Your children from your first marriage wont be living here, love announced the new wife.
Andrew, weve already been over this. I dont see why you keep bringing it up. Those shabby cupboards are ruining the whole look!
Miranda Clarke stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded, her immaculate manicure flashing as she flicked a hand toward the old but sturdy kitchen suite. Andrew Whitaker exhaled heavily and set his cooling tea mug aside. The morning was off to a right start.
Look, Mir, I told you. Ive got a big contract on the books, but the payment wont arrive for two months. We cant just splash thirtythousand pounds on a new kitchen straight away. This one still holds up.
Still holds up? she snorted. Thats a phrase my grandmother would use. She wasnt sturdy; she was oldfashioned. I want a cosy, pretty home where I can invite my mates without blushing at the peeling corners. Is that too much to ask?
He ran a hand through his hair. At fortyfive, after his first wife died five years ago, hed been living alone with his two kids. Life had become a relentless loop of work, bills, school meetings, and endless chores. Then Miranda burst in like a fireworks display, turning his grey existence into something that felt like a proper life again. Hed fallen for her fast and hard, like a schoolboy with a crush. They wed modestly, signed the registers, and celebrated with a tiny dinner party of close friends. A month later Miranda was his legal wife and the lady of their threebed flat in Manchester.
I get it, he said conciliatory. I want you happy too. Lets wait a bit. Ill finish the project and then well order everything youve dreamed of: white, glossy, just like you want.
Mirandas shoulders softened. She walked over and slipped an arm around his neck, perfume and a hint of coffee wafting from her.
Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you. I just want us to build a proper nest, fresh and new.
At that moment his fourteenyearold daughter, Olivia, slipped into the kitchen barefoot, her long blond braid swaying. She looked a lot like her late mother.
Morning, Dad. Have you seen my sketchbook?
Good morning, sunshine. I think I left it on the coffee table in the lounge yesterday.
Olivia gave a quick, nervous glance at Miranda.
Good morning, she murmured.
Good morning, Miranda replied coolly, stepping back from Andrew. And perhaps you could wash up and brush your hair before you join breakfast.
Olivias cheeks flushed a deep crimson; she muttered an apology and fled down the hallway. Andrew frowned.
Mir, why that tone? Shes a child.
Exactly, Andrew. A child who needs a bit of order, or shell grow into a slob. Im only looking out for her best interests.
Soon after, his seventeenyearold son, Harry, appeared, tall and sullen, casting a wary eye at Miranda as he opened the fridge.
Got anything to eat? he grumbled.
Fancy some scrambled eggs? Andrew tried to lighten the mood.
Yeah, sure.
Miranda drifted toward the window, clearly uncomfortable with the presence of his children. She never said it outright, but every gesture, every glance said it. Andrew hoped theyd eventually settle into a comfortable rhythm. He wanted his new family to be happy, even if it meant a few awkward moments.
After breakfast, Andrew retreated to his workshopa small room hed fitted out for carpentry. He was a furniture restorer, a true craftsman. The scent of timber, lacquer, and stain always soothed him. Right now he was working on an antique rocking chair, painstakingly reviving a carved armrest. The delicate work demanded his full attention and gave him a respite from the days frustrations.
He loved Mirandaher laugh, her energy, the way she looked at him. Yet each day he realised that her world and his children’s world were as different as night and day. Miranda adored society parties, trendy exhibitions, upscale restaurants. She liked comfort and admiration. His world smelled of wood shavings, school drama, Olivias watercolours plastered on the walls, and quiet evenings with a book. And there was the lingering memory of Anne, his first wife, whose photographsmiling, clutching a bunch of wild daisiessat on a shelf in the workshop, occasionally seeming to chide him. What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you taking the kids?
Evenings brought a new surprise: boxes piled in the hallway.
Whats all this? Andrew asked, eyeing the neatly stacked items.
I thought we could clear out the clutter, Miranda said cheerfully as she emerged from the living room. You have no idea how much junk has accumulated. Look, this horrible vase, the old magazines, some childrens crafts.
Andrew peeked into a box and found a misshapen clay hedgehog that Olivia had made in Year Five. He remembered how proud hed been.
Miranda, thats not junk, he said as calmly as possible. Those are our memories.
Darling, memories belong in the heart, not gathering dust in corners. We agreed to start a new life, and a new life needs fresh space, free of the past,
She smiled, but her eyes held a chilly 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 and tension climbed. Mirandas remarks grew more frequent: Harrys music too loud, Olivia spilling paint again, dishes left unwashed. The kids withdrew, speaking little in her presence. Harry started disappearing with friends, returning late. Olivia retreated to her room, drawing melancholy landscapes. Andrew felt torn, trying to be a loving husband and a caring father.
One evening he found Olivia in tears.
Whats wrong, love?
She handed him her sketchbook; one page held a vivid portrait of her mother, uncannily lifelike.
Beautiful, Andrew said. You have real talent. Why are you crying?
Miranda said I shouldnt live in the past, that I could draw her portrait if I wanted to please you, as if I should forget Mum,
Andrew hugged her, a low fury building inside. He decided that tonight hed have a serious word with Miranda.
When the children were finally asleep, he slipped into the bedroom. Miranda was in front of a mirror, applying some cream.
