Along the high street, as if tumbled through a vivid, shuddering dream, I glimpsed my daughter, Olivia, in the drizzle, crouched with my grandson: both clad in threadbare jumpers streaked with mud, hands stretched for spare change. Livvy, love where is the house and the money I set aside for you?
Her husband and her mother-in-law had whisked everything awayleft her and little Henry out on the cobbles. What I did next unsettled everyone, left their faces white as sheets.
It began with me driving slowly down Oxford Road, head spinning from the hospitals sharp lights and echo of voices. I was fixed on nothing but getting home, the city blurring past, when I noticed a woman moving between bumpers, clutching a toddler to her. Just one more shadow begging in the rainuntil my mind prickled cold: it was Olivia.
I blinked, sure my dreaming senses played tricks. Her cheeks were hollow, hair wild, toes bare on wet granite, Henry swaddled close, her eyes glancing up with the guilty, desperate look of someone who dreads being noticed.
I rolled down my window.
Olivia
She flinched, covered her face, and whispered quickly, Dad, please just drive on.
But I had already stepped from the car, heedless of horns blaring behind me, and pulled open the back door.
Get in. Now.
Henry sobbed, red-faced from the muggy air. I drove, silence thick as fog. Eventually, I asked, forcing the words out, Wheres your flat? The car we gave you? All the money I sent every month? How did you end up here? And where is your husband?
She waited, a tear sliding down her cheek. Rain spattered the windscreen as if the sky wept for us.
He took everything all of it. Him and his mum. Threw us out. They said if I fought theyd take Henry too.
I pulled the car to the kerb, turned to face her, expecting her to brace herself for blame. But I only reached for her hand: small, cold, too easily broken.
Dont cry, love. I know just what to do.
What happened next would lift the hair on the back of anyones neck.
I didnt drive her to my house; I turned the wheel toward the police station. Olivia panicked, tugging my sleeve: Dad, please, it wont matter, they said we cant prove anything
I met her eyes and spoke as softly as dreams, We can. That homes in my name.
Together, trailing behind a pair of police constables, we went to that housemy housewhich Id put in her name as a wedding gift, the same house theyd thrown her from, clutching her baby.
The husband opened the door, blanching at the sight of constables. His mother shrieked about rights and family property, screeching she had every claim. I handed the officers the deeds, the transfers, the paper trail. Rain stilled outside, as if the sky itself toed the line.
These people, I told the police, are unlawfully occupying my property. Money I provided my daughter was taken. Her car forced from her possession.
The constables asked a string of quiet questions. Half a kettle later, handcuffs closed around my bewildered son-in-law, his mother dragged along sputtering in protest.
Right there, rain hammering the street, they were escorted away.
The house, the car, the money, everything was rightly returned to Oliviathe very proof of it ringed by blue uniforms and wet paperwork.
She held Henry, pale face blooming with a tremulous smile for the first time in what felt like an age.
But I wasnt finished. I made calls, pulled strings, and ensured the whole affair wouldnt slither away behind the courthouses old doors. The police would see that threats, theft, and tossing a woman and child into the street wouldnt be shunted off as simply domestic strife.
If it was up to me, Id see they truly faced justiceno matter how unreal or uncanny that justice seemed in my strange, drifting dream.
