Sophie was 32 when her 12-year-old daughter married her new 22-year-old husband.
Twelve years old, him at 22, and her mother at 32. Yesterday, he became her mothers husband. They broke the news today.
The girl locked herself in her room and didnt come out all day. They called for herher mother stood by the door, offering trips to the cinema, the amusement park, walks, visits to friends. No reply. Curled up on her bed, she cried at first, then slept. Later, she just stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. Hunger finally dragged her out by evening.
It took years to adjust. She met her mothers every word with distrust, watched them together with disdain, turned rude, hateful. Her aunt tried talking to her, but she wouldnt listen. She often thought of running away. One day, she didhiding in a neighbors house, shivering on the attic steps until the cold drove her to her aunts.
When her mother came, the girl was already warm and fed. Her mothers hands trembled slightly, eyes brimming. Shed come alone.
They took a cab home. Studying her mothers profile, Sophie saw age. But *him*he was beautiful. Then he vanished for a month. No questions, no explanations, but the air at home softened. Just her and Mum again. Slowly, they reconciled.
Then 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, fingers lingering too long. Their eyes locked. Her mother paled, staring at her plate. The meal ended in silence.
Another day, when her mother was out, she pressed her forehead to his back, breath held. He froze, then turned, gently pushing her away. *”Dont be daft,”* he said, gripping her shoulders. She burst into hysterical tears: *”Why? What do you see in her? Shes old, shes wrinkledcant you see? Why would you want some old woman?”*
He brought her water, tucked a blanket around her, then left, the door slamming behind him. She sobbed, knowing she had to gouni halls, a flat, anywhere. Rejected. Humiliated.
He was *so* beautiful. She dreamed of him. Nights passed without him, her mother silent. They drifted through the house like ghosts.
When he finally returned, her mother was out. She was alone at the kitchen table, sipping tea, notes scattered. He sat oppositeher heart stalled. *”I love your mother,”* he said, weary but firm. *”Its her. Not you. We cant keep doing this.”* He held her gaze.
That night, dry-eyed, mind blank. The next morning, she walked in on them kissing in the kitchen. Nausea hit; she fled to the bathroom.
She moved to uni halls. Her mother begged her back, then helped her rent a flat.
At 25, him at 35, her mother at 45against all odds, things almost felt normal. Visits, shared meals, laughter. Her aunt said, *”Thank God you grew up.”* Her mother glowed, content. And him? Still beautiful. Too beautiful. She caught herself comparing every suitor to him, hating the habit.
Then came her own heartbreaka married man who wouldnt leave his wife. She waited outside his office, wept, refused to be a secret. Gifts and seaside trips werent enough. She wanted marriage, a life. He found it dull.
She remembered her mother kissing him in the kitchen, herself retching in disgust. She hadnt understoodlove could be peaceful. Real.
That year was turmoil. Rare visits, café run-ins with her mother, whod grown thinner but still elegant. Himever-charming. Finally, adult clarity: she saw her mothers love for what it was.
At 28, him at 38, her mother at 48a job opportunity in another city. Escape.
She thrived. Serene. Even dated a charming, single colleague. Marriage material, everyone said. Time to settle.
Then *he* visited for work. Lunch was light, easy. She joked about her new life, asked after his business, her mother. Thenhis hands. A sudden, visceral urge to be held by him.
He faltered, choosing his words. *”I love youthe stubborn girl you were. I know your pain. Well always be friends.”*
Awkwardness hung thick. She laughed it off. *”What do you *really* want from me?”*
Days later, he calledher mother was ill. *”Come now.”* But her mothers voice was tired, reassuring: *”Next weekend, darling. Ill wait.”* Then, softly: *”Have you forgiven me? For him? I saw how you loved him. I never meant to hurt you”*
He called again. Hospital. Urgent.
She came. Too late.
In the corridor, he stood empty-eyed, beautiful and shattered. Glanced at her, then away.
After the funeral, she haunted the flat. Rearranging, washing clean dishes, brewing endless tea.
He worked late, skipped dinners, slipped silently into *their* room.
Once, while he was out, she entered. The scent of her mothers perfume, photos everywheredresser, walls, the quilt. She slammed the door.
Shed never understood their love.
Now she knew she never would.