We need to talk, he began, no preamble.
Again? Andrew, Im exhausted. Ive had a rough day at the salon.
Why did you tell Olivia about the portrait?
Miranda turned, her face placid, almost indifferent.
I just gave my opinion. I think its unhealthy for a teenager to cling to the past. She should move on, for her own good.
Her mother is dead! he raised his voice. She has the right to remember, to draw, to talk about her. Its part of who she is!
And that part stops us building a new life! Mirandas voice rang. I didnt move in to become the keeper of your old familys museum. Everywhere I look photos, recipes, even endless drawings Im suffocated!
She sprang up, eyes flashing. The woman Andrew had fallen for seemed to have vanished, replaced by an angry, selfish stranger.
I want to be the lady of this house, she continued, breathless with anger. A proper lady! I want to change everything my way! But your children are in the way.
Andrews breath grew cold. He sensed where she was heading.
What are you trying to say?
Miranda inhaled deeply, then stepped close, staring straight into his eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want to be with you. But I want a normal family. Mine. Not a boarding house with two moody teenagers who despise me.
She fell silent, letting the weight of her words settle. Then she dropped the line that sounded like a verdict.
Your children from your first marriage wont be living here.
The silence that followed was deafening. Andrew stared, his mouth dry, as if the floor were giving way beneath him.
What? he repeated, though hed heard it.
You understand, Miranda said, now calmer. They have a grandma, Aunt Annes mother. They could stay with her, or we could rent them a flat once Harry turns eighteen. There are care homes, after all. Well visit, well help, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house to be ours, just ours.
She spoke as if she were discussing a new sofa, as if the children were old things to be cleared away to make room.
Are you mad? Andrew rasped. Send my own children to Grandma? To a care home?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Lots of people do it. Its the civilized way. Andrew, you have to choose. Either we build our new family, or you keep living in the past with your kids. Either me, or them.
She turned and lay down, deliberately facing the wall, ending the conversation with an ultimatum.
Andrew left the bedroom, his legs stiff, and shuffled to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, but his hands shook so much he spilled half of it. He sat at the very table that had sparked their morning argument. Good grief, he thought, this is nothing compared to what just happened.
He felt like a traitorto Anne, whose memory hed promised to honour; to Harry and Olivia, whod already endured a terrible loss; and now, as their father, he was forced to pick between them and a new woman.
He quietly opened Olivias door. She slept, clutching a teddy bear, an album and her mothers portrait lying on the bedside table. He peeked into Harrys room. The teen was sprawled, arms outstretched, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their fortress, the one hed been about to dismantle.
He spent the night sleepless, wandering the flat like a ghost, staring at familiar things: the chair hed restored with Harry, the shelf theyd built with Olivia for her books, Annes wellworn recipe book on the kitchen counter, pages bent from countless pies. All of it was his real life, not the glossy magazine picture Miranda wanted.
He remembered the day Miranda walked in, bringing laughter, celebration, the feeling that life went on. Hed been grateful enough to overlook her selfishness, her coldness toward his kids, her disregard for his past. He told himself they were small things, that everything would settle. Hed wanted happiness so badly hed almost made the gravest mistake of his life.
By morning, his decision felt as clear as a bell.
Miranda was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, looking fresh and beautiful as if nothing had happened the night before.
Good morning, love, she sang. I hope youve thought it all through.
Andrew poured himself coffee in silence and sat opposite her.
I have, he said evenly. Ive thought it through.
He looked her straight in the eye; there was no love left, no doubt, only a cold, empty stare.
You can start packing your things, he said softly but firmly.
Miranda froze, cup halfraised.
What? What did you just say?
I said, pack your things. Youre not living here any longer.
Her mask cracked, revealing anger and confusion.
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, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt something you can toss out like old furniture. I guess I forgot that. Thanks for the reminder.
Youll regret this! she shouted. Youll end up alone in your little den with your memories and two rascals! 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 back to his workshop, not wanting to hear another word. The door slammed shut, the cabinets rattled, and somewhere up the stairs a crash echoed as Miranda hurled her belongings into a suitcase.
He sat at his bench, handsthose of a seasoned makertrembling slightly as he picked up his tools. He glanced at Annes photograph, her warm smile still greeting him.
Half an hour later, the house fell quiet. The front door clicked shut as Miranda left.
Andrew stepped into the hallway. A silk scarfher favouritelay on the floor, forgotten in the hurry. He tossed it into the bin. The flat settled into a peace that hadnt been felt in years. Not the oppressive silence of loneliness, but a quiet, contented hush where everything finally belonged.
Sleepladen Harry and Olivia emerged from their rooms, eyes wide with surprise at the empty corridor.
Wheres Miranda? Olivia asked.
Shes gone, Andrew replied simply.
The children exchanged looks. No glee, no spitejust a shy, relieved relief and a question theyd been too frightened to voice.
Andrew moved forward and embraced them both, holding them tighter than he had in ages.
She wont be coming back, he said, feeling Olivia nestle against him and Harry, now a little less prickly, place his hand on his shoulder. Now things will be alright. I promise.
He didnt know what the future held, only that he was home, in his real home, with his true family. And no one would ever force him to choose again.
