“I must explain everything to you, my dear…”
“Dinner’s ready!” called Lorraine as she sat at the table.
Each member of the family had their own spot. Her husband, Oliver, always faced the window. Their twelve-year-old daughter, Sophie, sat opposite him. Lorraine, as the lady of the house, took her place between them, her back to the stove and the sink.
She adored these quiet evenings when the family gathered. Mornings were a rushed affair—off to work and school with barely a word exchanged. Oliver and Lorraine ate lunch at their jobs, while Sophie sometimes ate at a friend’s house, where the grandmother baked pies and made hearty stews. Dinner was the only time they could truly sit together, talk without hurry, and share their day.
Lorraine had always wanted a close-knit family. She’d had a mother, a father, then a stepfather and a little sister—but she’d always felt separate from them, like an outsider. Some things just happened that way.
She barely remembered her father. He never shouted, never scolded her, but his gaze was cold and distant. Perhaps that was why she feared him. Her mother wasn’t much of a talker either, lips perpetually pressed tight, never smiling.
When Lorraine married Oliver and started her own family, she made rules: shared dinners on weeknights, weekend lunches together. Not just sitting at the same table, but truly talking—sharing news, making plans.
Once the meal was done, Lorraine asked, “Where shall we go on holiday? We ought to book tickets and hotels soon, or we’ll miss out.”
“Maybe we should visit my parents in the countryside?” Oliver suggested. “Dad wants help fixing the fence and the roof.”
Sophie groaned. “But I want to go to the seaside!”
“That costs a fortune,” Lorraine sighed. “We’ve still got the mortgage to pay. And the car needs new tyres. The countryside is much cheaper. We could always take a day trip to the Lake District.”
Sophie and Oliver both turned to Lorraine, waiting for her verdict.
“I agree with your father,” she conceded. “Though the seaside would’ve been lovely.”
“See!” Sophie exclaimed triumphantly.
Just then, the phone rang.
“It’s yours,” Oliver said, popping the last bite of his shepherd’s pie into his mouth.
Lorraine set her fork down and went to answer. It was her mother.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Am I interrupting? Lorraine, I need to talk. Come over.”
“Now? Are you ill?”
“I’m fine. Just come.” The line went dead.
When Lorraine returned to the kitchen, Oliver frowned. “What’s happened?”
“Mum rang. She wants me to visit. I bet it’s about Alice again.”
“Do you want me to drive you?”
“No, I’ll go myself. If I need a ride back, will you fetch me?”
“Of course.”
Lorraine hurried out. They didn’t live far—just a few bus stops away. The entire journey, she wondered what urgent matter her mother had. She never sought advice. Something was wrong.
Her mother opened the door, visibly distressed.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen. Would you like tea?”
“I’ve just eaten,” Lorraine said.
The kitchen was cramped, the table wedged against the fridge. They sat at an angle, unable to face each other properly. As her mother hesitated, Lorraine studied the new wrinkles lining her strained face. Had they multiplied since their last meeting? Her mother nervously twisted a ribbon between her fingers. Lorraine covered her hands with her own.
“Mum, calm down. What is it?”
“Alice called…”
“Of course she did,” Lorraine muttered.
Her mother shot her a reproachful look.
“What does she want this time?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
Lorraine scoffed. “What for? She married that rich Turkish bloke—remember how she bragged about him?”
“Something happened with Said’s business. He owes a lot. Someone swindled him, or he was robbed—I didn’t quite follow. They need the money straight away, or… he’ll be in real danger.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a loss,” Lorraine muttered.
“Lorraine!”
“Fine. But where would we get that sort of money? She bragged about how wealthy Said’s family was. Can’t his father help? Surely he has relatives. I always thought there was something off about him.”
Her mother sighed. “Alice says they’ve sold their house, moved in with his parents. His father’s paid part of the debt, but they still need fifty thousand.”
“Pounds? Not euros?”
