I Married a Woman with a Baby. Eighteen Years Later, She Left Me—But Her Daughter Chose to Spend the Holidays with Me.

Author Walton MerrittReading 6 minViews 3

I married a woman with a baby. Eighteen years later, she left me. But her daughter chose to spend Christmas with me.

It was three in the afternoon on 22nd December, and there I was, still in my pyjamas, shovelling cereal straight from the box, when I heard a key in the lock.

Bloody hell. Kate still had a key.

But it wasnt Kate. It was Emily standing in the doorway, burdened by two massive suitcases and her university rucksack.

Hi, Dad.

The cereal box slipped from my hands.

Emily? What?

Im moving in. She let the suitcases drop with a satisfying thud. Well, if youll have me. If not, its a bit awkward since Ive already dragged them all the way here.

I leapt off the sofa so fast the room spun.

To move in? Does your mum know?

Of course. We had the talk. She did air quotes. Told her I want to live here. That this was always home. Kate cried, I cried, it was all a proper mess. But she understood.

But

Dad. She fixed me with that stern look she reserved for when she really meant business. Mums got her new life now, her sleek little flat where everythings white and youre scared to touch anything. And youve got this housewhere I can leave a coffee mug wherever I like and no one has a meltdown.

Hey, I do clean, you know.

Sure you do. Thats why there are three mugs just in the living room.

She was right. There had to be another half a dozen lurking in the kitchen too.

Anyway, she said, peeling off her coat, someones got to make sure you dont survive on Chinese takeaways and misery.

I laughed, despite the lump swelling in my throat.

I use chopsticks. Thats a skill.

Thats basic survival, not actually living.

Emily strode into the kitchen and started inspecting the place like it was a crime scene.

Oh God, this is worse than I thought. She flung open the fridge. Soy sauce, three cans of lager, and yoghurt from the Stone Age? Dad, honestly.

The yoghurts only a couple of weeks old.

It says March.

March was all right, point taken.

She turned, hands on hips just like when she was eight and lectured me about her pigtails.

Right. Tomorrow, were going shopping. Tonight, pizza like civilised people. Still got the number for that place with the extra cheese?

Its on speed dial.

Of course it is.

While we waited for the pizza, she wandered around the house like an estate agent sizing me up.

Your rooms an absolute train wreck, but mines just the same as I left it. She grinned, stepping into her old bedroom. Youve even kept all my cringey school posters.

Theyre yours. Id never touch your stuff.

She grew quiet, scanning the walls, the photos, the desk piled with battered books.

Funny thing, you know? Mum said I could sort out her spare room, decorate any way I wanted. Exactly how you like it, she said. But She sat on the bed. It already is, here. This is as I like it. This is mine.

I sat next to her.

Emily, you dont have to stay here out of pity. Im fine, honestly.

This isnt pity, you muppet. She nudged my shoulder. Its because, when I was a toddler learning to walk, you were always there with open arms. When the nightmares came, you let me crawl into your bed. When I finished school, you cried more than I did.

I wasnt that bad.

Dad, you went through three tissues.

Ive got allergies.

To feelings, maybe.

She smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder.

Youre my Dad. Not the bloke who gave me half my DNA, but the one who gave me everything else. And now that you have this big house to yourself, eating tragic cereal in pyjamas, you think Im going to let you fall apart? Not a chance.

My voice cracked.

I love you, poppet.

I love you, old man. But seriously, tomorrow were cleaning. It smells weird in here.

Christmas Eve dawned and Emily made good on her threat. She marched me to the supermarket.

Were cooking a proper dinner tonight. No takeaways.

But tradition

New tradition: real food. Come on!

We loaded up our trolley, Emily tossing things in with a somewhat worrying enthusiasm.

Do we even know how to cook any of this? I asked.

Course not. But weve got YouTube and courage. Thats enough.

It wasnt.

