**Shell Manage**
I grew up in a childrens homenever knew anything else. It was just me, the other kids, and the staff. Life wasnt kind, but it taught me to stand up for myself and protect the younger ones. I couldnt stand bullies. Sometimes I got hurt too, but I never cried. I told myself it was for whats right.
My names Albina, but everyone at the home called me Albie. The day I turned eighteen, they sent me out into the real world. At least I had somethinga cooks certificate and a job as an assistant in a café. They gave me a room in a hostel. Awful place.
Around that time, I started seeing Victor. He was three years older, worked at the same café as a delivery driver for a van. Soon enough, I moved in with hima tiny flat hed inherited from his nan.
“Albie, come live with me,” hed said. “That hostels a dump. The lock doesnt even work.” So I did.
I liked Victor because he seemed mature. But one day, we talked about kids, and he said, “Cant stand the little runts. Just noise and trouble.”
“Vic,” I said, shocked, “if its your own child, your own bloodhow can you say that?”
“Whatever. I dont want em, end of.”
It stung, but I brushed it off. *Maybe hell change his mind if we get married.*
At work, I gave it my all. Sometimes I even covered for Valentina, the head cook, when she called in with a “headache.” Everyone knew she drank too much.
“If you mess up again, youre out,” the manager, Max, warned her. But she was goodcustomers loved her food.
“Brilliant cook youve got, Max,” his mates would say.
So Valentina clung on, swallowing the warnings. She knew I could handle the kitchen toofast, careful, putting heart into it. Even Max started noticing.
Once, I overheard him talking to the floor manager. “If Valentina skips again, shes done. Albies young, but shes got skill. Reliable, too.”
I kept quiet, even from Victor.
Then Valentina vanished for a week. I ran the kitchennot a single complaint. When she finally showed up, shaking, dark under the eyes, Max called her in.
“Valentina, my office. Now.”
She was sacked. Then Max turned to me. “Starting today, youre head cook. Youve got talent. Keep at it.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, nerves fluttering.
That night, Victor brought champagne. “To your promotion,” he smirked.
Wed lived together for nearly three years. He didnt drink much, never raised a hand to me. But he never once mentioned marriage.
Then I found out I was pregnant.
When I told him, his face went blank. “I dont want it. Get rid of it, or get out. I told youno kids.” His voice was ice. “Wheres a care-home girl like you gonna go, eh? Pregnant?”
The next day, I packed my things and left.
Back at the hostel, I pushed open the door to my old roompeeling paint, a sagging bed, dead flies on the sill. The air smelled damp.
I touched my stomach. *Well manage.*
The walls were thin. A drunk neighbour shouted; I flinched. *Welcome home, Albie.*
The shared kitchen was worsestained cooker, a fridge that barely worked. Roaches scuttled by the bin.
I cleaned until the room gleamed. Then I went shoppingblankets, a new lock, dishes. A kind old handyman, Pete, fitted the lock for me.
At the café, a new waiter, Timothy, started. Quiet, hardworking. One evening, he walked me home. I offered teajust politenessbut he stayed.
Soon, he said the words I never expected. “Marry me, Albie. Youre alone, so am I. I love you. And your babyhell be mine too.”
I thought of Victor. Timothy was everything he wasntwarm, steady.
When the baby came, Timothy met us at the hospital with flowers. Hed redone the roomfresh paint, a cot, even balloons.
I walked in and barely recognised the place. *Well manage.* And this time, I believed it.
