Olivia was 32 when her 12-year-old daughter married her new 22-year-old husband. Twelve, twenty-two, and thirty-twoyesterday, he became her mothers husband. They broke the news to her today.
The girl locked herself in her bedroom and refused to come out. They knocked, her mother hovered by the door, suggesting trips to the cinema, theme parks, walks, or visits with friends. Silence. Curled on her bed, she cried, then dozed off. Later, she stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. Hunger finally lured her out by evening.
Years passed before she adjusted. Every word from her mother was met with suspicion, every shared glance between them with scorn. She was rude, bitter, brimming with hate. Her aunt tried reasoning with her, but she wouldnt listen. Running away crossed her mind often. Once, she didhiding in a neighbours loft until the cold drove her to her aunts.
When her mother arrived, the girl was warm and fed. Her mothers hands trembled; her eyes swam with tears. Shed come alone.
They took a cab home. Studying her mothers profile, Olivia saw age. Him? Still beautiful. Then, oddly, he vanished for a month. She asked no questions; her mother said nothing. The house settled into its old rhythmjust the two of them. Slowly, they reconnected.
Until he returned. Her mothers young husband. She grew used to him, accepting he was part of their lives now. At 18, over lunch, she passed him a knife, deliberately lingering. Their eyes locked. Her mother paled, staring at her plate. The meal ended in silence.
Another day, with her mother out, she pressed her forehead to his back, holding her breath. He stilled, then turned, gently pushing her away. Dont be daft, he muttered. She erupted: Why her? Shes old! Wrinkled! Dont you see?
He fetched water, tucked her into an armchair, draped a blanket over her, then left, slamming the door. She wept, realising she had to gouni halls, a flat, anywhere. Rejected. Humiliated.
He was so beautiful. She dreamt of him. Nights passed without him; her mother stayed quiet. They moved through the house like ghosts.
When he returned, she was alone, scribbling notes at the kitchen table. He sat opposite, weary. I love your mother, he said, unwavering. Not you. Let this go. She spent the night dry-eyed, numb. The next morning, she caught them kissing in the kitchen. She gagged and fled.
She moved into uni digs. Her mother begged her back, then helped her rent a flat.
At 25, him at 35, her mother at 45against the odds, things stabilised. She visited; they laughed over meals. Her aunt sighed, Thank God you grew up. Her mother glowed, content. He remained unbearably handsome. She compared every suitor to him, hating herself for it.
Then came the married man who wouldnt leave his wife. Tears, secret meetups, the hollow ache of stolen moments. He whisked her to Brighton, bought gifts, shrugged at her demands for more. She remembered her mothers kitchen embrace, her own disgust. She hadnt understood love could be gentle.
A stormy year followed. She avoided home, bumping into her mother at cafés. Her mother had slimmed, still elegant. He, ever dashing. At 28, clarity struckshe finally grasped the depth of her mothers love.
A job offer in Manchester became her escape. She thrived, even dating a charming colleague. Marriage material, everyone said.
Her stepfather visited on business. Over lunch, she chatted freelyuntil she noticed his hands, aching for his touch. He stiffened. I care for you, he said carefully. But were friends. Always.
The awkwardness lingered. She laughed it off. What do you want from me?
Later, he called: her mother was ill. Her mothers voice, frail but calm: Come next weekend, love. I miss you. Then, unexpectedly: Have you forgiven me? For him? I saw how you felt. I never meant to hurt you
Two days later, another call. Hospital. She rushed back.
Too late.
At the funeral, she moved through the flat like a wraithrearranging, scrubbing, brewing endless tea. He came home late, slipping silently to bed.
Once, while he was out, she entered their room. The scent of her mothers perfume hit her. Photos everywhereon the dresser, the walls, the quilt. She slammed the door shut.
Shed never understood their love. Now she knew she never would.