The turkey was raw in the middle and burnt on the outside. The mash looked like builders putty. The veg was practically charcoal.

We stared at the mess on the table in silence.

Well, Emily said eventually, we could always

Order Chinese?

Lets order Chinese.

So we ate straight from the cartons, howling with laughter at our epic culinary failure, and it was the best Christmas Eve Id had in months.

You know what? I said. I think this is our new tradition.

Try to make fancy dinner, fail spectacularly, order Chinese.

Perfect.

After dinner, she handed me a small box.

Here. Your present.

Inside was a key, with a wonky homemade keyring that said Home.

Copy of my key. Officially moving in. She smiled, a little shy. Its bent, but its made with love.

I hugged her, tight.

Its perfect.

Oi, youre suffocating me.

Shush, let me have this.

She giggled and hugged me back.

Thank you for everything, Dad. For these eighteen years. For never leaving. For being you.

Thank you for choosing to stay.

Always.

That night, I lay awake, turning the new key over in my hands.
Kate was goneand that hurt.
But Emily stayed.
And that that was everything.

“That’s Just Perfect…” Whispered Lydia. She loved having her morning coffee in silence, while Jack still slept and the first light crept through the window. In those moments, she felt everything was just right. Solid job. Cozy flat. Reliable husband. What more could happiness require? She had no envy for her friends, who grumbled about jealous partners and rows over nothing. Jack never questioned or made scenes. He never checked her phone, never interrogated her every move. He was simply there—and that was enough. “Lyd, have you seen my garage keys?” Jack shuffled into the kitchen, tousle-haired from sleep. “On the shelf by the door. Helping the neighbour again?” “Mike’s asked me to check his car. Something about the carburettor.” She nodded, pouring his coffee. It was so familiar. Jack was always lending a hand—to colleagues moving house, old friends with repairs, neighbours with whatever. “My knight,” she’d sometimes think fondly. A man who couldn’t walk past someone else’s trouble. It’s what had charmed her on their very first date, when he’d stopped to help a stranger carry her shopping upstairs. Another man would’ve walked by. Not Jack. Three months ago a new neighbour, Olivia, moved into the flat below. At first, Lydia hadn’t noticed her—people came and went in blocks like this. But Olivia was one of those women impossible to overlook. Loud laughter in the stairwell. Clacking heels at all hours. That booming voice on the phone so the whole building could hear. “Can you imagine? He brought me groceries today—without me even asking!” Olivia’s voice echoed through the landing. Lydia bumped into her by the letterboxes and offered a polite smile. Olivia beamed—sparkled, really—with that special, radiant glow of a woman newly infatuated. “New boyfriend?” Lydia asked, just to be civil. “Not exactly new,” Olivia smirked. “But very attentive. Solves every problem, you know? Tap leaking—fixed. Socket sparking—sorted. He even helps me pay my bills!” “How lucky you are.” “More than lucky! Sure, he’s married, but that’s just a ring, isn’t it? What matters is how he feels when he’s with me.” Lydia went upstairs, unsettled—not by someone else’s morals, but something had scraped raw inside, and she couldn’t name it. The encounters went on, week after week; Olivia almost seemed to lay in wait, ready to burst with new tales of devotion. “He’s so considerate! Always asks how I feel. If I need anything…” “Last night, he even brought me medicine in the middle of the night!” “He always says, the most important thing is feeling needed. That’s his whole meaning in life—to help…” That line made Lydia bristle. “Feeling needed is his meaning in life.” Jack had said those exact words. She remembered him explaining delays on their anniversary—he’d been helping a friend’s mother with her garden, said he couldn’t do otherwise. Coincidence. Just coincidence. There must be plenty of men with hero complexes. But the details piled up. The unsolicited groceries. The handy repairs—Jack’s very own ways. She pushed the thoughts aside. Paranoia. You can’t suspect your husband because of a neighbour’s