After receiving his bonus at the factory, Andy and his two mates sat in a cosy little pub. It wasn’t a fortune, but being single, he didn’t sweat the small stuff when it came to money.
“Got cash? Brilliant. No cash? Ah well, payday’s just round the corner,” he’d cheerfully tell his mates whenever they moaned about handing over their wages to their wives—assuming they’d managed to stash a secret tenner somewhere.
“Lucky sod, being single,” Ivan sighed. “I’ve got three lads and a wage that barely stretches. Take my advice—don’t get married. Once you do, it’s all ‘the kids are hungry, the shoes are knackered, they’ve outgrown their clothes again’—you know the drill.”
The lads laughed, but just then, a lively, pretty girl sidled up to their table. Spotting Andy, she plonked herself right on his lap. He was the youngest of the lot, and though a bit flustered, he couldn’t help but grin and wrap an arm around her.
“I’m Maisie,” she announced with a giggle. “And you?”
“Andy—er, Andrew,” he corrected, while the other two winked and snickered like schoolboys.
Maisie slid off his lap, and Ivan gallantly fetched a spare chair from another table for her. Andy, a bloke from the countryside, had only been living and working in town for about a year. Shy by nature, he wasn’t used to bold, cheeky girls like her—but he fancied her something rotten. That night, they left together. By morning, he woke up beside her.
“Got work,” he muttered, scrambling into his clothes while she stayed sprawled in bed.
“Andy, love, this isn’t the last time, is it?” she yawned, stretching. “Come round after your shift. I’ll be waiting.”
The workday dragged like a wet weekend, but Andy sprinted to Maisie’s digs the second the clock struck five. True to her word, she was there, waiting. He fell head over heels for that bright, brassy girl, even though he barely knew her—despite his mates warning him she was no stranger to a bloke’s company. Before he knew it, he’d proposed.
A year later, their little girl, Lottie, was born. At first, Maisie wasn’t a bad wife—cooked, cleaned, even breastfed. But the moment Lottie turned one, things went pear-shaped. Andy would be at work, and Maisie would dump the baby on the neighbour and vanish. He’d come home to find Lottie next door, while the neighbour scowled:
“Andy, I’ve got two girls of my own and a mountain of chores. Tell that wife of yours I’m not babysitting anymore.”
Rows, shouting, threats—Andy warned Maisie he’d throw her out if she left Lottie alone or crawled home drunk again. But then she started bringing blokes back. He’d walk in after a long day to find a rabble in his living room—and out they’d go, every last one.
Finally, after another blazing row, Maisie snapped: “Take Lottie and sod off. I don’t need either of you. Crawl back to your bloody village.”
Andy did just that. He’d been thinking about it for a while, hoping she’d change. Back in his countryside hometown, his mum, Edith, was bedridden—so poorly she couldn’t even get up. Vera, the neighbour, had been looking after her. Their houses were so close, you could hop the fence (what was left of it) without bothering with the gate. Vera would just amble down her steps and straight into Edith’s yard. Handy for sneaking over meals, too—Vera kept Edith fed.
Andy hadn’t visited in ages. He had no idea his mum was this bad. And she had no one else. Tough situation—dying mother, toddler daughter. He found work in the village, and Vera, bless her, kept an eye on Lottie. Her own son, Tommy, was three. The kids played together like old mates.
“Cheers, Vera. Dunno what I’d do without you,” Andy said, gratitude thick in his voice.
Vera was married, but her husband, Mick, was a waster—boozing, brawling. Andy had “educated” him a few times. But the last lesson stuck so well, Mick slunk off to his mum’s in the next village and never came back. Vera wasn’t upset—if anything, she thanked Andy. She’d been terrified of Mick.
“Oh, Andy, it’s so quiet now. Thank you for sorting him out. He’d never dare come back—he’s only brave with me,” she said, shaking her head. She divorced him.
A month later, Edith passed. They buried her. Now Andy would head to work, and Lottie would scamper straight to Vera’s. Grateful, he helped Vera with whatever she needed. His cottage was a shambles—his grandparents’ old place. Vera’s house, though? Solid. Her dad, Jim, had been the best carpenter in the county. Built it himself—shame he didn’t get long to enjoy it.
Vera’s parents died within two years of each other—Jim first (folk said he’d busted his back hauling logs alone), then her mum, who took ill fast and followed. At sixteen, Vera was left with just her older sister. Soon, that sister married and moved away. At eighteen, alone in the house, Mick came sniffing. Edith had urged her:
“Take him, Vera. You can’t stay alone forever.”
So she did. Tommy was born. Vera adored him—but Mick? The more he drank, the less she could stand him.
After Edith’s death, Andy started thinking. He liked Vera—really liked her. Nothing like Maisie. Vera was homely, kind, cooked like a dream, and looked at him with such warmth.
“How did I ever marry Maisie? This is what a wife should be,” he’d muse.
One day, he came home to find Lottie sick in Vera’s bed, fever raging.
“Little one’s poorly,” Vera fretted. “Called the nurse—got her some medicine. Let her stay with me tonight. Gave her tea with honey—just let her rest.”
Andy barely slept. At dawn, he rushed over.
“Fever broke just before sunrise. She’s sleeping now. Don’t fuss—get to work.”
That evening, he hurried back. Lottie sat up weakly, smiling.
“Dad,” she piped, “let’s live here with Auntie Vera. I’ll call her Mum.”
That knocked the wind out of him. Vera blushed scarlet. They’d been circling each other for months, too shy to speak.
“Sweetheart, that’s… that’s not really how it works,” Andy stammered.
“Why not?” Vera whispered, eyes down. “She’s right. That drafty old place of yours…” She trailed off, embarrassed for being so forward.
Andy hesitated—then grinned.
“Well, seems Lottie’s sorted us out. Been meaning to ask you myself. Suppose I’d better make it official.”
They married. Life was grand. The happiest were Tommy and Lottie—now brother and sister. They played, went to school together. Tommy, the elder, guarded Lottie fiercely.
Years rolled on. Tommy turned sixteen, Lottie fifteen. Inseparable. Too inseparable. Neither realised they’d fallen in love—first love, clumsy and bright.
Tall, blond, blue-eyed Tommy made girls swoon. Yet he only had eyes for Lottie—dark-haired, grey-eyed, lashes like a doll’s.
“Why’s your sister always tagging along?” girls huffed.
“’Cause she’s my sister. Touch her, and you’ll regret it.”
“Bit weird, going on dates with her, too, isn’t it?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
But he didn’t date anyone else. They read together, swam in the river, picked berries in the woods. At eighteen, it hit him—he loved her. Properly.
“What am I doing?” he groaned, hiding in the hayloft. “She’s my sister. How do I live without her?”
But Lottie had loved him just as secretly since fifteen. She’d seethed whenever girls flirted with him.
Time passed. Tommy got drafted. Lottie, now a trainee chef, waved him off. He returned—and when they reunited, Vera saw it in their embrace. The way they looked at each other. She knew.
Tommy couldn’t take it. “Lottie, I’m leaving. Can’t stay here,” he croaked—too scared to confess.
Devastated, Lottie bolted to the garden’s old cherry tree—her secret spot—and sobbed. Vera, picking spring onions, found her.
“Love, what’s wrong? Did Tommy hurt you?”
“No. He never does.”As the years rolled by, Tommy and Lottie built a life full of love and laughter, proving that sometimes the best families aren’t bound by blood but by the heart.
