None of this is yours, I heard Anne whisper to me once, her voice barely louder than a sigh. And what about me? Do you ever think of me? She knew I loved my daughter, and she swore she would never keep me from her. Yet she could not help feeling that my exwife, Olivia, was milking us through the child. When will this end? she asked, her eyes weary.
It was a Friday in late autumn, the kind of day when the London fog clung to the streets of Croydon and the wind turned the leaves into a restless swirl. Anne had returned from the office before I did and set the table for dinner. That evening my elevenyearold daughter from my first marriage, Poppy, was due. The knock at the door roused Anne, and she hurried to the hallway. I stood there with Poppy, who slipped past Anne without a glance, dropping a curt Hi as she entered.
Hello, love. How was your day? I asked, trying to sound casual.
Fine, Anne replied, forcing a smile as she gestured us toward the kitchen. The room fell into a tense hush. I tried to break the ice, chatting about my work, but Poppy answered in monosyllables or remained silent, her eyes deliberately avoiding Anne. She ate in quiet, feeling a lump rise in her throat.
Dad, Mum says she needs money for a new winter coat, Poppy blurted out suddenly. Her old one is ragged, shes embarrassed to go to school with it.
Alright, Poppy, I said calmly, well talk after dinner.
Annes jaw tightened. Money again, those endless pleas, she thought. How long will it go on?
After we cleared the plates, Poppy and I went to her room for homework while Anne stayed in the kitchen, washing dishes. Snatches of their conversation floated to her ears.
Dad, you understand its really needed. Shes the only one pulling us together, and her Poppys voice faltered.
My wife cant buy her a new coat? I asked tentatively.
Dad, what does my husband have to do with it? He has no money! she snapped. If it werent terrible I wouldnt ask. Youre a man, you should support her! And youre my father!
The words cracked Annes composure. She slammed the sponge into the sink and strode into the bedroom.
Ian, we need to talk, she said, firm.
Not now, Anne, I tried to dodge, were doing homework.
No, now, she insisted, Poppy, could you give us a minute?
Poppy pouted, but obeyed and left the room. Anne shut the door behind her and turned to me.
How long will this go on? she asked.
What do you mean? I pretended not to hear.
Money, Ian! Your exwife, Poppy, everything! We can barely cover the mortgage; Ive given up my own comforts, and you keep sending cash her way! Its absurd!
Its my child, Anne. I cant turn away from her, I began to defend myself.
And what about me? What about us? I cant even afford a dentist. My teeth hurt because theres no money!
I understand, I said sheepishly. Ill talk to Olivia
Youll get no answer from her. She always gets what she wants. Maybe remind her she has a husband who should also look after his own family? Annes voice rose.
Dont bring Olivia into this, I muttered, frowning. Shes a good mother.
A good mother? If she were, she wouldnt dump all her problems on you! Shes comfortable while you foot the bill, Anne shot back.
Enough! I erupted. Dont speak of my childs mother like that!
And dont forget you still have a real wifesomeone who loves and supports you! Anne shouted, tears flashing.
I love you, I whispered, but I cant abandon my child.
So, who do you love more? Anne challenged.
I lowered my head, silent.
Whats all this shouting about? I asked, looking at a tearstreaked Anne. Are we fighting?
No, Poppy, I tried to calm her, everythings fine.
No, it isnt! Anne snapped. Your father and I argue because of you and your mother!
Because of me? Poppy asked, eyebrows raised.
Yes, because you keep demanding money, because you treat me like an afterthought! Anne blurted.
What am I supposed to do, love you? Youre nobody to me! Poppy shot back. I have a mum!
The words hit Anne like a slap. She stared at me, waiting for a response, but I could only bow my head in shame.
Poppy, Anne managed, voice shaking, you can stay as long as you like, but I wont endure this any longer. My patience has run out. She left the room, closing the door behind her, and fled to the bedroom where she dialed her friends number.
Hello, she choked out, tears streaming, I need to talk.
The next morning Anne met Sarah at a café on Brick Lane. She barely touched her scone, her eyes red. After listening, Sarah asked, Anne, are you seriously thinking of a split?
I dont know, Anne admitted. I love Ian, but I cant live like this. Hes torn between me and his former family, and I feel like an afterthought. Im exhausted.
I get it, Sarah said. Maybe try one more conversation with him? Explain how you feel, what you need.
Ive said it a thousand times! Anne retorted. He seems to understand, yet nothing changes. He doesnt want to hurt his daughter, but he hurts me.
What about Poppy? Have you tried talking to her? Sarah pressed.
Talking to her is pointless, Anne snapped. She only listens to her mum and does everything to wound me. She doesnt see me as a person.
Children often echo their parents, Sarah noted. Perhaps you could still find common ground?
She cant stand me! She ignores me on purpose! Its impossible, Anne replied.
But maybe you should try? Sarah urged. If you show you want a relationship, she might change.
Anne considered. She knew Sarah was rightif she wanted to save the marriage, she had to set aside pride and attempt to reach the stubborn teenager.
Fine, she said at last. Ill try. Im not hopeful, though.
That afternoon, when Ian brought Poppy home, Anne decided to act. She emerged from the kitchen with a tray of shortbread biscuits and tea. Poppy was perched on the sofa, eyes glued to her phone.
Poppy, Anne called gently, would you like some tea and biscuits?
Poppy lifted her head, giving Anne a disdainful glance.
Im not hungry, she replied.
Just have a bite, Anne offered, placing the tray on the table. I baked them myself.
Reluctantly, Poppy took a biscuit and tasted it.
Nice, she murmured.
Im glad, Anne smiled. Come sit, Ill bring you tea.
Poppy sat down, still looking wary. Not long ago the stepmother had shouted at her; now she was being offered sweetness.
Poppy, I want to talk, Anne began. I know you dont like me being around your father.
And I shouldnt like you, Poppy interjected. Youre not my mum.
I understand, Anne nodded. Im not trying to replace anyone. I just want peace. Your father suffers because of our fights.
Poppy stared into her cup.
I know you love your mother, and thats fine. But you dont have to hate me. I love your father too.
Youre lying! Poppy exclaimed. Youre always fighting him!
We argue because its hard, Anne admitted, but that doesnt mean we dont love each other.
Silence fell as Poppy examined the pattern on the tablecloth.
Poppy, I never wished you any harm, Anne said softly. I just want us all to be happy. Youre the daughter of the man I love most, understand?
Poppy lifted her gaze, meeting Annes eyes. The hostility that had laced her stare softened.
Really? she whispered.
Really, Anne affirmed, I could swear on it right now.
Just then Ian entered, surprised to see Anne and Poppy sharing a quiet moment.
Is something wrong? he asked.
Nothing at all, Anne replied with a smile.
The evening turned out wonderfully. Poppy laughed as she and Anne played a game of Twister, and Ians boisterous chuckles filled the room. For the first time, Poppy showed no aversion to her stepmother; she seemed, perhaps, a little less hostile, a little less angry. And I, looking back now from the quiet of my old age, can see how that small act of offering tea and biscuits became the turning point that began to mend the fractures in our family.
