gone. I met Sophie and she gave me a chance to feel alive again. Is that wrong?
Did you forget Mum? I asked.
No, I remember Nat, every day. But I cant spend the rest of my life in mourning.
I turned to see Dad, now sixtyfive, looking older yet somehow lighter. Sophie stood nearby, her expression sincere.
Im not asking you to love me, Dad said. Just to give me a chance.
I nodded, feeling the weight lift just a fraction.
Later that evening Dad returned with a small cardboard box. I saved this when Sophie was about to throw it out, he said. Inside were Mums amber beads, her butterfly brooch, a notebook, and a few letters.
My love, I whispered, clutching the box. Tears finally broke free, hot and unbidden.
Dad embraced me, and we sat in silence until the kettle went cold.
Sophie entered later, looking apologetic.
Is that your mothers brooch? she asked, holding it gently.
Yes.
Its beautiful, she said. I never meant to hurt you. I just thought I was helping.
I looked at her, seeing fatigue and genuine remorse.
Okay, I said. Lets try to move forward.
She smiled, relieved. Im not trying to replace your mother. Im just your fathers wife. Maybe, in time, we can be friends.
Maybe, I replied, not committing fully.
Life settled into a new rhythm. The sharp pain dulled into a lingering ache, but the memories stayed, alive in my mind. I went to work, returned home, sometimes touching the box of Mums things and weeping quietly. In those moments I could almost feel her hand on my head, whispering that everything would be alright.
The house, now shared, feels a little less hostile. Im learning to live with the past without letting it imprison me.
Emily Harper
