Vera never discovered why her mum and dad didn’t stay together.
She was only three when her parents split up. Her mother took little Vera from the city back to their village.
“Well, you’ve managed it all, haven’t you?” Granny Gwen couldn’t help remarking as she met them at the garden gate. “Got an education, married, had a child, and divorced—you young ones move so fast.”
They say you shouldn’t judge someone by their words but by their actions.
Granny Gwen was a kind grandmother. Her grumbling and scolding were just things those close to her had learned to live with.
But her pancakes were the best! And the stories she knew—so many tales from long ago.
Vera loved it when Granny Gwen put her to bed. She would sit on the edge of the mattress, straighten the quilt, and begin another slow, winding fairy tale.
Of course, every child wants more than stories—they want tenderness, too. But Granny Gwen wasn’t one for affection. Kissing goodnight, hugging, whispering “I love you”—that wasn’t her way.
Vera’s mother had learned how to interact with family from her, adopting the same distant manner.
Sometimes Vera wondered—if they loved her, why didn’t they ever hug her?
But then, one winter, Vera caught a nasty cold. For three days, she only got worse, and the ambulance never came. Granny Gwen stayed by her side day and night. Her mother was away somewhere.
Looking back, Vera realised she had spent more time with Granny Gwen than with her mum.
“When is Mum coming back?” she would ask.
“When she sorts out her life, she’ll come back,” Granny Gwen would say.
Little Vera didn’t quite understand what “sorting out her life” meant. But she never dared to ask for more.
As her mother’s visits grew fewer, then stopped altogether, Vera thought—*She must have sorted it out. Now she’s living with us for good.*
Except—she seemed sad. Distant, lost in her own thoughts, barely noticing Vera.
Then she fell ill. At first, they thought it was nothing serious—just a passing thing.
She barely ate. Any chance she got, she lay down—not to sleep, just lying there, eyes closed.
“She ought to go to London, see a proper doctor, get tests done,” said a neighbour Granny Gwen had called over.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Vera’s mother murmured—the first words she’d spoken in days.
Vera could see how much even those few words had cost her.
A week later, she got much worse. They had to take her to the hospital—in an ambulance this time. Vera didn’t know it would be the last time she saw her.
And so, it was just her and Granny Gwen.
Vera barely remembers those days. Everything blurred into a bad dream. Granny Gwen crying—suddenly aged. Vera clinging to her mother’s things at night—wrapping herself in the warm dressing gown that still smelled like her, clutching the gloves that carried traces of her perfume.
“I wish I were gone too,” Granny Gwen sighed. “Such grief… And who will look after you now?”
For the first time, her rough, wrinkled hand stroked Vera’s hair. The little girl didn’t dare move—what if Granny Gwen pulled away?
Slowly, they recovered. Vera went to school, helped around the house, did her homework. The days dragged on, each one the same as the last.
Only later did Vera realise how happy she had been then. Granny Gwen cared for her, tried to be both mother and father.
…Fifteen isn’t the best age to be left alone in the world. But fate had other plans.
One day, Granny Gwen fell asleep and didn’t wake up. She slipped away quietly in the night.
At the funeral, Vera couldn’t even cry. Inside, there was just—emptiness.
She was sent to a children’s home.
A few days later, the headmistress called her in.
“Vera, we’ve found your father. He’s coming for you today. Go pack your things.”
“But—I don’t even know him.”
Go off with a stranger? Call him “Dad”? She wasn’t ready for that.
“You’ll get to know him. Be grateful he even showed up. Plenty would have turned their backs.”
… “Well, hello,” said the tall, awkward man who barely remembered the little girl he’d left behind. *If he even remembered at all.*
“Come on, then.” He took Vera’s bag and headed for the door.
She hesitated, frozen in place.
“Don’t be scared. I’m nervous too.” He gave her a small, uncertain smile and a wink.
*What a bloke,* Vera thought, trailing behind this man she’d never known.
They walked home in silence. Neither knew what to say.
At the flat, a sharp-faced woman greeted them—perfectly made-up, dressed like she was headed somewhere fancy, dripping in jewellery.
“Meet Olivia, my wife,” her father said. “And this is my daughter, Vera.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Olivia said—but her eyes were cold.
*Liar,* Vera thought.
The flat was like a show home—gleaming floors, spotless furniture, paintings on the walls, a massive telly.
Vera spent a week there without once calling him “Dad.”
Olivia acted like Vera didn’t exist—sleeping late, lingering over coffee, never cooking.
Her father—Nigel—made breakfast: thick-sliced ham, pre-sliced bread (*less hassle*). He poured Vera strong tea, heavy on the sugar.
She hated it but never said. *What would she even call him?*
Nigel drove her to school in his fancy SUV. She walked back alone.
“Take this for lunch,” he’d say, pushing crumpled banknotes at her.
Vera took the money—but saved every penny for her escape. She dreamed of going back to the village.
*Nigel and Olivia don’t want me here,* she reasoned. *No one will come looking.*
She could survive three more years—then she’d be an adult, free to work. The village had potatoes, preserves, jars of jam—she wouldn’t starve.
But her plans fell apart.
…One evening, she carried a full glass of cherry juice to her room—easier to study without Olivia’s glare.
She tripped on the rug. Juice splattered everywhere.
Olivia appeared in the doorway.
“That’s IT!” she snapped. “We take you in, and this is how you repay us? Couldn’t even have our own kids—now we’re stuck with someone else’s!”
*There she is,* Vera thought. *No mask left.*
That night, Nigel came home. Vera heard raised voices in the kitchen—then silence.
A knock. He stepped in.
“Alright, love? Why sit in the dark? Come eat. Still upset about the rug? Don’t be—I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow, good as new.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“What, I’m meant to eat alone?”
“What about Olivia?”
“Olivia’s gone.”
*”Because of me?”*
“Because of *us*. You and me—we’re a package deal now. Take both or neither. And—truth is—I’ve gotten used to having you around. Never thought I’d end up living with my own daughter.”
“Neither did I, Dad…”
