Your children from the first marriage wont live here, announced the new wife.
Andrew, weve already talked about this. I dont get why you keep circling back. Those shabby cupboards ruin the whole look!
Miranda stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest. Her flawless manicure flashed as she impatiently flicked a hand toward the old but sturdy kitchen suite. Andrew sighed heavily, set down his mug of lukewarm tea, and the morning once again went offtrack.
Mir, Ive explained. Ive got a big contract now, but the payment wont arrive for two months. We cant just toss £30,000 at a new kitchen. This one still holds up.
Holds up? she smirked. Thats a phrase from my grandmothers lexicon. She isnt sturdy; shes oldfashioned. I want our home cosy and pretty. I want to invite friends without blushing at threadbare corners. Is that too much?
He ran a hand through his hair. At fortyfive, five years after his first wifes death hed been living with his two children. Hed been existing, not really living. Work, house, lessons, parentteacher meetings a ceaseless whirl that seemed inescapable. Then Miranda burst in, bright and electric, like fireworks in his grey routine, making him feel a man again, not just a single dad. He fell for her fast, reckless, like a schoolboy. They kept the wedding modest, signed the papers, and celebrated with a quiet dinner among close friends. A month later Miranda was his legal wife and the lady of their threebed flat.
I get it, he said conciliatingly. I want you to be happy too. Lets wait a little. Ill finish the project and well order everything you dream of white, glossy, just as you wish.
Miranda softened, slipped a hand around his neck, her scent a mix of expensive perfume and something sweet, coffeelike.
Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you. I just want to stitch our little nest together, everything brand new.
At that moment his teenage daughter, fourteenyearold Milly, stepped into the kitchen barefoot, her long honeyblonde braid swinging. She looked uncannily like her late mother.
Dad, good morning. Have you seen my sketchbook?
Good morning, sunshine. I think it was on the coffee table in the lounge yesterday.
Milly gave a quick, startled glance at Miranda.
Good morning, she murmured.
Good morning, Miranda replied coldly, pulling away from Andrew. It would help if you washed up and brushed your hair before breakfast.
Milly flushed, muttered sorry, and slipped down the corridor. Andrew frowned.
Miranda, why? Shes a child.
Exactly, Andrew. A child who needs order, or shell grow into a slob. Im just trying to do whats best.
Soon after, his seventeenyearold son, James, loomed in the doorway, tall and brooding, casting a hostile glance at Miranda.
Anything to eat? he grunted, opening the fridge.
Want some eggs? Andrew asked, trying to ease the tension.
Sure.
Miranda drifted to the window, the presence of his children clearly weighing on her. She never voiced it outright, but every gesture, every look, hinted at the strain. Andrew hoped time would smooth the edges; he longed for a happy blended family.
After breakfast he retreated to his workshop a modest room hed fitted for carpentry. He was a furniture restorer, a true craftsman. The smell of pine, lacquer, and stain always steadied him. At the moment he was coaxing an antique rocking chair back to life, painstakingly recarving the ornate armrest. The meticulous work demanded his full attention and offered a respite from heavy thoughts.
He loved Miranda her laughter, her energy, the way she gazed at him. Yet each day he saw more clearly that the world she inhabited and the world he and his kids lived in were separate galaxies. Miranda thrived on social galas, fashion exhibitions, pricey restaurants. He lived among wood shavings, school dramas, Millys watercolor splatters on the walls, and quiet evenings with a book. He also clung to memories of Anne, his first wife quiet, homebound, whose love turned a house into a warm hearth without expensive décor. A photograph of Anne, smiling with a bunch of wild daisies, perched on a shelf in his workshop, sometimes seemed to reproach him: What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you leading your children?
Evening brought a new surprise: boxes stacked in the hallway.
Whats this? he asked, eyeing the neatly packed items.
I thought Id start clearing the clutter, Miranda replied cheerfully, emerging from the living room. You have no idea how much junk has accumulated. Look, this dreadful vase, old magazines, kids crafts.
Andrew opened a box and found at the top a misshapen clay hedgehog that Milly had made in Year5. He remembered how proud hed been of her then.
Miranda, thats not junk, he said as calmly as he could. Those are our memories.
Darling, memories belong in the heart, not gathering dust in corners. We agreed to start a new life. A new life needs fresh space, free of the past.
She smiled, but her eyes held a cold sheen. He stayed silent, returned the boxes, and placed the hedgehog on a shelf. An invisible wall grew between them.
A week passed. Tension thickened. Mirandas remarks to the children grew frequent: James blasting music too loud, Milly spilling paint again, dishes left unwashed. The kids retreated, barely speaking when she was near. James began disappearing with friends, returning late. Milly secluded herself in her room, drawing bleak landscapes. Andrew felt torn, trying to be both a loving husband and a caring father.
One night he found Milly in tears.
Whats wrong, love?
She handed him her sketchbook. One page held a vivid portrait of her mother, strikingly lifelike.
Beautiful, Andrew said. You have real talent. Why are you crying?
Miranda said Milly whispered that we shouldnt live in the past, that I could draw her mothers portrait only if it pleased you. As if I should forget Mum.
Andrews chest boiled with a silent fury. He decided he would confront Miranda that night.
He waited until the children were asleep, then slipped into their bedroom. Miranda was in front of a mirror, applying some cream.
We need to talk, he began without preamble.
