Alba grew up in an orphanage, surrounded by other children like herself and the caretakers who watched over them. Life was never sweet, but she learned to stand her ground and protect the younger ones. She had a fierce sense of justiceshe couldnt bear to see the weak mistreated. Sometimes she got hurt too, but she never cried. She knew she suffered for what was right.
She was christened Albina, but at the orphanage, they shortened it to Alba. The day she turned eighteen, they sent her out into the world, alone. At least she had a tradeshed trained as a cook and had already been working as a kitchen assistant in a café for a few months. They gave her a room in a shared house, but it was barely fit to live in.
By then, she was seeing Victor, a lad three years older who worked at the same café, driving a delivery van. Before long, they moved in together at his tiny flat, left to him by his gran.
*”Alba, come live with me,”* he said. *”Whats the point of that hostel room? The lock barely works, the place is falling apart.”*
She agreed without hesitation. She liked Victorhe was older, steadier. But one night, when they talked about children, his voice turned cold.
*”Cant stand the little brats. Nothing but noise and trouble.”*
*”Victor,”* she said, startled, *”but if it was yoursyour own flesh and bloodhow could you say that?”*
*”Enough,”* he snapped. *”Ive said my piece. No kids. End of.”*
His words stung, but she pushed the hurt aside. *Maybe once were married, hell change his mind. Children happen whether you like it or not.*
At work, Alba was diligent. She could even cover for the head cook, Valerie, when she called in sickthough everyone knew Valeries *”headaches”* were just the drink talking.
*”One more slip-up, and youre out,”* the manager, Max, warned her. But Valerie was a fine cook when sober, and the customers loved her. *”Your chefs brilliant, Max,”* the regulars would say. So Valerie clung to her job, enduring the warnings. She knew they only kept her for her skill.
And she noticed something elseAlba was quick, capable, cooked with heart. Even Max had started watching her closely.
Once, Alba overheard him talking to the floor manager. *”Valeries out if she skips again. Albas young, but shes got the knack. Shes not spoiled, shes reliable.”*
Alba blinked. *So Max has his eye on me.* But she pitied Valeriekind-hearted, just ruined by the bottle. She kept the conversation to herself, not even telling Victor.
Time passed. Valerie finally went on a week-long bender, and Alba took over. Not a single customer complained. When Valerie stumbled back, she was a wreckshaking hands, dark circles under her eyes.
Max walked into the kitchen. *”Valerie. My office. Now.”*
He fired her, then returned to the staff. *”Alba, youre head cook from today. Youve got talentroom to grow. Ive seen it. Good luck.”*
*”Thank you,”* she murmured, nervous but thrilled. The pay was decentshe was young, but shed made it. *Ill prove myself. I wont let Max down.*
That evening, Victor brought home champagne. *”Lets toast your promotion. Well done, Alba. Youve earned it.”* He smirked.
Theyd lived together for years, but hed never mentioned marriage.
Time rolled on. Alba worked hard; Max praised her when she deserved it. She had a gift for cooking. Three years with Victor passedhe didnt drink, was usually on the road, never raised a hand to her. They argued, of course, but made up quick. Still, no ring. No talk of it. She wondered sometimes.
*Weve been together so long. Why wont he ask? Maybe if I got pregnant*
She remembered his warning*No kids.* But she pushed the thought away. *Not yet. Ive only just found my feet.*
Then, one day, she knew. The doctor confirmed itshe was expecting. Small yet, but there. She pressed a hand to her belly, smiling. *No family of my own but this ones mine. My little one.*
Victor came home to find her glowing.
*”Whats got you so happy?”*
*”I saw the doctor today,”* she said softly. *”Were having a baby.”*
His face darkened. *”I dont want it. Get rid of it, or get out. I told youno kids. You made your choice. Now live with it.”*
He never shouted, but his tone froze her. Shed hoped hed soften*his own child!* But his jaw clenched, his eyes cold.
*”Youve got nowhere to go. Youre an orphan. Pregnant? Wherell you run?”*
The next day, after her shift, she packed her things and left. Back to the hostel, back to the peeling door marked *35* in smudged marker. She shoved it openunlocked.
The hinges groaned. The room was damp, dusty. The ceiling flaked; dead flies littered the windowsill. A rusty bed, a stained mattress. A wobbly table, a broken wardrobe.
She set down her baga few clothes, some plates, a couple of books. Her hand brushed her belly, still flat. *But youre there.*
*”Well manage,”* she whispered.
Next door, a drunk roared, then slammed his door. She flinched.
*”Welcome home, Alba.”*
The shared kitchen was grima greasy stove, a fridge that hummed too loud. Cockroaches scurried by the bin.
Back in her room, she bolted the door. The hurt rose, but she swallowed it. Thena strange lightness. *Free.*
Victors sneer echoed. *Wherell you go?*
Well, here. Her own space. Shed clean it, make it hers. She wasnt afraid of work.
She crossed to the grimy window. *Ill wash it. Itll shine.* Outside, the sky was grey. A chilly, wet summer.
*”Well manage,”* she repeated. *Because we must. Because I chose this. Because I wont do what my parents didabandon you like they abandoned me.*
She had her job. She wouldnt starve. Shed saved a little*instinct, maybe.*
She fetched a bucket, an old blouse for a rag. Scrubbed the floors, the walls. The room smelled of soap now, not dust. The air through the open window was fresh.
*”Right,”* she murmured. *”Time to shop. A blanket, a pillow, some towels. A new lockIll ask Pete the handyman to fit it. Then some proper crockery”*
Bit by bit, life settled. Pete fixed the lock, joked with her, kept her spirits up.
At the café, a new waiter, Timothy, started. He watched hereveryone knew shed be leaving soon, for maternity.
One evening, he walked her home. Out of politeness, she invited him in for tea. He stayed, talking, and she realised*he cares.* But she pushed the thought away. *Im pregnant. Whod want me now?*
Timothy didnt give up. One day, he took her hands.
*”Alba, marry me. Youre alone. Im alone. My grans back in the village, but hereits just me. I love you. Ive thought of nothing else. You and the baby.”*
She touched her stomach. *”But”*
*”Its mine too,”* he said, smiling. *”I want children. As many as we can have.”*
She thought of Victorhow different they were. Timothy was warm, kind, worked two jobs without complaint.
She said yes.
When the time came, Timothy took her to the hospital, waited, paced. Thena son. He rushed home, painted the walls, set up the crib, bought flowers.
When Alba stepped back into the room, she barely recognised it. Timothy had hung balloons, bright and silly.
The roomno, the *home*was ready.