“Pounds. I’ve decided. I’ll sell the flat. But I’m afraid I can’t manage it alone. That’s why I called you—to help me arrange the sale.”
“Mum, have you lost your mind? Selling your flat—and quickly! If Alice were in trouble, I’d understand. But you’re doing this for Said? Where will you live?”
Her mother’s voice trembled. “I thought… I could stay with you, if you’ll have me.”
Lorraine sat frozen. Alice had truly lost it, burdening their mother like this. What was she thinking?
“Mum, don’t cry. We’ll figure something out. Maybe Alice should just come home until Said sorts himself out. I’ll scrape together the fare.”
“She can’t,” her mother whispered. “She’s expecting.”
Lorraine groaned. “Again? How convenient.”
“I’ve made up my mind. There’s no other way. I can’t abandon her. I won’t refuse. I’m not asking for advice—I’m asking for your help.”
“Mum, selling a flat isn’t simple. You’ll have to move out, find a buyer—it takes time. If we rush, we’ll get far less than it’s worth. There must be another way. I’ll talk to Oliver. Just don’t work yourself into a state.”
On the bus home, Lorraine fumed. Alice always got what she wanted. Their mother had spoiled her rotten, and now she’d grown into a selfish brat. Surely Said’s family could scrape together fifty thousand. Why drag their mum into it?
Of course, if it came to it, she’d take her mother in—no question. Sophie would have to share her room. She wouldn’t be thrilled.
Lorraine had never liked Said. Handsome, yes. Alice had met him in Turkey three years ago on holiday. She’d come back glowing, gushing about his beautiful home, his wealthy parents. She swore he’d come for her soon.
Neither Lorraine nor their mother could talk her out of marrying him and leaving England. Then Alice announced she was pregnant. Lorraine had smelled trouble then—why would a wealthy Turk want a girl who didn’t speak the language, didn’t share his faith? But no one listened. They assumed she was jealous.
And what did Said even do for work? Money like that didn’t come honestly, not even in Turkey. Likely something shady. Now their mother was ready to sell everything for her precious Alice.
By the time Lorraine got home, she was wound tight. She and Oliver argued late into the night, trying to figure out how to find fifty thousand pounds.
“We’ll manage,” Oliver finally said, pulling her close. “We’ll sort it.”
That was why she loved him. No Turkish millionaire could compare to a man who stood by her, who worried for her mother.
Still, sleep didn’t come easily. Her thoughts turned to the past…
*
Her father had left before she turned six. She barely remembered him—a stern, unsmiling man, like a newsreader on the telly. Her mother, never much of a talker, grew even quieter after he left. When her grandmother visited, they’d whisper in the kitchen.
When Lorraine started school, her grandmother would pick her up, feed her, sometimes let her stay overnight.
“Am I going to live with you now?” Lorraine once asked.
“No, love. Your mother’s met someone. Let’s pray it works out.”
Then came Uncle George—a cheerful, red-faced man who made her mother laugh. They married, swapped flats with Gran, and suddenly Lorraine had her own room. Bliss—until Alice was born.
The world revolved around the screaming baby. Lorraine felt forgotten. Only Gran seemed to care.
Then Uncle George died suddenly—a blood clot. Their mother clung to Alice, kissing her constantly, as if she were the last piece of him.
Alice grew beautiful, spoiled. Lorraine, plain and overlooked. At eighteen, she moved out, married Oliver, had Sophie. She vowed never to play favourites with her own child.
When Alice met Said, no one could stop her. Their mother wept when she left for Turkey.
*
The next days were a blur. Lorraine took out a loan. Sending money abroad was a nightmare with all the restrictions. They pulled every favour, begged every contact. Finally, the money was sent.
“And as time passed, Lorraine found that the quiet dinners with her family, the shared burdens, and even her mother’s tentative smiles were more than enough to stitch together the ragged edges of their past, making a new kind of belonging—one that needed no explanations, just love.