chatter. Then Jack began to change—not suddenly, but gradually. He started “popping out for a moment” and vanishing for hours. Even took his phone into the bathroom. Snapped back with irritation at her simplest questions. “Where are you going?” “Out.” “Where?” “Lydia, what’s with the third degree?” Yet he seemed… happy. Quietly fulfilled, as if finally getting the dose of being needed he missed at home. One evening, he got ready to leave again. “Got to help a mate with paperwork.” “At nine o’clock at night?” “When else? He works days.” She didn’t argue. Watched from the window as he failed to emerge from the building. She slipped on her coat, calm, unhurried, and made her way to the familiar door downstairs. Her finger pressed the bell. Lydia had no script—no rehearsed accusations. Just pressed and waited. The door flew open like she’d been expected. Olivia stood there in a short silk robe, wineglass in hand. Her smile slipped when she saw who it was. And behind her, in the glowing hallway, stood Jack. Bare-chested, hair wet from the shower, moving about with the ease of someone at home. Their eyes met. Jack jolted, opened his mouth—then froze. Olivia flicked her gaze between them and offered only a bored, indifferent shrug. Lydia turned and walked upstairs. Behind her came the scurry of steps, Jack’s urgent voice: “Lydia, wait, I can explain…” But she didn’t let him in that night. …The next morning, his mother, Mrs. Grant, turned up. Lydia wasn’t surprised. Of course Jack had called his mum to share his version. “Lydia, why be so childish?” Mrs. Grant settled in the kitchen. “Men are just boys who want to feel heroic. That neighbour simply needed help. Jack couldn’t say no.” “He couldn’t say no to her bed, is that it?” Mrs. Grant winced, as if Lydia had been vulgar. “Don’t twist things. Jack’s a good soul. He pities people. That’s no crime. So he got carried away. It happens. My late husband too…” She waved her hand. “What matters is the family. You’ll work it out—you’re sensible, Lydia. Don’t ruin lives over nothing.” Lydia looked at her and saw everything she was afraid to become. Convenient. Patient. Willing to ignore anything for the sake of keeping up appearances. “Thank you, Mrs. Grant, but I need to be alone.” Her mother-in-law left in a huff, muttering about “young people who won’t forgive”. Jack slunk home that evening, wide-eyed and guilty, hoping to take her hand. “Lydia, it’s not what you think. She asked me to fix her tap, then we talked, she’s just so lonely and sad…” “You weren’t wearing any clothes.” “I… spilled water when I was fixing the tap. She lent me a shirt, and then you turned up…” Lydia marvelled that she’d never noticed before how bad Jack was at lying. Every word rang false. “Even if… suppose… even if something happened, it meant nothing! I love you. She’s just—well, just an adventure. A silly mistake. You’re what matters.” He tried to put his arms round her. “Let’s forget it, yeah? I promise I’ll stop. Honestly, she’s beginning to do my head in—always wants something, always needy…” That’s when Lydia finally saw: this wasn’t remorse. It was fear—fear of losing his comfort, of being stuck with someone truly needy, not someone who let him play the hero to schedule. “I’m filing for divorce,” she said, casually, as if announcing she’d switched off the iron. “What? Lydia, you’re mad! One mistake?” She rose, packed her bag, gathered her documents. …The divorce finalised two months later. Jack moved in with Olivia, who welcomed him with open arms—at first. Her embraces soon gave way to endless lists: fix this, buy that, pay those. Lydia heard occasional titbits via mutual friends. Nodded, without any malice. Everyone gets what they sign up for. She rented a small flat on the far side of the city. Every morning, she drank coffee in peace. No one asked about garage keys. No one popped out “for a sec” and returned smelling of someone else’s perfume. No one ever begged her to be more patient—more accommodating. She’d expected pain—loneliness, regret. But what came was something else: lightness. As though she’d taken off a coat she’d worn for years, never noticing how heavy it had grown. For the first time, Lydia belonged only to herself. And that was better than any “stability”…

011