Vera Harrison stood by the laid table, adjusting napkins and moving glasses, though everything had been perfect for ages. Fifty-five. Her birthday. Roman had been hinting for two weeks about a special present, and she let herself hope – for a ring, a proposal, the status that would protect her if anything went wrong.
The guests had already arrived. Her son Denis with his wife Emma sat on the sofa; Gloria, Roman’s mother, had taken the armchair by the window and was surveying the flat as if making an inventory.
“Vera, sit down, for goodness’ sake,” called Roman, pulling a wrapped parcel from a bag. “Time for presents.”
“In a minute, I just need to light the candles.”
“Later. Come here.”
Vera walked over, smiling. Emma quietly squeezed her husband’s hand. Denis tensed – he had never trusted Roman, though he never said it aloud.
“Here,” Roman handed her the parcel. “From me and Mum. We chose it together.”
Vera unwrapped the paper. A dress. Boggy green, with strange gathers at the stomach and three-quarter sleeves.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Gloria leaned forward. “I picked it myself. Practical for your age. And we got it in the sale, would you believe? Eighty per cent off. Reduced, of course, but it’s new, never worn.”
“Thank you,” Vera folded the dress back into the wrapping.
“What, you’re not pleased?” Roman frowned.
“I am. Just unexpected.”
“What were you expecting?”
Vera said nothing. Emma stood up and began clearing away extra plates to take to the kitchen. Denis looked at his mother, and there was something in his eyes that made Vera want to look away.
“I thought you’d choose it yourself,” she said at last. “Without help.”
“What’s wrong with help? Mum’s got taste. She did people’s hair for twenty years, she knows fashion.”
“Roman, it’s my birthday. Fifty-five.”
“So? A dress is a good present. Or did you want a fur coat? It’s summer.”
Gloria pursed her lips.
“Such ingratitude. I went to the shop specially. Across the whole city. And she turns her nose up.”
“I’m not turning my nose up, Gloria.”
“Then what? Why are you as quiet as a mouse?”
Emma came back from the kitchen and sat next to her husband. Denis put an arm around her shoulder.
“Shall we bring out the cake?” Emma suggested. “With candles. I’ll help.”
“Hang on,” Roman kept his eyes on Vera. “I want to understand. You’re not happy with the present?”
“I said thank you.”
“You said it in a way that made me wish you hadn’t spoken.”
Vera took a deep breath. Let it out. She looked at Roman – the man she had lived with for three years. Forty years old, still handsome, charming. And completely a stranger at this moment.
“Fine. I’ll be honest. I was hoping for a ring.”
“A ring?”
“Yes. A proposal. We’ve been together three years, Roman. I thought my birthday was a good moment.”
Gloria snorted. Roman exchanged a glance with her and smirked.
“Vera, we’re modern people. Why do we need a stamp in a passport?”
“Because a common-law wife is nobody. Not in documents, not in inheritance, not in the eyes of the law.”
“You’re thinking about inheritance already? We’re alive and well.”
“I’m thinking about security. About what happens if something goes wrong.”
“If something goes wrong, I’ll take care of you.”
“How? If we’re not married, you have no obligations.”
Roman stood up, paced the room. Gloria watched her son with approval – that’s right, don’t give in.
“Vera, let’s not spoil the party,” he came back and sat beside her. “I understand you want a ring. We’ll talk about it. Later. Not today.”
“When is later?”
“When the time is right.”
“And when will that be? Next year? In five years?”
“Don’t pressure me.”
Denis cleared his throat.
“Maybe the cake after all? Mum, let’s celebrate properly. Sort the rest out later.”
Vera looked at her son. Then at Emma – her daughter-in-law gazed back sympathetically but said nothing, knowing it wasn’t her place to interfere.
“All right,” Vera nodded. “Bring the cake.”
Emma got up and went to the kitchen. Denis followed to help with the candles.
Gloria leaned towards Vera and lowered her voice.
“You’d better watch yourself. My son doesn’t have to marry you. You’re a divorcée with a grown child. And Roman is forty – he could still find a younger woman.”
“Thank you for your concern, Gloria.”
“I’m not concerned. I’m warning you.”
Vera smiled. Calm, steady. Inside everything blazed, but she didn’t show it.
“I’ve heard you.”
