DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, there’s something I need to tell you… Do you remember my illegitimate daughter, Annie?” My husband spoke in riddles, and I grew uneasy. “Do I remember? I could never forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing myself for bad news. “I don’t even know how to say this… Annie’s begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he stammered. “And why should we, Alex? What about Annie’s husband? Did he vanish into thin air?” I was intrigued—my curiosity piqued. “You see, Annie doesn’t have long to live. She never had a husband. Her mother married an American and moved to the States ages ago—they’re not on speaking terms, and Annie has no other family. That’s why she’s asking,” Alex mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “So? What are you thinking? What will you do?” I’d already made up my mind. “I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you decide, that’s what we’ll do,” Alex finally met my gaze, questioning. “How convenient. So you made mistakes in your youth, and now I have to take responsibility for someone else’s child?” My husband’s lack of resolve infuriated me. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, look at that—now you remember I’m your wife! But did you ask me when you rolled in the hay with that girl?!” Tears welled up, and I fled to another room. Back in school, I’d been dating my classmate Val, but as soon as the new boy, Sam, arrived, I forgot everyone else. I broke up with Val soon after. Sam noticed me, started walking me home, kissing me on the cheek, bringing me flowers. A week later, we ended up in bed. I’d fallen for Alex for life. We finished school, and Sam was called up for National Service in another city. We wrote for a year, then Sam came home on leave. I was ecstatic, bending over backward to please him. He promised: “Polly, I’ll come back in a year and we’ll get married! I already consider you my wife.” Those words filled me with love. That’s how it’s always been: Sam would flash me one of his sweet glances and I’d melt. He left again, and I waited, thinking myself a fiancée. Half a year later, I got a letter—he’d found his true love near his army base and wouldn’t be coming home. Meanwhile, I was pregnant—with Sam’s child. So much for that wedding promise. “Never trust buckwheat in bloom, trust what’s stored away,” my gran had always said. Soon after, my son John was born. Val, my old boyfriend, offered to help out—I accepted out of desperation. We’d been close, but I never thought Sam would reappear. He hadn’t been in touch for ages when, out of the blue, he turned up. Val opened the door, and there was Sam. “Can I come in?” Sam asked. “Go ahead, you’re here already,” Val reluctantly let him in. John, sensing the tension, burst into tears and clung to Val. “Val, can you take John for a walk?” I had no idea what to do. Val and John left. “Is he your husband?” Sam asked jealously. “Why do you care? What are you doing here?” “I missed you. I see you’ve settled, Polly, got a family. Guess you didn’t wait for me. I’ll go, then. Sorry for disturbing your family idyll.” Sam turned to go. “Wait, Sam. Why did you really come? To torment me? Val’s been helping me cope, actually raising your two-year-old son,” I said, trying to keep him. I still loved him. “I came back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Sam looked at me hopefully. “Come in, lunch is almost ready,” my heart soared. He had come back—he hadn’t forgotten me. Why fight it? Val was shown the door again—my John deserved his real dad. Val later married a wonderful divorced woman who already had two children. Years went by, but Sam never managed to love John as a father—he always thought John was Val’s. His heart wasn’t in it. I knew it. Sam was a womanizer, quick to fall for others and quick to leave. He cheated on me—my friends, and even their friends! I cried constantly but still cherished our family. But it was still easier for me—I loved in blissful ignorance. I didn’t have to lie, make up stories, or justify myself. I just loved. Sam was my sun. Sometimes I thought I should leave, but at night I’d reproach myself: where would I find another man like him? And Sam would be lost without me—I was his lover, his wife, and his mother all in one. Sam lost his mum when he was fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he’s always seeking affection elsewhere. I forgave him everything. Once, we fought so badly I threw him out. He moved in with family. A month later, I’d forgotten what we’d even argued about, but Sam still hadn’t come home. I had to go to his aunt’s. “Polly, why are you after Sam? He said you were divorced. He’s got a new girl now.” That’s how I learned about her—and her address. I paid her a visit. “Hello! Is Sam in?” I tried to be polite. Her smirk said it all—she slammed the door. Sam came back a year later. The girl had had a daughter, Annie. I still blame myself for kicking him out. Maybe, if I hadn’t, he’d never have fathered that child. Sam and I never spoke about his illegitimate daughter, Annie. It was the one subject that could tear our family apart, so we kept silent. A child from a fling—these things happen. But I never forgave the other woman. Life went on. Sam mellowed—his wandering stopped. Our son got married young, gave us three grandkids. And then, this… After all these years, Annie appeared. She wants us to take in her daughter. It makes you think—how do I explain the sudden appearance of a strange girl to John? He knows nothing of his father’s escapades. But of course, we took five-year-old Alice in. Annie passed away, her journey ending at thirty. Graves soon grass over, but life goes on. Sam had a heart-to-heart with John. Our son summed it up: “What’s done is done, Dad. I don’t judge. And that girl—she’s family.” Sam and I breathed a sigh of relief. Good lad, our John—so kind. Now, Alice is sixteen. She adores Granddad Sam, confides in him, and calls me Nana. She says she’s the spitting image of me at her age. And I just smile and agree…

