Emmas stepmother clears out all of Sarahs belongings while Emma is at work.
Emma, are you even listening? I asked when youll hand in the report!
Sorry, Lucy. By Friday everything will be ready.
Friday? Its already Thursday! Lucy snaps, shaking her head. Youve barely been here lately. Is it because of that Claire again?
Emma squeezes her fists under the desk. Just hearing the name of her fathers new wife makes a lump form in her throat.
Id rather not talk about it.
You should. You need to have a serious talk with dad. Hes lost his mind. He married her about six months after Sarahs funeral!
Eight months, Emma corrects automatically. Dads an adult, he knows what hes doing.
Thats exactly why he doesnt know! Men his age are especially vulnerable. And Claire is youngshes probably after our flat.
Emma wants to argue, but deep down she knows Lucy is right. Claire is eighteen years younger than James. They met at the local health centre where she works as a nurse. James was still driving Sarah to appointments back then.
I have to go, Emma gathers her papers quickly. We agreed I could leave early today.
Go, just promise youll call if anything comes up. Anytime.
Emma nods and steps out of the office. A fine October drizzle falls. She pulls the collar of her coat and hurries to the bus stop. The ride home takes about twenty minutes, then a fiveminute walk.
She used to live with her parents in a twobedroom flat on the third floor of an old ninestorey council block. After Sarahs death she thought about moving out, but her modest £1,200 salary cant cover the skyhigh rents.
James persuades her to stay.
Emma, dont leave me alone, he says. Im lost without Sarah. I need you close.
So she stays, cooking, cleaning, laundry, trying to fill the void Sarah left. Then Claire appears.
At first James merely mentions a pleasant nurse. Then he lingers on walks. Six months later he announces hes getting married.
Sweetheart, I cant be alone. I need a woman beside me. Sarah would understand.
Emma doesnt argue. She slips out of the room, locks herself in, and weeps into her pillow until dawn.
The wedding is a modest affairreally, none at all. Its done quietly; Emma isnt even invited. She learns later, when James brings Claire home with a new marriage licence, that the ceremony already happened.
Meet my wife, James says, handing Claire over.
Claire is tall, bleachedblonde, bright lipstick, long nails. She could pass for thirtyfive, though James claims shes fortytwo.
Hello, Emma, she says, extending a hand. I hope we become friends.
Emma shakes her cold fingers and drifts to the kitchen. On a shelf in the corner sits Sarahs favourite rosepatterned mug. Emma grabs it, fills it with water, her hands trembling.
At first Claire behaves cautiously, smiling, asking about work, offering help. Emma keeps a distance, replies tersely. She cant forgive Jamess haste. Sarah died only recently, and hes already brought someone new.
Gradually Claire settles in, rearranges the bedroom furniture, changes the livingroom curtains, buys a new crockery set and tucks Sarahs things away in the closet.
Your mother had great taste, Claire says, but thats old stuff. It needs updating.
Emma stays silent. What could she say? The flat belongs to James; formally she has no right here.
A month later Claire drops hints.
Emma, youre thirtythree now, time to build your own life. Living with parents you know what I mean.
This is my home, Emma snaps.
Its Dads home, Claire corrects gently, and now its mine too.
James never intervenes, as if deaf and blind. He wanders the flat with a blissful smile, constantly hugging Claire around the waist, calling her sweet names. Emma no longer recognises him. Where is the steady, restrained man who spent thirty years with Sarah in love and peace?
Leaving the bus, Emma quickens her pace. She wants to be home, shed her wet shoes, sip hot tea, maybe find Dad absenthe promised to visit a friend. She could sit in the kitchen, remember Sarah.
She thinks of Sarah every day: baking cabbage pies, reading aloud at night, stroking Emmas head and promising everything would be fine. Even when ill, when doctors gave up hope, Sarah smiled.
Dont be sad, love. Im always with you.
Emma pulls her keys and opens the door. The flat is quiet. She removes her soaked shoes, hangs her coat, and heads to her room.
She stops at the doorway. The room looks different. She cant immediately spot whats changed, but a crushing emptiness steals her breath.
The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window are all where they were. But where is Sarahs little jewellery box that always sat on the nightstand? Where is the embroidered napkin Sarah made before Emma was born? Where are the framed photographs?
She rushes to the wardrobe, flings the doors open. On the top shelf once lay Sarahs blue shawl, the one James gave her for their anniversary. Its gone.
No, no, no she whispers, hands shaking as she rummages. Sarahs cardigan, her books, the photo album at the bottomeverything vanished.
She storms into the hallway, bursts into the master bedroom. Everything is cleared out there too: Sarahs perfume on the dresser, her hairbrush, even the tiny makeup bag Emma never threw away.
Whats happening? she murmurs.
The flats front door opens and voices drift in.
what a relief, finally rid of that clutter, Claire says. I dont see why we keep dead peoples stuff. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Youre right, dear, James replies. We need to move on.
Emma steps into the hallway. James and Claire stand by a coat rack, shedding jackets. Claire smiles when she sees Emma.