A month passed. Vera sat in the kitchen checking her bank balance. The transfer had gone through – fifteen thousand pounds to Denis. There were redundancies at the factory, wages were delayed, and Emma was pregnant. First trimester, morning sickness, expenses for vitamins and tests.
Roman walked in without knocking, looked over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking accounts.”
“Sending money to Denis again?”
Vera put the phone in her pocket.
“It’s my money.”
“We live together. We have a joint budget.”
“We don’t have a joint budget. You pay the utility bills, I pay for food. Everything else is each for themselves.”
“How much have you given him this month?”
“None of your business.”
Roman sat opposite.
“Vera, we were going to buy a car. With Mum’s money. She sold her flat to help us.”
“She sold her flat to help you. Not us.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A big one. That car will be in your name, not mine.”
“So? I’ll drive you around.”
Vera stood up and switched on the kettle. She needed to do something with her hands to stop herself losing her temper.
“Roman, my son is out of work. His wife is pregnant. They need help.”
“And I don’t?”
“You? You’re healthy, young, living rent-free in my flat. What help do you need?”
“You forget who the man is here.”
“I remember. And I see how that man handles other people’s money.”
Roman went red.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your mother sold her flat, and the money is somehow going to a car for you, not a place for her.”
“She’s going to live with me. With us.”
Vera spun round.
“What?”
“We talked. She’s moving in here.”
“Into my flat?”
“Our flat.”
“No, Roman. This flat is mine. Only mine. In my name. You are a guest here.”
“A guest? Three years I’m a guest?”
“Three years a live-in boyfriend without commitment. That’s what you wanted.”
Roman got up, stepped closer. Vera didn’t back away.
“Vera, be reasonable. Mum has nowhere to go. She gave everything.”
“She gave the money to you. So you decide where she lives.”
“And I’ve decided. Here.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my home. And I don’t want to live with a mother-in-law who isn’t actually my mother-in-law.”
Roman took a step back. Something flickered in his eyes – confusion? Anger?
“You’re a cruel woman, Vera.”
“I’m a realist. You don’t want to marry me, but you want me to support your mother?”
“She won’t be a burden. She has her pension.”
“And what – she’ll pay rent for a room in my flat? Will she?”
“What room? She’ll live in the spare bedroom.”
“Our bedroom?”
“No, the guest room. We’ll move to the big bedroom.”
Vera laughed. Short, dry.
“Roman, my guest room is my study. My things. My books. My life.”
“You can shift them.”
“No.”
“Vera!”
“I said no. And stop whining. You’re a live-in boyfriend, not a husband.”
Roman was silent. The kettle clicked off. Vera took a mug and made herself tea. Her hands moved automatically.
“You’ll regret this,” he said at last.
“Maybe. But it will be my decision and my consequences. Not yours.”
He left, slamming the door. Vera sat at the table, wrapped her hands around the mug. She called Denis.
“Hello, love?”
“Yes, Mum. Something happened?”
“No. I just wanted to ask – how’s Emma?”
“All right. She’s still sick, but less now. Thanks for the money, we got it.”
“Good. If you need more, tell me.”
“Mum, we’ll manage. Don’t argue with Roman because of us.”
“We’re not arguing. We’re clarifying boundaries.”
Denis paused.
“Mum, are you sure he’s the person to clarify boundaries with?”
“I’m not sure of anything any more, love. But I’ll sort it out.”
“If anything – call. Me and Emma are here.”
“I know. Kiss you both.”
She hung up and finished her tea. Outside it was getting dark. Somewhere deep in the flat a door banged – Roman was going out.
Two weeks later, Vera came home and found Gloria in the living room. She was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, watching television.
“Good evening,” Vera stopped in the doorway. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’ve moved in.”
“Sorry?”
“Roman said you’d agreed. My things are in the guest room.”
Vera slowly put down her bag. She went into the guest room. Two suitcases stood there, a pile of bedding on the bed. Her books had been pushed into a corner, her papers thrown on the floor.
She returned to the living room.
“Where’s Roman?”
“He went out. Said he’d be back late.”
“I see.”
Vera took out her phone and dialled.
“Roman, where are you?”
“At a friend’s. Why?”
“Your mother is in my flat. With her things.”
“Yes, I moved her in while you were out.”
“Without my permission.”
“You’d never have said yes. I had to act.”
“Act?”
“Vera, don’t make a scene. Mum’s already here. You can’t throw her out on the street.”
