Your children from your first marriage wont live here, the new wife said flatly.
Emma, weve already talked about this. I dont see why youre bringing it up again. Those shabby cupboards ruin the whole look!
Claire stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest. Her freshly manicured nails caught the light as she flicked a hand toward the old, sturdy kitchen set. Andrew let out a heavy sigh and set his cooling tea cup down. The morning had already gone off the rails.
Claire, Ive explained. Ive got a big contract now, but the payment wont arrive for two months. We cant just splurge three hundred pounds on a new kitchen. This one still holds up.
Holds up? she laughed. Andrew, thats a phrase my grandmother would use. She wasnt strong, she was oldfashioned. I want our home to feel cosy and beautiful. I want to invite friends without blushing at the shabby corners. Is that really too much?
He ran a hand through his hair. At fortyfive, after his first wife died five years ago, he had been living alone with his two children. He was surviving, not really living. Work, house, lessons, parentteacher meetings a relentless cycle that seemed impossible to escape. Then Claire appeared, bright and full of energy, crashing into his grey world like fireworks and reminding him he could be more than a lone dad. He fell for her fast and hopelessly, like a schoolboy. Their modest wedding was simple; they signed the register and celebrated with a small dinner among close friends. A month later, Claire was his lawful wife and the lady of their threebedroom flat.
I get it, he said gently. I want you to be happy too. Lets wait a bit. Ill finish the project and then well order whatever you want glossy white, just as you dreamed.
Claires expression softened. She moved closer and slipped her arms around his neck, scented with an expensive perfume and a hint of coffee.
Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you. I just want us to build a proper nest, something new.
At that moment, his fourteenyearold daughter, Emily, padded into the kitchen barefoot. Thin, with a long blonde braid, she resembled her late mother.
Dad, good morning. Have you seen my sketchbook?
Good morning, sunshine. I think it was on the coffee table in the living room yesterday.
Emily gave a quick, uneasy glance at Claire.
Good morning, she murmured.
Good morning, Claire replied coldly, stepping back from Andrew. And it would be nice if you washed up and brushed your hair before breakfast.
Emily flushed deeply, muttered an apology and slipped out into the hallway. Andrew frowned.
Claire, why? Shes just a child.
Exactly, Andrew. A child who needs to learn order, or shell grow into a slob. Im only trying to help.
Soon after, his seventeenyearold son, James, stalked into the kitchen. Tall and sullen, he gave Claire a wary look.
Anything to eat? he grumbled, opening the fridge.
Want some eggs? Andrew asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Sure.
Claire moved to the window, clearly annoyed by the presence of Andrews kids. She never said it outright, but every movement and glance screamed it. Andrew hoped time would smooth the rough edges; he longed for a happy blended family.
After breakfast, he retreated to his workshop a modest room hed fitted out for carpentry. Andrew was a furniture restorer, a true craftsman. The scent of wood, varnish and stain always steadied him. He was now repairing an antique rocking chair, painstakingly recreating a carved armrest. The work demanded full concentration and offered a respite from heavy thoughts.
He loved Claire her laugh, her energy, the way she looked at him. Yet each day made him realise that her world and his childrens world were two different universes. Claire adored soirées, trendy galleries, pricey restaurants. She was used to comfort and admiration. His world smelled of shavings, school dramas, Emilys watercolor sketches plastered on the walls, and quiet evenings with a book. And of course, memories of Anna, his first wife. He never compared them; Anna had been different gentle, homecentred, creating warmth not with luxury but with love. Their house was filled with coziness, not glossy shine. A photo of Anna sat on a shelf in the workshop, smiling with a bunch of wild daisies. Sometimes Andrew felt she stared at him reproachfully. What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you taking your children?
That evening, returning to the flat, he found boxes stacked in the hallway.
Whats this? he asked, eyeing the neatly packed items.
I thought we could clear out the clutter, Claire replied cheerfully, emerging from the living room. You have no idea how much junk has piled up. Look, this dreadful vase, old magazines, random kids crafts.
Andrew opened one box. On top lay a misshapen clay hedgehog Emily had made in Year 5. He remembered how proud hed been of her then.
Claire, this isnt junk, he said as calmly as he could. These 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 glint. He stayed silent, carried the boxes back, and placed the hedgehog on a shelf. An invisible wall seemed to rise between them.
A week passed. Tension thickened. Claires remarks grew sharper: James blasting music too loudly, Emily spilling paint again, dishes left unwashed. The children withdrew, speaking hardly at all in her presence. James started disappearing with friends, returning late. Emily locked herself in her room, drawing bleak landscapes. Andrew was torn, trying to be both loving husband and caring father.
One evening he found Emily weeping.
Whats wrong, love?
She handed him her sketchbook. One page bore a vivid portrait of her mother hauntingly similar to Anna.
Beautiful, Andrew said. You have real talent. Why are you crying?
Claire said I shouldnt live in the past, Emily whispered. She told me I could draw my mothers portrait only if it pleased Dad, as if I should forget her.
Andrews chest boiled with silent fury. He decided he would confront Claire that night.
He waited until the children were asleep, then slipped into their bedroom. Claire was in front of a mirror, applying some cream.