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 3

DO I REMEMBER? I COULDNT FORGET IF I TRIED!

Maggie, theres something we need to discuss… Well, do you remember my daughter, Emily? The one from before we met? My husband was speaking in riddles, and it made me uneasy.

Do I remember? Hardly something I could forget. Why? I sat down, bracing for some unpleasant surprise.

Well… he hesitated, avoiding my eyes. Emilys begging mewell, all but on her kneesto take in her little girl. My granddaughter.

And why should that be our problem, Michael? Doesnt Emily have a husband? Or did he fall off the planet? My curiosity was piqued; this was turning out to be interesting.

The thing is, Emily hasnt got much time left, Michael muttered, embarrassed. No sign of a husband anywhere. Her mother remarried years ago and lives in America nowthey dont even speak, havent for years after a massive row. Theres nobody else. Thats why shes asking.

So, what do you want to do about it? Id already made my decision, though I wanted to see what he would say.

Im asking your advice, Maggie. Whatever you say, thats what well do, Michael finally looked at me, searching for an answer.

Well, how convenient. You have a fling in your youth and Im left to sort out the consequences? So now Im supposed to step in and take responsibility for someone elses child, yes? His lack of backbone infuriated me.

Maggie, were a family. We ought to decide things together, he tried to sound firm, but I could see through it.

Oh, now you remember were a family! Funny, you didnt seem to think of that when you were off with another woman, did you? Im your wife, Michael! Tears welled up and I fled to the next room.

Back at school, I once dated a classmate named Peter, sweet enough chap. But when Alexander turned up as the new boy in Year 10, I forgot all about Peteror anyone else, for that matter. Poor Peter, I sent him packing not long after.

Alexanderwell, Michael, as I call himnoticed me, started walking me home, pressing quick kisses onto my cheek, handing me daffodils filched from the park. Within a week, he persuaded me into bed. I didnt utter a word of protest. I loved Michael, truly, helplessly.

We finished school, then Michael got called up for National Service. I bawled my eyes out at the train station, waving him off. He was stationed clear across the country for his stint.

We wrote for a year, then Michael returned on leave. I was over the moon, did everything I could to make him notice me. Michael promised:

Maggie, Ill come back next year and well have our wedding. Though, truth is, I already think of you as my wife.

Those words washed over me, making me meltlike ice cream in July, like chocolate in a sunbeam. Always like that with Michael: hed give me that soft, sweet look and Id go weak.

Michael went back to the barracks, and I counted the days till hed be home for good, certain of my happily-ever-after. But six months later, a letter came. Michael wrote that we should break upsaid hed found real love on base, wouldnt be coming back to our town.