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why not? I think I will.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Vera, that’s inhuman. She’s an elderly woman.”
“She’s an elderly woman who sold her flat and gave the money to her son. That was her choice.”
“She expected to live with us!”
“She expected. You expected. Did anyone ask me?”
Roman went quiet. Then his voice changed – hard, cold.
“Vera, I advise you to think carefully. We’ve been together three years. I’ve put time, effort, money into this relationship.”
“What money?”
“I paid the utilities.”
“Utilities are the bare minimum for someone living rent-free in someone else’s flat.”
“Someone else’s? You keep saying that – someone else’s, mine, not yours. Are we partners or not?”
“Partners have equal rights and equal responsibilities. We have neither.”
“Because you won’t let me!”
“Because you never offered. Three years – no ring, no proposal, no talk about the future. Just hints that you’re the man of the house.”
“I am the man of the house!”
“In my house? No, Roman. In my house, I’m the one in charge. You’re a lodger.”
She hung up. She went back to the living room. Gloria was watching her warily.
“Problems?” she asked.
“For you, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re leaving here tomorrow morning. With your things.”
“Where? I’ve nowhere to go!”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Roman said…”
“Roman said a lot. But this isn’t his flat. It’s mine. I decide who lives here. Not you.”
Gloria went pale.
“You wouldn’t dare…”
“I already have.”
“I’ll call Roman!”
“Call him. He can’t change anything.”
“You… you snake!”
“Thank you for the compliment. But I’m a snake in my own house.”
Vera went to the kitchen and shut the door. She needed to think. She called her friend Margaret.
“Margaret, hi.”
“Vera! You sound strange.”
“Roman moved his mother into my flat without asking. While I was out.”
Margaret whistled.
“Well, that’s a nerve. What are you going to do?”
“Throw them both out.”
“Good. I told you from the start – he’s a user. Convenient, but not reliable.”
“I remember. Should have listened.”
“Better late than never. Need help?”
“Not yet. I’ll manage.”
“Call me if you do. I’ll come.”
“Thanks, Margaret.”
She hung up. Then dialled another number.
“Linda? It’s Vera, from the third floor.”
“Yes, Vera, what’s up?”
“Tomorrow morning I’ll have… a tricky situation. Could you come over? Just sit and watch.”
“What happened?”
“I’m kicking out my boyfriend and his mother. I want a witness, just in case.”
Linda chuckled.
“I’ll be there. What time?”
“Nine.”
“Done.”
Morning came early. Vera got up at seven, made coffee, gathered the flat’s documents. Roman had come back during the night – she heard him fumbling in the hall. He was asleep in the bedroom now.
At nine, Linda arrived – a large woman with a stern expression and strong hands. She sat on a stool by the door, as agreed.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked.
“For them to wake up.”
“Should we wake them?”
“There’s time.”
At half past nine, Gloria came out of the guest room in a dressing gown, her face crumpled.
“Who’s this?” she stared at Linda.
“A neighbour.”
“Why is she here?”
“To keep an eye on things.”
“What things?”
“To make sure you don’t take anything extra when you pack.”
Gloria’s eyes widened.
“Roman!” she shouted. “Roman, come here!”
Roman appeared from the bedroom, also in a dressing gown, bleary and angry.
“What’s all this shouting?”
“Your live-in girlfriend is throwing us out!”
“What?” He turned to Vera. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No. I’m exercising my rights. This is my flat. Both of you have no tenancy agreement, no ownership, no paperwork. I’ve asked you to leave, and you will leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere!”
“You will. By yourself or with a police officer. Or I’ll drag you out by your hair.”
“You’ll call the police?”
“If I have to.”
Roman stepped closer. Linda stood up – not threateningly, just to show she was there.
“Vera, let’s talk,” Roman’s voice softened. “Calmly, without outsiders.”
“We’ve talked for three years. Everything that needed to be said has been said.”
“But you understand… Mum gave away all her money. She’s got nowhere to go.”
“She gave the money to you. For a car. Sell the car, buy her a place.”
“We haven’t bought the car yet.”
“Then the money is still there. Rent her a flat.”
“That’s only temporary!”
“Your problems, your solutions. I’m not involved.”
Gloria sat on the sofa and clutched her chest.
“Oh, I feel faint… my heart… call an ambulance…”
Vera looked at her calmly. She took a small bottle out of her pocket.
