*”But you were the one who suggested taking Mum in. I didn’t force you,”* said Oliver to Poppy.
Fresh out of university, Poppy had landed a job at the same firm where Oliver worked. He’d noticed the quiet, pretty girl straight away—being the office veteran, he gave her the grand tour, then waited by the exit with his car after work. And just like that, they started dating. Within six months, they were married.
Oliver had only just bought a flat, leaving no money for renovations. Poppy’s parents helped out. The young couple threw themselves into fixing up their first proper home, shopping for wallpaper and furniture, staying up late to stick it up themselves. Sometimes they roped friends in, turning it into a raucous, paint-splattered party. By the time the last brushstroke dried, they celebrated with a proper knees-up. Now, they could finally just *live*.
*”Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s hold off on kids for a bit. A proper holiday first—some sun, some relaxation, *then* we’ll see,”* Oliver would say.
June was glorious, the air thick with drifting poplar fluff. Holiday plans were in full swing—evenings spent debating resorts, booking flights. But disaster struck from the least expected corner, and their beach dreams withered before they could bloom.
One morning, as Poppy leaned over the kitchen table applying mascara and Oliver hovered by the whistling kettle, the phone rang.
*”Pops, tea’s ready,”* Oliver said, picking up.
Poppy poured the steaming brew, lifting the cup to her lips—
*”WHAT?!”* Oliver barked into the receiver.
Her hand jerked, scalding her mouth as tea sloshed across the table in a lopsided puddle.
*”What’s happened?”* Poppy asked, watching Oliver’s face drain of colour.
*”Mum’s in hospital. Neighbour called. I’ll go—you get yourself to work, yeah? Let them know I’ll be late.”*
*”Right. Of course.”* Poppy stared at the brown stain seeping into the woodgrain.
*”Go on, clean it later. The bus won’t wait.”* Oliver already had his keys in hand. Poppy obeyed, darting out the door.
She was hurrying to the bus stop when Oliver whizzed past in his car, honking twice. Poppy waved vaguely, licking her burnt lip.
*”How’s your mum?”* she asked when Oliver turned up at the office three hours later.
*”Bad. Stroke. Right side’s gone. Can’t speak. Doctor says chances are slim. She can’t live alone.”*
*”Well, bring her home, then. What’s there to discuss? Unless you fancy driving to hers every evening to feed her, change nappies… This way saves time.”*
Oliver agreed—rather too quickly, Poppy thought. Almost as if he’d expected her to say it.
Three weeks later, they brought Evelyn, Oliver’s mother, home from hospital. Poppy and Oliver surrendered their bedroom, cramming themselves into the study.
*”Maybe we take holiday in shifts? How can we leave her alone?”* Poppy whispered in the kitchen.
*”Pops, you’re better at this caring lark. Stay home tomorrow—I’ll sort it so you work remote. We’re skint after the flat. Can’t afford a nurse. Meds, physio…”* And so, Poppy obeyed again.
She spun like a hamster on a wheel—spoon-feeding Evelyn, changing nappies, dashing to Sainsbury’s. The second she opened her laptop, Evelyn would moan for her. When Oliver got home, Poppy was dead on her feet.
Resentment festered. Oliver barely lifted a finger, popping his head in just to say *”Alright, Mum?”* before vanishing. Work documents came back marked up with errors. Then HR rang—Oliver had *asked* them to let her go. They’d already hired her replacement.
*”Can’t you hold the bloody spoon yourself? *Help* me, for God’s sake!”* Poppy snapped at Evelyn one evening.
*”How *dare* you decide for me?”* she hissed at Oliver later.
*”You’re struggling.”*
*”And you could *help*! I’m run ragged—I can’t do this anymore.”* She slumped at the table, head in hands. *”That smell’s driving me mad. I change her nappy constantly, but it lingers. I open a window, and your mum moans about drafts.”*
*”But you offered to take her in. I didn’t force you,”* Oliver said.
The words choked her. So *she’d* shouldered this burden herself.
One night, Oliver stumbled in late from a work do. Poppy, still awake, was waiting. They rowed—screaming, as they did most nights now. Poppy had had enough. She yanked open the wardrobe, hurling dresses onto the sofa.
*”That’s it. *Your* mother. *You* look after her. I’m leaving—”*
A weak moan came from the bedroom.
*”WHAT NOW?”* Poppy stormed in.
Evelyn’s eyes were wet, tears gleaming down her temple. Poppy wiped them with a flannel. Evelyn clutched Poppy’s nightie with her good hand, whimpering:
*”Don’ go… don’ go…”*
Poppy collapsed onto the bed, sobbing. Evelyn patted her hair.
*”I’m sorry. I’m just… so tired.”* Poppy fled—straight into Oliver in the doorway. She glared fire at him.
The next day, before Oliver returned, Poppy escaped to her mate Jess’s flat. Wine was poured, tears flowed.
*”What if you… sped things up?”* Jess suggested, tapping her nose.
*”Christ, Jess! What if it was *my* mum?”* Poppy recoiled.
(She never went back. Truthfully, she’d had the same dark thoughts—and feared giving in.)
A month later, Evelyn died in her sleep. The paramedic said her tongue had blocked her airway, but Poppy blamed herself—she’d slept too heavily, hadn’t heard…
Exhausted, Poppy felt nothing at the graveside. Oliver dabbed his eyes. *”Never lifted a finger, barely visited her room—now waterworks at the funeral. What a performance,”* she thought, disgusted. She left before the casket was lowered. Oliver didn’t follow.
*”Goldfish!”*
Poppy turned. A grinning bloke in a flapping trench coat—her old classmate, Daniel.
*”Dan! Holloway!”*
*”The very same. You look shattered. Funeral?”*
*”Mother-in-law.”*
*”Rough time?”*
Poppy nodded.
*”Lost my mum four months back. Cared for her a year. Wife bailed when she got ill. So I get it.”*
*”You did it *alone*?”*
*”Course. She was my mum. Your husband still at the grave?”*
Poppy glanced back.
*”Need a lift? I’ve got the car.”*
*”Ta.”*
As they passed the cemetery gates, her phone buzzed.
*”Where’d you go? I’m at the car—you’re not here,”* Oliver said, oddly calm.
*”Tired. Going home,”* Poppy said, hanging up.
*”You’ll be alright. Fancy a drink? Helps, trust me.”*
They hit a café. The first sip of wine was heaven—Poppy nearly gulped it. Dan nudged a salad toward her. *”Easy, tiger.”*
Then it all spilled out. Dan listened, warm hand over hers.
*”Oliver never touched me like this. Not for months. Is it over? Evelyn’s gone—we could fix things. But… do I *want* to?”*
*”It’s my fault. I wished her dead, I fell asleep—”*
*”Stop. It was an accident,”* Dan said firmly.
*”Goldfish, let’s get you home.”*
*”No one’s called me that since school.”* She swayed; Dan caught her.
In the car, she dozed off. Dan carried her inside, kicked off her muddy shoes, tucked her under a blanket.
*”Who the hell are you?”* Oliver’s voice cut through her haze.
*”Let her sleep. She’s had a day,”* Dan said.
When she woke, Oliver was gone. Her phone buzzed.
*”Goldfish—how’s the head?”* Dan chirped.
*”Like a drum solo,”* she groaned.
*”Shower. Strong tea. Then come see me.”*
By evening, she was in his office.
*”You did languages, yeah? Which ones?”*
*”French, fluent Spanish, rusty German.”Then, as Poppy took Dan’s hand a year later, standing in the same café where they’d first reconnected, she realized some storms leave clearer skies in their wake.