And there I was, already carrying his child. What about our wedding now? Got the engagement, now nowhere to be found, like something my gran used to say.

Well, when my boy, John, was born, Peteryes, my old boyfriendoffered help. I was desperate enough to accept. Yes, Peter and I were more than just friends for a time. Id never expected to see Michael again.

And then, suddenly, he turned up at my flat. Peter opened the door and there he wasMichael, back like nothing had happened.

Mind if I come in? Michael seemed startled by the sight of Peter.

Suppose youd better, since youre here, Peter said, not exactly overjoyed.

John, sensing the tension, burst out crying and clung to Peter.

Peter, please take John for a walk, I said, uncertain, caught between the old and the new.

Peter took John out.

Your husband? Michaels eyes flashed, jealousy creeping in.

Whats it to you? Why are you even here? I snapped, completely lost about why hed come after all this time.

I missed you, thats all. Looks like youve made a life for yourself, Maggie. Youve got a family. So you didnt wait for me. Well, Ill be off thensorry to intrude on your charmed life, and Michael turned to go.

Wait, Michael. Why did you really come? To rub salt in the wound? Peters just been helping me cope with the loneliness. By the way, hes been raising your son for the past two years, I tried to make him stay. I loved him still, more than I could admit.

Ive come back for you, Maggie. Will you have me? Michaels hopeful gaze made my heart soar.

Come on in. Ill get lunch on, I said, my heart skipping. Hed come back, hadnt forgotten me. Why keep fighting it?

Peter got pushed out of the picture again. My John needed his own father, not a stand-in. Peter later married a lovely woman with two children from a previous marriage.

Years passed. Michael never truly took to John as his own. He treated him as if he belonged to someone else, utterly convinced John must be Peters son.

Michael couldn’t really bring himself to care for John. I felt it, deep down. Michael was always a ladies man, flitting from one woman to the next, quick to fall, even quicker to move on. He cheated on me constantly: with my friends, and my friends friends. Id cry myself sick, but my love for him, for our family, was stronger.

Oddly enough, I think it was easier for me than for him. The one who loves least always has more freedom. I never had to lie or put on a show; I kept loving him, quietly keeping my family together. To me, Michael was the very centre of my world. Now and then, I wished I could stop loving him, break free, walk out. But each night Id chide myself for such nonsense. Where would I go; who else would ever do? Michael wouldnt last a day without me. I was his wife, his lover, his everything.

Michael lost his mother when he was just fourteen. She died in her sleep. Maybe thats why he spent his whole life chasing affection elsewhere. Whatever he did, I forgave himevery single time. Once, we had a dreadful row. So bad, I kicked Michael out. He packed a bag and moved in with his relatives.

A month later, I could barely recall why wed fallen out, but Michael still didnt return. In the end, I had to go to his family myself, tail between my legs. His aunt looked at me in surprise.

Maggie, what do you want him for? He told us you were divorced. Hes got a new girlfriend now.

Thanks to his aunt, I got the girls address and turned up at her flat.

Good afternoon! Is Michael in? I tried to sound polite.

She shot me a sly grin and slammed the door in my face. I walked off without a word.

Michael returned after a year. The girl had a daughter, Emily. All this time, I blamed myself for throwing him out. Perhaps, if not for my rashness, that girl never wouldve snapped up my Michael and had a child with him. Ever since, I tried even harder to please him, to look after him, loving him more deeply than ever.

Michael and I never discussed Emily, his daughter from the affair. It was as if even mentioning her would tear our family apart. Safer to leave dangerous topics well alone.

So what if some woman from the past had his child? It happens. Some women will always try their luck. Lets not dwell on other mens mistakes.

Years rolled by. Michael calmed down, became gentler, less argumentative. The lasses faded from his life. Michael stayed in, glued to the telly. Our John wed young and gave us three stunning grandchildren. And just when things seemed settled…

Emily resurfaced, years after the whole mess. She asked us to take in her little girl.