Oh, Emma, youre home. Weve been tidying while you were out.
Where are Moms things? Emmas voice sounds hollow.
What things? Claire asks lightly.
All of them! The box, the photos, the books, the clothes! Where are they?
Claire sighs, as if its a trivial matter.
I took them to the church, threw some away. Emma, your mother died over a year ago. Its time to let go.
You what did you do?! Emma feels the floor drop out from under her. James stands silently beside Claire, watching.
Dad, did you hear what she said? She threw Moms things away!
Emma, dont shout, James finally says. Claire is right. You cant live in the past. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Unhealthy attachment? Emma cant believe her ears. Those are the memories of my mother! Thats all I have left!
You still have the memories, Claire says gently. Isnt that enough?
Not enough, Emma replies firmly. Give them back immediately.
Its impossible now. The containers already taken away.
The container?
The rubbish bin, Claire shrugs. It was full of old junktattered dresses, yellowed papers. I kept a few photos; theyre still in the wardrobe.
Emma steps closer. Claire instinctively backs away.
You had no right, Emma whispers.
Im the lady of the house now. I have every right to decide what stays and what goes.
Youre not the lady! Youre an outsider! Emmas voice cracks.
Emma! James raises his voice for the first time. Apologise now. Claire is my wife, you must respect her.
Respect someone who threw away everything that reminds me of my mother?
Your mother is dead, James says harshly. Shes gone, you understand? Its time to accept that.
How can you say that? You lived together for thirtyfive years! She gave birth to you!
Enough, James waves his hand. Im tired of this. Tired of your constant hints, your silence, the way you stare at Claire. I have a right to be happy.
At the cost of my mothers memory?
Memory isnt the issue. I love Claire. I want to live with her. If you cant accept that
He trails off, but Emma knows what he means.
Fine, she says. Ill move out.
Emma, wait, Claire interjects. No ones throwing you out. Lets set some rules. This is our homeDads and mine. You can stay, but you must respect our boundaries.
What boundaries? Emma asks, exhausted.
Dont enter our bedroom. Dont touch my things. Dont turn the flat into a museum of your mother.
Emma looks at James, who avoids her gaze.
Alright, she says slowly. As you wish.
She retreats to her room, closes the door, sits on the bed and clutches her head. She wants to cry, but tears wont come. An icy, allconsuming void fills her.
Sarahs belongingsher jewellery box, the embroidered napkin, the framed photosare gone. The ambercoloured necklace, the little butterfly brooch, the notebook, the letterseverything is gone, mixed with rubbish in a skip.
Theres a knock at the door.
Emma, may I come in? Jamess voice sounds tentative.
She doesnt answer. The door opens a crack and James steps inside.
Come on, sweetheart, lets talk.
What about? Emma asks without turning.
Claire just wants to make the house cozier. She thought clearing out the old stuff would help us move forward.
By throwing everything that reminds me of Mom away?
James sighs.
Emma, I know its hard. It was hard for me too. But life goes on. I met Claire, and she gave me a chance to feel alive again. Is that so bad?
Have you forgotten Mom?
No. I remember Sarah every day. She wont come back, but I cant spend the rest of my life grieving.
Emma turns to see James, now sixtyfive, looking younger than his years, a faint smile on his face. Claires presence seems to have restored some of his vigor.
Dad, Im not against your happiness. But why did you have to destroy Moms memory?
Claire didnt destroy it. She just removed the clutter that kept us from moving forward.
Clutter for you, burden for me.
James nods.
Youre stubborn, just like your mother, he says. Sarah was always firm.
He closes the door behind him. Emma returns to the wardrobe, scours the top shelf, and finds a small cardboard box hidden behind a bundle of towels. Inside are Moms amber beads, the butterfly brooch, a notebook, and a few letters.
Dad she whispers.
I also keep memories of Sarah, James says quietly. Just in my own way.
Tears finally break loose, spilling over her cheeks. James pulls her into a hug, and they sit together until the kettle finally goes cold.
Later, Claire returns late, slips into Emmas room.
May I? she asks.
Come in, Emma says, still holding the box.
Thats your mothers brooch? Claire points.
Yes.
Its beautiful. I didnt mean to hurt you. I just didnt think.
Emma studies Claires facetired, sincere.
Okay, lets try to forget the past, Emma says.
Thank you, Claire sighs with relief. Im not trying to replace your mother. She was wonderful. Im just your fathers wife. Maybe, in time, we can be friends.
Maybe, Emma replies quietly.
Claire nods and leaves. Emma stays alone, the brooch warm in her palm.
Life goes on. The sharp ache softens into a dull, lingering sorrow. Emma returns to work, comes home, tries not to notice Claires presence too much. James seems happier. Things settle into a new, uneasy rhythm.
Sometimes, in the evenings, Emma opens the box, pulls out a photo or a piece of jewellery, and lets a silent tear fall. It feels as if Sarah is still near, whispering that everything will be alright.
Memory never dies. Even when the objects disappear, the recollections remain, and love endures.
