Vera never found out why Mum and Dad didn’t stay together.
She was three when they split. Mum took little Vera from the city back to her hometown in the countryside.
“Managed it all, didn’t you?” Gran Margaret couldn’t help muttering as she met them at the garden gate. “Finished school, got married, had a kid, divorced. You young ones do everything at breakneck speed…”
They say you shouldn’t judge someone by their words, but by their actions.
Gran Margaret was a kind grandmother. Even if she grumbled and scolded, her family was used to it.
But the pancakes she made! And the stories she told…
Vera loved when Gran tucked her in at night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, straightening the quilt, she’d start another slow, dreamy fairy tale.
Of course, any child wants more than just stories—they want affection. But Gran Margaret wasn’t one for “mushy stuff.” Kisses at bedtime, hugs, whispering “I love you”? Not her style.
Vera’s mum picked up that same way of speaking to loved ones.
Sometimes Vera wondered—maybe they didn’t hug her because they didn’t love her?
But once, when Vera caught a nasty cold and spent three days getting worse with no sign of help, Gran stayed by her side day and night. Mum was away somewhere.
Looking back, Vera spent more time with Gran than with Mum.
“When’s Mum coming back?” she’d ask.
“When she sorts her life out,” Gran would say.
Vera didn’t quite know what “sorting her life out” meant, but she never dared to ask.
Eventually, Mum’s trips grew fewer, then stopped altogether. And Vera thought—ah, she’s “sorted it” now. She’s back for good.
Except Mum was always sad. Distant. Like she barely noticed Vera, lost in her own thoughts.
Then Mum fell ill. At first, they thought it was nothing serious, just a passing thing.
But she stopped eating, always trying to lie down. Not sleeping—just lying there, eyes closed.
“She needs to go to London, see a proper doctor, get tests done,” said a neighbour Gran had called over.
“Not going anywhere,” Mum whispered—the first words she’d said in ages.
Vera saw how much effort those few words cost her.
A week later, Mum was worse. They had to call an ambulance.
Vera didn’t know it’d be the last time she saw her.
After that, it was just her and Gran.
Vera barely remembered those days. Everything blurred into a bad dream. Gran, crying, suddenly older… Mum’s things kept close—her cosy dressing gown, gloves that still smelled like her perfume.
“Should’ve been me,” Gran sighed once, stroking Vera’s hair with her rough, wrinkled hand. “What tragedy… What’ll become of you now?”
Vera hardly breathed, terrified Gran might stop.
Slowly, life moved on.
Vera went to school, helped around the house, did homework. Days dragged, all the same.
Only later did she realize—she’d been happy then. Gran took care of her, tried to be mother and father both.
…Fifteen’s a terrible age to be left alone in the world. But fate had other plans.
One day, Gran went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Gone, just like that.
At the funeral, Vera couldn’t even cry. Just emptiness inside.
Then, the children’s home.
Days later, the head called her in.
“Vera, we’ve found your father. He’s coming for you today. Pack your things.”
“But I don’t know him.”
Going off with a stranger? Calling him “Dad”? She wasn’t ready.
“You’ll get to know him. You should be glad—he could’ve refused. Some aren’t so lucky.”
…“Um, hi,” the tall man said awkwardly, staring at a daughter he barely remembered. If at all.
“Come on,” he took Vera’s bag and headed for the door.
She stood frozen.
“Don’t be scared. I’m nervous too,” he offered a shy smile and a wink.
Typical bloke, Vera thought, following this father she didn’t know.
Silence the whole drive. Neither knew what to say.
At the flat, a polished woman met them—full makeup, fancy dress, dripping in jewellery.
“This is Olivia, my wife,” he said. “And this is Vera, my daughter.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Olivia said, eyeing Vera sharply.
She’s lying, Vera thought.
Inside, the flat was spotless—like a museum. Paintings, plush carpets, a massive telly, heavy curtains.
Vera stayed for a week but never called him “Dad.”
Olivia acted like she wasn’t even there—lounging in bed, showering forever, sipping coffee.
John cooked breakfast—thick slices of ham, pre-sliced bread for convenience.
He poured Vera strong tea, heavy on sugar. She hated it but didn’t say. What even was she supposed to call him?
He drove her to school in his big Jeep. She walked home alone.
“Vera, take this for lunch,” he’d hand her crumpled notes.
She saved them instead—planning her “escape.” Dreaming of going back to Gran’s house.
Nobody’d even look for her there. Three more years, then she’d be an adult. Work. She’d manage—Gran had left jars upon jars of preserves, potatoes, compotes. She wouldn’t starve.
But it wasn’t meant to be…
…Vera poured herself cherry juice, heading to her room to study. Under Olivia’s glare, she couldn’t even sip it.
Tripping on the rug, she spilled it. Stained the carpet blue.
Olivia stormed in.
“That’s it! Enough!” she snarled. “No kids of our own, now stuck with someone else’s?!”
Vera just watched—finally seeing her real face. The mask had slipped.
That night, John came home. Vera heard them arguing behind the kitchen door. Then silence.
A knock. He walked in.
“You okay? Why’s it so dark? Come eat. What, upset over a rug? It’s just a rug! I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow.”
“Not hungry,” Vera whispered.
“So I eat alone?”
“What about Olivia?”
“Olivia’s gone.”
He paused, rubbing his stubbled cheek.
“She left? Because of me?”
“Because of us. We’re a package deal now. Take both or none. And… I’m getting used to you. Never thought I’d live with my daughter…”
“Me neither… Dad.”