Puts you in a thoughtful mood, doesnt it? How would we ever explain the sudden appearance of a little girl in our family to John? He hadnt the faintest idea about his fathers wild days.

Of course, we became guardians to five-year-old Alice. Emily passed awaynot yet thirty. Graves grow grass, but life carries on.

Michael wanted to speak to John, man-to-man. Our son, after listening to everything, simply said:

Whats past is past. Its not for me to judge. The girls familyof course well take her in.

Michael and I breathed out, relieved. Our sons a good man, soft-hearted and wise.

Now Alice is sixteen. She adores Granddad Michael, tells him all her secrets; calls me Gran and says shes the image of me when I was young. And I wouldnt dare argue.

Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden in a soft layer of snow, but his loyal German Shepherd, Duke, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up inside the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right in the cold snow. Andrew watched from the window, a tightness in his chest—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, when Andrew went out, Duke would look at him with tension in his eyes. And whenever Andrew moved towards the kennel, Duke positioned himself between Andrew and the entrance, growling quietly and gazing up with pleading eyes, as if saying: “Please, don’t go in there.” This uncharacteristic behaviour after years of friendship left Andrew deeply unsettled—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew hatched a small plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting piece of steak. While the dog, locked safely inside, barked furiously at the window, Andrew approached the kennel and crouched down to peer inside. His heart stopped as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that chilled him to the bone… …Inside, bundled in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes barely opened, and its little body shivered against the cold. Somehow, Duke had found it and, rather than chasing it off or leaving it alone, had taken it under his protection. Duke slept outside to avoid frightening the kitten and guarded the entrance as if there was a treasure within. Andrew held his breath. He reached in gently and gathered the frail creature to his chest. Instantly, Duke ran to his side and pressed close to his shoulder—not growling this time, but carefully, ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends in the garden, but three. And the kennel Andrew had built with such care finally regained its true purpose—as a little home for saved souls.