Again? Im exhausted, Andrew. Today was brutal at the salon.
Why did you hurt Milly? Why bring up the portrait?
Miranda turned, her face impassive.
I merely voiced my opinion. I think its unhealthy for a teenager to cling to the past. She should move on, for her own good.
Her mother died! he raised his voice. She has the right to remember her, to draw her, to speak of her! Its part of her life!
And that part blocks a new life! Mirandas voice rang sharp. I came here to be your wife, not a curator of your former familys museum! Everywhere I look her photos, her recipes, her things! And now endless drawings! I cant take it any longer!
She sprang up, eyes flashing. Andrew barely recognised the woman hed fallen for. The light, breezy woman was gone, replaced by a hostile, selfish stranger.
I want to be the lady of this house, Miranda continued, breathless with anger. A proper lady! I want to reshape everything my way! But Im hindered. Im hindered by your children.
Andrew felt a chill.
What are you trying to say?
Miranda inhaled deeply, steadied herself, stepped close, and stared straight into his eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I want a normal family. My own family. Not a shared flat with two gloomy teenagers who hate me.
She paused, letting the words sink, then delivered the final blow.
Your children from your first marriage will not live here.
Silence thundered. Andrew stared, mouth dry, as if the floor were slipping away.
What? he repeated, though hed heard it clear as day.
You understand, Miranda said, calmer now. They have a grandmother, Annes mother. They could stay with her. Or we could rent them a flat when James turns eighteen. There are boarding schools, after all. Well help, well visit. But they must live elsewhere. I want this house to be ours. Just ours.
She spoke as if discussing a new sofa, as if the children were old furniture to be cleared for fresh space.
Are you mad? Andrew croaked. Send my own children to grandma? To a boarding school?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Many do it. Its civilised. Andrew, you must choose. Either we build our new life, or you keep living in the past with your kids. Either me, or them.
She turned, lay down on the bed, deliberately facing the wall. The ultimatum hung in the air.
Andrew left the bedroom, his legs stiff, and shuffled to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, but his hands trembled and half the glass spilled. He sat at the very table theyd argued over that morning. Lord, this is a trifle compared to whats happened now, he thought.
He felt like a traitor to Anne, whose memory hed promised to uphold; to James and Milly, whod already endured loss; and now, as their father, forced to pick between them and a new woman.
He quietly opened Millys door. She slept, clutching a plush bear, sketchbook and the portrait of her mother on the nightstand. He peeked into Jamess room. The boy slept, arms outstretched, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their fortress hed been ready to dismantle.
All night he lay awake, drifting through the flat like a ghost, staring at familiar objects: the repaired chair hed built with James, the shelf theyd installed for Millys books, Annes battered recipe book on the kitchen counter, its pages curled from years of use. Those were his real life, not the glossy picture Miranda wanted.
He recalled how Miranda had arrived. He was broken, solitary. She brought laughter, celebration, the feeling that life went on. He was grateful enough to overlook her selfishness, her coldness toward his children, her disregard for his past. He told himself they were minor things, that everything would settle. He wanted happiness so desperately he almost made the gravest mistake of his life.
By morning his mind was clear. The decision came as naturally as breathing.
Miranda was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, fresh and radiant as if yesterdays harsh words never existed.
Good morning, love, she sang. I hope youve thought it through.
Andrew poured himself coffee in silence, sat opposite her.
I have, he said evenly. Ive thought it through.
He looked her straight in the eye; there was no love, no doubt, only a cold, icy void.
You can start gathering your things, he said softly but firmly.
Miranda froze, cup halfway to her lips.
What? What did you say?
I said you should collect your belongings. Youre no longer welcome here.
Her mask cracked, revealing anger and bewilderment.
You youre kicking me out? Because of them? You choose them over me?
Its not them, Andrew corrected. Its my children. I never chose between you two, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt something you can discard like old furniture. I guess I forgot that. Thank you for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shrieked. Youll end up alone in your den, with your memories and two little wolves! No decent woman will ever live with you!
Perhaps, Andrew replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the most precious thing I have.
He rose and went back to his workshop, refusing to hear any more. The door slammed behind him, rattling the dishes in the cupboard. Somewhere upstairs, a crash echoed as Miranda hurled her things into a suitcase.
He sat at his bench, hands the hands of a maker, accustomed to creating and repairing trembling ever so slightly. He glanced at Annes photograph; she still smiled with that warm, understanding grin.
Half an hour later the front door shut. Miranda had left.
He stepped into the hallway. A silk scarf shed abandoned lay on the floor; he tossed it into the bin. The flat fell into a deep, unfamiliar quiet. Not the oppressive silence of loneliness, but a calm, settled hush where everything finally fell into place.
James and Milly emerged from their rooms, eyes halfsleepy, looking at him and the empty corridor.
Wheres Miranda? Milly asked.
Shes gone, Andrew replied simply.
The children exchanged glances. There was no joy, no triumph, just a shy, tentative relief and a lingering question they’d feared to ask.
Andrew moved toward them, embraced them both tightly, as if he hadnt done so in ages.
She wont be coming back, he said, feeling Milly press against him, James, now so grown yet still prickly, place a tentative hand on his shoulder. Now everything will be alright. I promise.
He didnt know what the future held, only that he was home, in his true home, with his real family. No one would ever force him to choose again.