We need to talk, he began without preamble.
Again? Andrew, Im exhausted. My day at the salon was brutal.
Why did you hurt Emily? Why bring up the portrait?
Claire turned, her face placid, almost indifferent.
I just voiced my opinion. I think its unhealthy for a teenager to cling to the past. She should move onfor her own good.
Her mother is dead! Andrews voice rose. She has the right to remember, to draw, to talk about her. Its part of her life!
And that part stops us from building a new life! Claire snapped. I came here to be your wife, not a curator of your past familys museum! Everywhere I look photos, recipes, her things! Now even endless drawings! I cant take it anymore!
She lunged, eyes flashing. Andrew barely recognised the woman hed fallen in love with. The light-hearted, breezy Claire had turned into a hostile, selfish stranger.
I want to be the lady of this house, she continued, panting with anger. A proper lady! I want everything my way! But your children are in the way.
Andrew felt the cold creeping in.
What are you trying to say?
Claire inhaled deeply, steadied herself, and stepped close, looking straight into his eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I want a normal family my family not a shared flat with two gloomy teenagers who hate me.
She fell silent, letting him absorb her words, then delivered the final blow.
Your children from your first marriage will not live here.
Silence crashed down, deafening. Andrew stared, speechless, as if the floor had vanished beneath him.
What? he asked, though he heard everything.
You understand now, Claire said, calmer. They have a grandmother, Annas mother. They can stay with her, or we could rent them a flat when James turns eighteen. There are care homes, after all. Well visit, help, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house just for us.
She spoke as if discussing a new sofa, as if the children were merely old furniture to be discarded to free up space.
Are you mad? Andrew croaked. Send my own children to their grandmother? To a care home?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Many do it. Its a civilized solution. You must choose: we build our family, or you keep living with your past. Its me or them.
She turned and lay on the bed, facing the wall, ending the conversation with an ultimatum.
Andrew left the bedroom, his legs trembling as he shuffled to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, but his hands shook so badly the water splashed everywhere. He sat at the very table theyd argued over that morning. Lord, this is nothing compared to what just happened, he thought.
He felt like a traitor to Anna, whose memory hed vowed to protect; to James and Emily, whod already endured loss; and now, as their father, he was forced to choose between them and a new woman.
He quietly opened Emilys bedroom door. She slept, clutching a plush bear. On the nightstand lay her sketchbook and the portrait of her mother. He peeked into Jamess room. The teen slept sprawled, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their fortress, the one he was about to dismantle.
He didnt close his eyes all night. He roamed the flat like a ghost, examining familiar objects the chair hed repaired with James, the shelf theyd built for Emilys books, Annas battered recipe book on the kitchen table, its pages stained with beloved pies. All of it was his real life, not the glossy picture Claire wanted.
He recalled how Claire had entered his life when he was broken and alone. She brought laughter, celebration, the feeling that life could go on. He was grateful enough to overlook her selfishness, her coldness toward his children, her disregard for his past. He told himself those were minor issues, that everything would sort itself out. He had hoped for happiness so badly that he almost made the gravest mistake of his life.
By morning his mind was clear. The decision came as simply as a sunrise.
Claire was already at the kitchen, sipping coffee, looking fresh as if yesterdays confrontation hadnt happened.
Good morning, love, she sang. I hope youve thought it through.
Andrew poured himself a coffee and sat opposite her.
I have. he said evenly.
He met her gaze; there was no love, no doubt, only a cold, empty space.
You can gather your things, he said quietly, firmly.
Claire froze, cup halfway to her lips.
What? What did you say?
I said you should pack. Youre no longer living here.
Her mask slipped, 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 and them. Such a choice is impossible. A family isnt furniture you can discard. I guess Id forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shouted. Youll end up alone in your little den with your memories and two calves! 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 stood and walked to his workshop, not wanting to hear any more. The door slammed behind him, rattling the dishes in the cabinet. Somewhere upstairs a crash echoed as Claire hurled her belongings into a suitcase.
He sat at his workbench, hands the hands of a maker, accustomed to creating and repairing trembling slightly. He looked at Annas photograph. She still smiled at him with that warm, understanding grin.
Half an hour later the house fell silent. The front door clicked shut. Claire had left.
Andrew stepped into the hallway. A silky scarf shed abandoned lay on the floor; he tossed it into the bin. The flat was quiet, a quiet that hadnt been felt for years. It wasnt the oppressive silence of loneliness, but a peaceful stillness, as if the house had finally settled into its true shape.
Sleepdeprived James and Emily emerged from their rooms, eyes wide with surprise.
Wheres Claire? Emily asked.
Shes gone, Andrew answered simply.
The children exchanged glances. No joy, no spite, just a gentle relief and a question theyd been afraid to ask.
Andrew moved to hug them both, holding them tighter than he had in years.
She wont be coming back, he said, feeling Emily nestle against him and James, now more grownup and hesitant, lay a hand on his shoulder. Now everything will be alright. I promise.
He didnt know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he was home, in his real home, with his real family. No one would ever force him to choose again.
And so he learned that love isnt about possessing a perfect picture, but about keeping the people who matter in the frame, no matter how messy the background may be.