Yesterday — Where are you putting that salad bowl? You’re blocking the cold cuts! And move the glasses, will you? Ollie’s coming soon, and you know he likes plenty of space to wave his hands about when he talks. Victor fussed around with the crystal dishes on the table, nearly knocking over the forks. Gail sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since morning; her legs ached like she’d run a marathon, her lower back throbbed in its familiar spot. But there was no time to complain. Tonight the “star guest” was coming — her husband’s younger brother, Ollie. “Vic, take it easy,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. Did you buy wholemeal bread? Ollie moaned last time that we only had white, and you know, he’s ‘watching his figure.’” “Got it, got it, rye, with caraway, just like he likes,” Victor darted to the bread bin. “Gail, is the roast done? You know he’s a foodie — eats out all the time, won’t be impressed with a meatloaf.” Gail pursed her lips. She knew, of course. Ollie — forty, single, calls himself a ‘free spirit’ but mostly gets by on odd jobs and handouts from his elderly mum — considered himself a world-class gourmet. Each visit became an ordeal for Gail, an exam she was doomed to fail. “I made honey-mustard roast pork,” she said crisply. “Fresh meat, straight from the market, seven hundred quid a kilo. If that isn’t good enough, I wash my hands of the whole business.” “Must you always start like that?” her husband winced. “He hasn’t visited in six months. He wants a proper family dinner. Just do your best, all right? He’s having a rough patch — trying to find himself, you know.” “Finding money, not himself,” Gail thought, but said nothing. Victor worshipped his younger brother, saw him as an unappreciated genius and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven sharp. Gail hurriedly shed her apron, fixed her hair, and plastered on her best hostess smile. Victor already had the door open, beaming like a polished brass kettle. “Ollie! Mate! Finally!” Ollie stood on the threshold, dressed to impress: trendy coat left open, a casual scarf flung over one shoulder, designer stubble that was presumably meant to be rugged. He spread his arms for Victor’s hug but only patted his brother’s back in return. Gail scanned his hands, searching for anything — a bag, cake box, even the smallest bunch of flowers. Nothing. After half a year away, to a table groaning with food, he’d arrived as empty-handed as ever. Not even a chocolate bar for the kids (thankfully at their Nan’s tonight). “Hey Gail,” he nodded, strolling through the hallway, not taking his shoes off right away, instead eyeing the décor. “Wallpaper’s new? Bit institutional, isn’t it? Well, as long as you guys like it.” “Hello, Ollie,” she replied, controlled. “Wash your hands, new slippers over there.” “Didn’t bring mine, and don’t fancy catching athlete’s foot from borrowed ones,” he waved her away. “I’ll keep my socks on. Floor’s clean, I hope?” Gail felt her irritation bubbling. She’d mopped twice in anticipation of his visit. “Spotless, Ollie. Come through, dinner’s ready.” They settled in the dining room. The table was festive: white linen, fancy napkins, three salads, a platter of meats and cheeses, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. In the centre: the steaming roast. Ollie sprawled leisurely against his chair, surveying the spread. Victor was busy uncorking a bottle of Cognac — five-year aged, pricey, bought specially for tonight. “To family!” Victor proclaimed, pouring out glasses. Ollie lifted his, held it to the light, sniffed it, then frowned. “Armenian? Pity. I’m more of a French brandy man — more subtle bouquet. This one’s got too much spirit. Still, beggars can’t be choosers…” He threw it back in one go and reached for the cold cuts. Gail noticed he snapped up the priciest piece of cured ham. “Help yourself, Ollie,” she said, nudging over the salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” He speared a prawn, held it up like a jeweller examining a diamond. “Were these frozen?” he asked knowingly. “Well of course, we’re hardly on the coast!” Gail said, surprised. “Bought the best at the supermarket.” “Rubbery,” Ollie declared, dropping it back into the salad. “Boiled too long. Should be two minutes, tops. And the avocado — not ripe. Crunchy.” Victor, halfway through spooning some salad, paused mid-air. “Come off it, Ollie, it’s delicious! I tried it earlier.” “Vic, mate, taste is an education,” said his brother, patronising. “If you eat substitutes all your life, you’ll never understand real cuisine. Last week I was at a restaurant opening, had scallop ceviche — now that’s texture. And this… at least the mayo’s homemade?” Gail felt her cheeks flame. The mayonnaise was shop-bought. She hadn’t had time to whisk her own. “Store brand,” she replied curtly. “Hmm,” Ollie sighed, as if she’d revealed a dire diagnosis. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Poison. Never mind — let’s try your roast. I hope that survived?” Gail silently served him a generous helping, topped with sauce and roasted potatoes. The aroma was mouth-watering. But Ollie was a “connoisseur.” He chewed a piece, gazing theatrically at the ceiling. The two hosts waited, Victor hopeful, Gail simmering. “Dry,” Ollie pronounced finally. “And the sauce — honey overpowers it. Far too sweet. Meat should taste like meat, Gail, not pudding. Plus, marinade’s too short, fibres are tough. Should marinade in kiwi or sparkling water for at least a day.” “I left it overnight — spices and mustard,” she said softly. “People usually love it.” “Well, ‘people’ is a loose term. Maybe your work friends like it — they’ve never had anything finer. I’m being objective here. You could eat it in a pinch, but it’s hardly a treat.” He pushed his plate aside, nearly untouched, and grabbed the mushrooms. “At least these are homemade? Or from a tin?” “Homemade,” Gail said coldly. “Picked and preserved ourselves.” Ollie chewed, winced. “Way too much vinegar. Will burn your stomach out. And too salty. Gail, you must be in love, salting like that!” He laughed at his own joke. “Vic, watch your blood pressure with this diet!” Victor laughed nervously, trying to defuse the tension. “They’re fine, brother! Great with vodka. Pour another round, eh?” They drank. Ollie flushed, loosened his scarf, but kept his coat on — a signal he wasn’t planning to stay, gracing them with his presence as a favour. “Couldn’t find proper caviar then?” he poked a sandwich. “This one’s all skin and bones. On offer down the supermarket?” “Ollie, it’s keta caviar, six grand a kilo,” Gail snapped. Her voice shook. “Bought it specially for you. We never eat it ourselves, it’s a treat.” “Scrimping on food is never smart,” Ollie noted philosophically, popping the “bad” caviar into his mouth. “You are what you eat. I’d rather go hungry than buy cheap sausage. You lot fill the fridge with junk from the bargain aisle, then wonder why you’re tired, why you look grey.” Gail looked at Victor, who sat eyes-down, chewing his roast, pretending nothing was wrong. His silence stung more than Ollie’s words. Playing ostrich, letting his “dear brother” trample Gail. “Vic,” she asked, “do you find the meat dry?” He coughed. “N-no, Gail, it’s great. Really lovely. Ollie, he knows his stuff, sharper taste than mine…” “Ah, sharper taste,” Gail set down her fork with a metallic clank, loud as a gunshot. “So mine’s blunt and clumsy. My hands are useless, my food is poison?” “Gail, don’t start with the drama,” Ollie grimaced. “I’m giving constructive feedback. So you can grow, develop yourself. You should thank me. Vic just eats anything and praises it, you get lazy. A woman must strive for perfection.” “Thank you?” Gail repeated. “You expect me to say thank you?” She rose. The chair scraped across the floor. “Gail, where are you going?” Victor asked, alarmed. “We haven’t had dessert…” “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, oddly calm. “Ollie likes sweets.” She went to the kitchen. On the counter stood her ‘Victoria Sponge’, baked last night till the small hours — twelve fine layers, homemade custard, vanilla… She stared at her masterpiece, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of bottled-up resentment finally overflowed. How many times had this man visited, eaten, borrowed money, and never returned a penny? How many times had he slammed her cooking, her décor, her clothes, even her children? And Victor always silent. Always defending, “He’s creative, sensitive.” As if Gail was made of iron. She left the cake alone. She picked up a tray and returned to the dining room. “Is that dessert?” Ollie perked up. “Not a supermarket Swiss roll, I hope?” Gail started calmly clearing plates. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” salad. Then the cold cuts. “Oi, what’re you doing?” Ollie protested as she took his sandwich plate. “I haven’t finished!” “Why eat it?” Gail asked, looking him dead in the eye. “It’s all inedible, according to you. Dry meat, toxic mayo, rubbery prawns, cheap caviar. I can’t let our precious guest poison himself. Wouldn’t wish it on an enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Gail! Stop it! What’s this performance? Put it back!” “No, Vic, the real circus is when a man comes to dinner empty-handed, sits at a table costing a chunk of your salary, and trashes the hostess.” “I was only honest!” Ollie barked, face blotchy. “Freedom of speech, innit!” “Freedom,” Gail nodded, stacking more plates. “Which means I decide who eats in my home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor food? I respect your choice. Go hungry.” She carried the heap back to the kitchen. Silence hung. “You’ve lost it!” Victor hissed, barging in behind her. “You’re humiliating me in front of my brother! Put the food back! Apologise!” Gail set the tray on the counter and turned to him. Her eyes were dry now, only ice-cold resolve remained. “Humiliating? And