After getting his work bonus, Andy and his two mates were at a small pub. The bonus wasn’t much, but being single, he didn’t stress over money.
“Got some extra cash—brilliant,” he’d say, laughing. “If not, no big deal. Wait for payday.”
His mates grumbled about handing their wages to their wives, hiding a bit if they could. Andy just shook his head.
“Lucky you, mate,” sighed John, the oldest. “Single life’s a doddle. I’ve got three boys to feed, and the wages barely stretch. Take my advice—don’t marry. Once you do, it’s all ‘the kids need shoes’, ‘clothes don’t fit’, and on it goes…”
They were chuckling when a lively, pretty girl slid into their booth. Spotting Andy, she plopped straight onto his lap. He flushed—youngest of the lot—but draped an arm around her anyway.
“I’m Maisie,” she announced brightly. “You?”
“Andy,” he muttered, while his mates smirked.
She hopped off and into a chair John nudged over from another table. Andy, a bloke from the countryside, was shy around bold girls like her. But something about Maisie stuck. That night, they left together. Come morning, he woke beside her.
“Work,” he mumbled, dressing fast while she lazed under the sheets.
“Andyyy,” she drawled, stretching. “Hope this isn’t the last time, eh? Come round mine after. I’ll be waiting.”
The shift dragged, but he bolted to hers the second it ended. True to her word, she was there outside her flat-share. Andy fell hard—her energy, her laugh—ignoring his mates’ warnings she was always flitting between blokes. Soon, he proposed.
A year later, little Rosie arrived. At first, Maisie played house—cooking, cleaning, nursing. But once Rosie turned one, the cracks showed. Andy’d come home to find the baby dumped on their neighbour, Sarah, who’d scold:
“Listen, Andy—I’ve two of my own. Tell Maisie I’m done babysitting while she’s off gallivanting.”
Rows blew up. He threatened to walk if she kept coming home drunk. Then she started bringing men back. One evening, he kicked a whole crowd out mid-party. During the final blow-up, Maisie snapped:
“Take Rosie and sod off. Both of you—back to your village.”
So he did. His mum, Clara, was bedridden there, cared for by their neighbour, Vera. Their fences were so rotted you could step between yards. Vera fed Clara, washed her—Andy hadn’t visited in ages and hadn’t known how bad it was. Now, stuck with a sick mum and a toddler, he found local work while Vera minded Rosie with her own boy, Tommy, three. The kids became inseparable.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you, Vera,” Andy admitted.
She was married once—to Mike, a drunk who’d swing fists. Andy gave him a thrashing that finally sent him packing to his mother’s in the next town. Vera was relieved: “Quiet at last. Cheers for that.”
A month later, Clara passed. Now Rosie ran straight to Vera’s each morning. Grateful, Andy helped with repairs—her place was solid, built by her dad, a master carpenter. His own cottage? A crumbling relic.
When Rosie fell ill with fever, Vera nursed her through the night. Andy, jittery, checked at dawn.
“She’s cooler now,” Vera murmured, stroking Rosie’s hair. “Go on to work.”
That evening, Rosie sat up weakly, smiling. “Dad… can we stay with Auntie Vera? I want to call her Mum.”
The words hung—echoing what both adults secretly wished but feared to say.
“Love, that’s not… proper,” Andy fumbled.
Vera flushed. “Why not? She’s right. That drafty cottage’s no place—” She caught herself, mortified.
Andy scratched his neck, then grinned. “Suppose Rosie’s sorted us, eh? Been thinking it myself. Should‘ve asked you proper, Vera.”
They married quietly. Rosie and Tommy, now step-siblings, were overjoyed. At school, Tommy—older—shielded her fiercely: “My sister. Touch her, you answer to me.”
Years passed. Tommy, sixteen, tall with floppy blond curls and blue eyes, had girls tripping over themselves. But he only had eyes for Rosie—fifteen, with her chestnut plait and stormy gaze. Kids gossiped:
“Why drag your sister everywhere?”
“She’s my business.”
Rosie seethed whenever girls flirted. Neither realised their bond had shifted. They read together, swam in the river, foraged berries—blissfully unaware.
At eighteen, Tommy cracked. “I’m moving to the city,” he told Rosie. “Can’t stay.”
She fled to the garden’s cherry tree, sobbing into its bark. Vera found her.
“Tommy upset you?”
“No! He’d never—”
“You’re in love, then.”
Rosie froze. “How’d you know?”
“Seen it for years. You two… you’re not blood-related. When Andy and I wed, he brought you; I had Tommy. You just don’t remember.”
Rosie gasped, then sprinted inside—where Tommy was packing.
“Son, what’s this?” Vera demanded.
“I’m leaving, Mum. Can’t stay—” He spotted Rosie, radiant.
“Tommy,” she burst out, “we’re not brother and sister!”
His hands stilled. “Mum… true?”
Vera wiped tears. “True. You’re step-siblings. That’s all.” She slipped out.
Tommy grabbed Rosie. “So… you’ll marry me?”
“Hold on—where’s my courting? Moonlit walks? Flowers?”
He laughed. “You’ll get the lot, Rosie. Every bit.”
A year later, a raucous wedding—and soon after, baby Charlie arrived. The village buzzed, but the little family? Pure joy.
