Your children from your first marriage wont be living here, Harriet announced, her voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen.
Andrew, weve already talked about this. I dont understand why you keep bringing it up. Those shabby cupboards ruin the whole look! she snapped, crossing her arms.
Harriet stood in the centre of the modest kitchen, her freshly manicured nails flashing as she gestured impatiently toward the old yet sturdy kitchen suite. Andrew let out a heavy sigh, setting down his mug of lukewarm tea. The morning had already gone wrong.
Harriet, I told you, Ive got a big contract on the line, but the payment wont arrive for another two months. We cant just splash £30,000 on a new kitchen now. This one still holds together. he said, rubbing his temples.
Sturdy, you say? she laughed, a thin, mocking sound. Thats a phrase my grandmother used. She wasnt sturdy, she was oldfashioned. I want our home to feel cosy and beautiful, not a museum of chipped corners. Do I look like Im asking for the moon?
He ran a hand through his greying hair. At fortyfive, Andrew had spent the last five years alone with his two children after his first wife died. Hed been living, not really existing, in a relentless routine of work, bills, school runs, and endless parentteacher meetings. Then Harriet burst into his grey world like fireworks, making him feel not just a lone father but a man again. He fell for her quickly, desperately, as if he were a boy. Their modest wedding was a quiet affair; they exchanged vows and dined with close friends. A month later Harriet was his lawful wife and the mistress of their threebedroom semidetached in Chesterfield.
I get it, Andrew said gently. I want you to be happy too. Lets just wait a bit. Ill finish the project and then well order everything you want. A sleek, glossy kitchen, just like youve imagined.
Harriets expression softened. She moved closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, the scent of expensive perfume mixing with a faint coffee aroma.
Im sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you. I just want to build our nest, make it new.
At that moment, bare feet pattering across the tiles, his fourteenyearold daughter, Mabel, slipped into the kitchen. A delicate girl with a long blonde braid, she looked uncannily like her late mother.
Morning, Dad. Have you seen my sketchbook? she asked, eyes searching.
Morning, sunshine. I think I left it on the coffee table in the lounge yesterday. Andrew replied.
Mabel glanced nervously at Harriet, then mumbledropped a quiet Good morning. Harriets tone was icy.
Good morning, she said, stepping back from Andrew. You should at least wash up and tidy yourself before breakfast.
Mabel flushed crimson, muttered an apologetic sorry, and retreated down the hallway. Andrew frowned.
Harriet, why? Shes just a child.
Exactly, Andrew. A child who needs structure, or shell grow into a slob. Im only trying to help.
Soon after, his seventeenyearold son, Thomas, entered, his tall frame casting a shadow as he stared at Harriet with thinly veiled disdain.
Anything to eat? he grumbled, opening the fridge.
Want some scrambled eggs? Andrew offered, trying to defuse the tension.
Yeah, fine. Thomas replied.
Harriet moved to the window, the children’s presence clearly weighing on her. She never said it outright, but every gesture, every glance told Andrew that she felt burdened. He hoped, with time, they would all adjust, that a new family could be stitched together.
After breakfast, Andrew slipped into his workshop a small, wellorganised shed turned carpenters haven. He was a furniture restorer, his hands steady on the tools as he painstakingly revived an antique rocking chair, sanding away years of wear. The scent of timber, varnish, and oil always calmed him, pulling his thoughts away from the mornings argument.
He loved Harriet her laugh, her energy, the way she looked at him. Yet each day he saw more clearly that their worlds were parallel tracks. Harriet thrived on highsociety parties, chic galleries, and pricey restaurants, while his life revolved around the smell of wood shavings, Thomas teenage dramas, Mabels watercolor splatters, and the quiet evenings spent with a book. He often thought of his first wife, Anne, whose smile still lingered on a photograph on the workbench, a bouquet of wild daisies in her lap. Sometimes he imagined Annes ghost chiding him, What are you doing, Andrew? Where are you taking your children?
Evening brought a surprise. Boxes were stacked in the hallway.
Whats all this? Andrew asked, eyebrows raised.
Ive decided to clear out the clutter, Harriet replied cheerfully, stepping out of the living room. You have no idea how much junk youve accumulated. Look, this hideous vase, old magazines, a bunch of kids crafts.
Andrew pulled a box open. On top lay a clumsy clay hedgehog that Mabel had made in Year Five. He remembered how proud shed been.
Harriet, 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 fresh, and a fresh life needs space free of the past. she said, her smile thin, eyes hard.
He silently moved the boxes back, placing the hedgehog on a shelf. The invisible wall between them grew taller.
A week passed, tension thickening like fog. Harriets comments about the children increased Thomass music too loud, Mabels paint spills, dishes left unwashed. The kids withdrew, speaking little around her. Thomas began disappearing to friends, returning late. Mabel retreated to her room, drawing bleak landscapes. Andrew was torn, trying to be a loving husband and a caring father.
One night he found Mabel in tears.
Whats wrong, love? he asked softly, holding out her sketchbook.
She showed him a drawing of her mother, vivid and heartbreaking.
Its beautiful, Andrew said, his voice cracking. You have real talent. Why are you crying?
Harriet told me I shouldnt live in the past, that I could draw my mums portrait if I wanted to please you. As if I should forget her. Mabel whispered.
Andrews chest clenched with a silent fury. He decided tonight would be the night he confronted Harriet.