when you sat nodding while he insulted me — wasn’t that humiliating? Are you a man or a doormat? He scoffed our caviar in five minutes and said it was rubbish. And you — have you ever bought me caviar just to spoil me? No. We save the best for guests. And our guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! Flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years cooking and cleaning for you. Last night I stayed up half the night sweating over dinner. For what? To be told I’m useless? If you don’t shut up this instant, I’ll crown you with the Victoria Sponge. Don’t tempt me, Vic.” He recoiled. He’d never seen her like this before. Gail was always soft, giving, “the good sport.” Now she was ferocious, ready to tear down everything in her path. Ollie peeked in, looking less cocky, more confused and wounded. “Well this is a first…” he drawled. “Never seen such hospitality. Came here with my heart open, and all I get is scolded about bread?” “With your heart open?” Gail scoffed. “Show me where. Empty-handed, again. In all these years, have you ever brought us anything? A box of tea, even? You come to mooch and to criticise.” “I… I’m broke! Just a rough patch!” “Your ‘rough patch’ has lasted twenty years. New coat, pricey scarf, restaurant launches… but a fiver from your brother, never paid back, that’s tradition.” “Gail, stop!” Victor shouted. “Don’t count other people’s money!” “It isn’t other people’s money — it’s ours! Our family’s budget, wasted feeding this… gourmet!” Ollie clasped his chest theatrically. “That’s enough. I won’t spend another minute here. Vic, I didn’t think you’d wind up with such a shrew. I’ll never set foot in this house again.” He stormed out to the hallway. Victor dashed after him. “Ollie, mate, wait up! Ignore her, she’s hormonal or knackered from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Ollie’s voice was tragic as he pulled on shoes over his socks. “This insult — there’s no going back. Don’t ring me unless she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood in the foyer, staring at the closed door as if heaven itself had been barred to him. Then he turned slowly and trudged to the kitchen, where Gail was calmly boxing up the roast. “Happy now?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve spared us a freeloader,” she replied, not turning. “Sit down, eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you as well?” Victor slumped at the table, cradling his head. “How could you? He’s still a guest…” “A guest behaves like a guest, not a health inspector. Listen carefully: I will never, ever again cook for him. If you want to see him — go to his place. Or to a restaurant, on your own dime. My time and money aren’t wasted on him anymore.” “You’ve become so harsh,” he muttered. “I’ve become fair. Now eat. Or shall I clear away?” Victor eyed the roast. His stomach grumbled loudly. He was starving, and the aroma — despite the row — was irresistible. He hesitantly took up his fork, sliced off a piece, tasted. It was perfectly tender, melting in the mouth. The sauce had a subtle sweetness, mustard a spicy kick. Magnificent. “So?” Gail asked, catching his blissful expression. “It’s delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Gail.” “That’s good. Your brother is just a bitter failure who feels big by putting others down. Can’t you see?” Victor chewed, lost in thought. For the first time, it crossed his mind that Gail might be right. He remembered Ollie arriving empty-handed, his condescending tone, how awkward Victor felt during the barrage of criticism. “The cake?” he ventured. “Shall we have cake?” Gail smiled — for the first time all evening, genuinely. “Let’s. I’ll make some tea. With thyme, just as you like.” She fetched the ‘Victoria Sponge’, glorious and imposing. Sliced it generously. They sat in the kitchen together, drinking tea, eating cake, and the tension gradually ebbed away. “You know,” Victor said, finishing his second helping, “he didn’t give Mum a present for her birthday last month. Said the best gift was ‘himself.’” “There you go,” Gail nodded. “You’re waking up.” Victor’s phone buzzed. A message from Ollie: *“Could’ve packed me some sarnies — left absolutely starving tbh. Send us a fifty for emotional distress, yeah?”* Victor read it aloud. Pause. Gail raised an eyebrow. “So, what’ll you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their warm kitchen, the heavenly cake. Then at his phone. He typed: *“Treat yourself at a restaurant — you’re the connoisseur. We’re skint.”* And hit block. “What did you say?” Gail asked. “Said we’re off to bed.” She pretended to believe him, though she’d glimpsed the screen. She walked over and hugged him from behind. “Well done, Vic. Took a while, but you got there.” That evening, they learned something crucial about each other: sometimes, saving a marriage means kicking people out — even if they’re family. And the roast really was exquisite, whatever the “experts” with empty wallets claimed.