**SIN WITH A HAZELNUT, A CORE IN A BUCKET**
“He’s 46 years old! Has he lost his mind? This girl could be his daughter! What kind of love could they possibly have? Hmph—fallen head over heels like a mouse into a tin! I don’t understand it, and I don’t care to!” fumed Irene, disgusted by her husband’s behavior.
Her best friend, Evelyn, listened to the outburst, trying to soothe her. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Irene. Things will sort themselves out. You’ve still got the perfect family.”
But Evelyn knew—as did Irene’s coworkers and neighbors—that the peace of their picture-perfect home hung by a thread.
Gavin, Irene’s husband, had gone off the rails. He wasn’t himself anymore.
…It all began with a car accident. That fleeting collision twisted first into a passing fancy, then into what he swore was his last great love.
Winter. Black ice. Every morning, Gavin drove cautiously to his office in London. That day, he slowed to a crawl, stopping at a pedestrian crossing.
Out of nowhere, a girl dashed forward and collapsed onto the bonnet of his car. Gavin froze—had she thrown herself on purpose? No time to ponder. He leapt out to help her.
The girl groaned, clutching her arm. Gavin bundled her into his car, insisting on the nearest clinic, but she refused. “I’ll be fine—just need a cuppa,” she murmured.
So, he took her to his office. Poured tea, offered biscuits.
They talked. Her name was Angelica. Gavin couldn’t deny she was striking—button-nosed, curly-haired, too serious for her years, yet somehow magnetic. He fought the urge to stare, shaking off the strange pull she had over him.
Before she left, he handed her his card. “Call if you need anything.”
By evening, he’d forgotten the incident.
Two days later, Angelica called. Urgent business, she said. Guilt nudged him to meet her.
Her tiny flat smelled of lavender. Her right arm was bandaged.
“See, Gavin—tried hanging a picture, but my arm’s still sore. Could you…?” She winced.
“Of course.” He fetched a hammer. The picture was up in minutes.
A bottle of wine and fruit appeared on the table. “Let’s celebrate. Been meaning to hang that for ages.”
Gavin couldn’t say no. Poor girl, so pretty, so alone…
The wine vanished. The fruit lay untouched. They talked—no, they *confessed*—until dawn.
He returned home dazed. His wife and daughter, Lily, slept soundly, used to his late nights.
Six months later, Gavin announced he was leaving. Irene and Lily were stunned.
Of course, Irene had noticed changes. He’d forgotten her birthday—first time ever. Their savings had dwindled. He was rarely home.
She’d dismissed the signs, scoffing at the saying *”There’s no fool like an old fool.”* She’d trusted him completely.
Now, hysterical, she begged Lily for answers.
Lily had already visited her father. “Mum, it’s true. He’s in love. She’s 26—five years older than me. Angelica. Strange thing is… she looks just like you.”
Irene turned ghostly pale. When Lily showed a photo, Irene reached for the Valium.
“Lord above… It can’t be!”
Lily didn’t understand.
…Old sins cast long shadows. *This one’s caught up with me,* Irene thought grimly.
At 17, she’d met her first husband, swept off her feet by his whirlwind courtship. They’d lived with his mother, Margaret, a kind woman who doted on Irene.
When their daughter was born, Margaret wept—she’d always wanted a girl. The baby was named Angelica.
But when Angelica was three, her father left for “work.” He never returned.
Irene found a letter to Margaret. *”I’ve found true love here. Explain it to Irene.”*
Margaret begged Irene to leave Angelica with her. “You’re young—start fresh!”
So Irene did.
She met Gavin on a bus. He stepped on her foot, apologized profusely. They married quickly. She never mentioned Angelica.
Margaret raised the girl. Irene visited at first—gifts, zoo trips, sweets—but life moved on. Another daughter came. Angelica faded into memory.
Now, decades later, Angelica had returned—not as a daughter, but as a rival.
Irene confronted her. Angelica smirked.
“Hello, *Mum*. Come to fetch your husband?”
Margaret had died when Angelica was eleven. Foster care followed—hunger, cold, fury.
“I plotted revenge for years. Wanted you to hurt like I did. But then… I fell for Gavin.”
Irene whispered, “Forgive me.” She left, begging Angelica to spare Gavin and Lily the truth.
A year later, Angelica died in childbirth, leaving twins. With her last breath, she begged Gavin: “Name the boy after you. The girl… after Irene. Go home.”
When Irene arrived, Gavin stood helpless, holding empty bottles. The babies slept soundly.
She took charge. “They’re coming home with us. We’ll manage. They’re family.”