“Smelling salts?”
“Ammonia. Works for fake fainting fits.”
“I’m not faking!”
“Then open your eyes and breathe normally. Your lips aren’t blue and your pulse is steady.”
Linda chuckled. Gloria opened her eyes and glared at Vera with hatred.
“Witch.”
“Pot calling the kettle black. And make up your mind – am I a snake or a witch? Either way, I like it.”
Roman stepped toward Vera. She didn’t move.
“You’ll regret this,” he said. “I promise.”
“Thanks for the morning wish – it was just what I needed. But I only regret wasting three years on you.”
“Three years, by the way, the best years!”
“For whom? For me they were three years of waiting. Waiting for respect, waiting for honesty, waiting for you to grow up.”
“I am grown up!”
“Oh really? A grown man doesn’t move his mother into someone else’s flat without permission. A grown man doesn’t give his girlfriend a reduced, bog-coloured dress for her birthday. You probably mixed it up with a potato sack.”
“Mum liked that dress!”
“Exactly. Mum. Not me. Give it to her.”
Roman fell silent. Then he turned and went into the bedroom. A minute later came the crash of things being thrown into a bag.
Gloria sat on the sofa, motionless.
“Shall I pack your things?” Vera asked.
“I’ll do it myself.”
“Then off you go. You have an hour.”
“You have no right to treat people like this!”
“I have every right. My house, my rules.”
Gloria got up and went to the guest room. Linda sat back on her stool.
“You really gave it to them,” she said approvingly.
“I did,” Vera agreed. “Should have done it sooner.”
Forty minutes later, Roman came out with two bags. Gloria with her suitcases.
“Vera, last chance,” Roman stopped at the door. “Think again. We can fix this.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing to fix. It was a mistake – now it’s fixed. We’re done.”
“You’ll end up alone.”
“Better alone than with someone who doesn’t respect me.”
Roman opened his mouth but said nothing. Gloria pushed him in the back.
“Come on, son. Don’t grovel to this… this…”
“The lady of the house,” Linda supplied. “That’s the word – lady of the house.”
The door closed. Vera turned the lock. She looked at Linda.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Long overdue.”
“I know.”
Linda left. Vera was alone in the quiet flat. She walked through the rooms – bedroom, guest room, kitchen. Opened a window, let in fresh air. She took out her phone.
“Denis? Come over today. With Emma. I need to talk.”
“What happened? You sound strange.”
“Nothing bad. Quite the opposite. Just come.”
That evening Denis and Emma sat in the kitchen. Vera poured tea for everyone, put a jar of jam on the table.
“So you kicked him out?” Denis looked at his mother with respect.
“I did.”
“About time.”
“I know. But I was hoping…”
“For what? That he’d see sense?”
“That I’d have a family.”
Emma covered Vera’s hand with hers.
“Vera, you have a family. Us – me and Denis. And the little one soon.”
Vera smiled.
“Thank you, Emma.”
“Mum,” Denis pushed his cup aside. “Grandma’s house is still there. In the countryside.”
“Yes. It was left to me in the will.”
“I went there last week. With Emma.”
“To look? It’s in good shape. Roof’s sound, walls solid. Big plot. Apple trees.”
Vera nodded.
“I was planning to give it to you. When… when the time came.”
“The time’s here,” Denis looked at his wife. “We want to move there, if you don’t mind.”
“Move? What about work?”
“They made me redundant. Officially. The letter came yesterday.”
“Oh, Denis…”
“Don’t worry. Emma found a job in the county town – half an hour by train. I’ll fix up the house, restore the orchard. See what happens after that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure,” Emma smiled. “It’ll be better for the baby. Clean air, countryside. And you can visit any time.”
“The house is yours,” Vera got up, went to the cupboard and took out a folder of documents. “Here. Everything’s in there. We’ll transfer it to you whenever you want.”
Denis took the folder, leafed through the papers. Then he stood up and hugged his mother.
“Thank you, Mum.”
“It’s yours by right.”
“I know. But still – thank you.”
Emma also stood and hugged her mother-in-law from the other side. They stood like that for a moment, three together, silently holding each other.
“Right,” Vera pulled away first. “Enough sentiment. Let’s plan. When’s the move?”
“Next week. Not much stuff – we’ll do it in a day.”
“I’ll help.”