He waited until the children were asleep, then slipped into their bedroom. Harriet was in front of a mirror, applying cream.
We need to talk, he began without preamble.
Again? Andrew, Im exhausted. My day at the salon was brutal. she replied, barely looking up.
Why did you hurt Mabel? Why bring up the portrait?
Harriet turned, her face calm, almost indifferent.
I just gave my opinion. Its unhealthy for a teenager to cling to the past. She needs to move on, for her own good.
Her mother is dead! Andrews voice rose. She has a right to remember, to draw her, to talk about her! Its part of who she is!
And that part stops us building a new life! Harriets tone sharpened. I didnt marry you to become a curator of a museum of your previous family. Everywhere I look photographs, recipes, her favourite pies now there are endless drawings. I cant take this any longer!
She sprang up, eyes flashing. Andrew saw a stranger where once there had been the bright, breezy woman hed fallen for.
I want to run this house, she hissed, breath ragged. To be the proper lady of this home! But your children stand in my way.
Andrews skin went cold. He sensed where she was heading.
What are you saying? he asked, voice barely a whisper.
Harriet drew a deep breath, stepped close, and stared straight into his eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want us together. But I need a proper family, my own family, not a shared house with two gloomy teenagers who despise me.
She fell silent, letting the weight of her words settle. Then, with a final, chilling certainty, she declared:
Your children from your first marriage will not live here.
The silence that followed thundered. Andrew stared, words failing him, the floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet.
What? he croaked, though he had heard every syllable.
You understand now, Harriet said, steadier. They have a grandmother, Annes mother, who can look after them. Or we could rent them a flat once Thomas is of age. There are care homes, after all. Well visit, well help, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house for us, just us.
She spoke as if discussing a new set of kitchen cabinets, as if the children were mere old furniture to be cleared out.
Are you out of your mind? Andrew rasped. Send my own children to a grannys or a care home?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. Its civilized. Andrew, you must choose. Either we build our new family here, or you keep living in the past with your kids. Either me, or them.
She turned, lay down on the bed, facing the wall as if the conversation were over. The ultimatum hung in the air.
Andrew left the bedroom, his legs numb, and shuffled back to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, his hands shaking so badly he spilled half of it. He sat at the very table that had been the battlefield that morning. God, how trivial that table seemed compared to the storm raging inside him.
He felt like a traitor to Anne, whom hed promised to look after; to Thomas and Mabel, whod already endured the loss of their mother. Now, as their father, he was forced to choose between them and a woman who wanted to erase them.
He quietly nudged open Mabels door. She lay curled around a plush bear, the sketchbook and her mothers portrait beside her. He glanced at Thomass room; his son slept with arms stretched, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their fortress, which he was about to demolish.
He spent the night sleepless, wandering the flat like a ghost, tracing his fingers over familiar objects: the repaired chair hed built with Thomas, the shelf theyd erected together for Mabels books, Annes battered recipe book on the kitchen counter, its pages yellowed from years of use. All of it was his real life, not the glossy picture Harriet coveted.
He recalled how Harriet had appeared at his lowest, bringing laughter and the notion that life could go on. Hed been so grateful hed ignored her selfishness, her coldness toward his children, convincing himself it was all minor, that everything would smooth over. Hed clung to the hope of happiness so tightly he almost made the gravest mistake of his life.
By dawn, a quiet resolve settled over him, simple and unmistakable.
Harriet was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, her hair immaculate, as if yesterdays nightmare never happened.
Good morning, love, she sang. I hope youve thought it over.
Andrew poured himself a coffee, sat opposite her, and said in an even tone:
I have.
He looked straight into her eyes; there was no love left, no doubtonly a cold, empty void.
You can start packing your things, he said softly but firmly.
Harriet froze, coffee cup trembling.
What? What did you say?
I said you should pack. Youre not living here any longer.
Her mask cracked, revealing anger and bewilderment.
Youre kicking me out? Because of them? You choose them over me?
Its not them, Andrew corrected. Its my children. Ive never had to choose between you and them, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt something you can discard like old furniture. I seem to have forgotten that. Thanks for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shouted. Youll be left alone in your little den with your memories and your two wolves! No decent woman will ever live with you!
Perhaps, Andrew replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the one thing I cherish most.
He rose and headed back to his workshop, not wanting to hear another word. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the flat as dishes rattled in the cupboards. Somewhere upstairs, a crash signalled Harriet hurling her belongings into a suitcase.
Andrew settled at the bench, his handshands that built and repairedtrembling slightly as he lifted a screwdriver. He glanced at Annes photograph; her warm smile still seemed to reach across the years.
Half an hour later, the front door clicked open. Harriet 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, peaceful silence, the kind that had been absent for years. It wasnt the oppressive silence of loneliness, but the calm of a house finally righted.
Thomas and Mabel emerged from their rooms, rubbing sleep from their eyes, surprised to see him standing there.
Wheres Harriet? Mabel asked.
Shes gone, Andrew answered simply.
Their faces reflected a mixture of relief and lingering uncertainty. They moved toward him, and he pulled them both into a tight embrace, the kind he hadnt given in a long time.
She wont be coming back, he whispered, feeling Mabels head rest against his chest and Thomas, now a young man, place a tentative hand on his shoulder. From now on, itll be just us. I promise.
He didnt know what the future held, only that he was back in his own home, with his real family. And no one would ever force him to choose again.