“Deal.”
A week later, Vera arrived at her grandmother’s house. Denis and Emma were already settling in – washing floors, wiping windows, arranging the simple furniture. In the garden, the apple trees were in bloom – late ones, for May.
“Look what I found!” Emma ran out of the kitchen holding a mug. White, with blue daisies. “Did your grandmother like these?”
“She loved them. They were her best cups – for guests.”
“They’ll be our celebration ones. For special occasions.”
Vera took the mug, turned it in her hands. She remembered her grandmother – strict, fair, never tolerating disrespect from anyone.
“Grandma would have approved,” she said quietly.
“Of what exactly?”
“Everything. You. The house. The fact I finally stopped waiting for miracles from other people’s men.”
Denis came into the kitchen with a bucket and cloth.
“Mum, the upstairs is done. You can take a look.”
“Coming.”
She climbed the creaky stairs. Upstairs there were two rooms – large and small. In the small one Emma had already hung curtains and placed a cot.
“For a grandson?” Vera asked.
“Or granddaughter. We don’t know yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. As long as he or she is healthy.”
“Healthy. The doctors say everything’s fine.”
Vera stood by the window. The view opened onto the garden – apple trees in blossom, an old bench beneath them, a fence, and beyond it the neighbour’s plot.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said.
“Very.”
“I’ll come often. If you don’t mind.”
“Vera, this house is yours too. Always.”
Vera turned and looked at her daughter-in-law. Young, bright, with a belly just beginning to round.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you. For loving my son. For not interfering when I dealt with Roman.”
“That wasn’t my business.”
“Exactly. You understood. Another woman would have started giving advice, meddling, making things worse.”
“I’m not another woman. I’m Emma.”
Vera laughed. Light, free – the way she hadn’t laughed in a long time.
“Yes. You’re Emma. And thank God for that.”
They went downstairs. Denis was already setting the table – a simple meal, pasta with sausages, a salad of fresh cucumbers.
“Mum, sit down. Let’s celebrate the housewarming.”
“What are we drinking to?”
“Compote. Emma can’t have anything stronger.”
“Quite right.”
They sat. Denis poured compote into the grandmother’s daisy mugs.
“To us,” he raised his mug. “To family. To a new life.”
“To family,” Vera repeated.
They clinked mugs. The compote was sweet, apple – from last year’s stores.
“By the way,” Denis looked at his mother. “Has Roman called?”
“Three times.”
“And?”
“I didn’t answer. Then I blocked him.”
“Good.”
“I know. I only regret one thing.”
“What?”
“That I didn’t throw that dress away straight away. It’s still hanging in the wardrobe.”
Emma snorted.
“The bog-green one?”
“The very same.”
“Don’t throw it. Bring it here.”
“We’ll hang it on the scarecrow.”
Vera thought about it. Then she nodded.
“You might be right. I’ll bring it.”
Outside the window the wind rustled the apple branches. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The sun was sinking, bathing the kitchen in warm orange light.
Vera looked at her son, at her daughter-in-law, at their joined hands. Then at her own hands – empty, but free.
“You know,” she said, “I feel like I’m home.”
“You are home,” Denis replied. “Here, with us.”
She smiled.
“Yes. Right here.”She lifted her mug, the daisies catching the last of the sunlight, and took a long sip. The compote was cool now, faintly tart, and it tasted like summers she remembered—before waiting, before hoping, before letting herself be diminished by someone else’s favour.
Emma laughed at something Denis whispered, and the sound was easy, unforced. Through the window, the apple blossoms swayed, white petals loosening in the breeze.
Vera set down the mug and stood. She walked to the garden door, pushed it open, and stepped onto the grass. The air was thick with the scent of earth and flowers. She could hear the soft hum of bees, the distant call of a cuckoo. She thought of the dress hanging in her wardrobe at the flat—boggy green, reduced, never worn. She would bring it. She would watch it flap on the scarecrow’s frame, sleeves empty, gathering dust and rain.
A good use for it, she decided. A better use than she had ever been allowed to be.
Behind her, Denis called out: “Mum? Everything all right?”
She turned, and the setting sun caught her face, lit her eyes. She smiled—not the careful smile she had worn for Roman, not the brittle one for Gloria. A real one, a quiet one, the kind that settled in her bones.
“Everything,” she said, “is exactly where it should be.”
And she meant it.
