The Shadow of the Past
“If it weren’t for you, we’d be living properly now!” Victor glared at his wife, voice trembling with barely contained anger.
“Please, enough,” Anna murmured without meeting his eyes. “How many times must we go over this?”
“As many as it takes!” he snapped. “Until you admit you ruined everything!”
Their wedding had been nearly thirty years ago.
When Victor first stepped into that small terraced house in Chester and awkwardly greeted Anna’s parents, he was twenty-two—a lanky lad from the countryside with no grand ambitions but bright eyes full of dreams. He didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
“Just look at him,” her father muttered. “No proper job, no education, not a penny to his name. How’s he supposed to provide?”
“Annie, think about it,” her mother chimed in. “What about when children come along? Maybe don’t rush things?”
“It’s too late,” Anna exhaled, barely audible.
“What do you mean, ‘too late’?” her parents stiffened.
“I’m expecting.”
“Right,” her father said after a pause. “We’ll arrange the wedding. You’ll live here.”
“We wanted to rent a flat,” Anna ventured timidly.
“What for?” her mother threw up her hands. “There’s plenty of space here. You need rest, good meals. No, your father’s right—you’ll stay with us.”
The young couple were given the spare room, allowed to decorate as they pleased. The agreement was simple: for now, they’d live as one family.
“There’s only one woman who runs this house,” her father said sternly. “Your mother’s word is final. And you—” he looked at his daughter, “—will chip in for food and bills. How much? Your mother will decide. Don’t worry, we won’t take more than fair. Agreed?”
Anna and Victor nodded in unison.
“One more thing—” Her father’s tone sharpened. “Your mother’s word is law. What she says, goes. Clear?”
“Clear, Dad,” Anna said quickly, sensing Victor’s discomfort. “We’re fine with everything. Thank you for having us.”
“Don’t overdo it,” her father softened. “This is your home. The question is how we’ll get on. Let’s hope we do.”
And they did, at first. Anna’s father, though never warm to Victor, stayed civil—never meddled, never lectured. Never once slighted him outright. Her mother was a kind mother-in-law, doting on Victor like her own.
Or so they thought. Victor saw it differently.
“They drive me mad, especially your mum,” he’d whisper to Anna. “‘Love’ this, ‘love’ that. I’m not her son! And your dad? Smiles to my face but his eyes are full of contempt. We shouldn’t have stayed here. We should’ve found a place of our own.”
“Vic, what place?” Anna kept her voice level. “I’m about to have a baby. Mum will help. And Dad… he respects you. Maybe doesn’t like you, but that’s normal—you’re strangers. He’s not a lad anymore.”
“Exactly—strangers!” Victor flared up. “Then they should act like strangers, not pretend they’re my parents!”
“Nobody’s pretending,” Anna snapped. “You’re imagining things. We should be grateful we’ve got this place! Have you even checked rent prices? Or your wages? How would we manage? On my maternity pay?”
Tears welled up.
“Oh, so my wages aren’t good enough?” Victor exploded. “And stop crying! This is all your fault!”
What her fault was, Anna never understood. Nor could she grasp what exactly had soured him so.
For Victor, everything grated—the cramped house, the factory job, the in-laws he barely tolerated, even Anna’s endless pregnancy. Back in his village, life was simple: the man was the head, his word final. But here? Some other woman ruled his life!
Where this discontent might’ve led, no one knew. Then grief struck.
Anna’s father died suddenly—just days after holding his newborn granddaughter, a perfect little girl.
After the funeral, her mother, tearful, made them promise not to leave her alone.
“I can’t imagine living here without him,” she sobbed. Refusing wasn’t an option.
Now Anna and Victor had two rooms. Her mother took the smaller one, handed over the reins, saying she needed little—let the young ones decide how to live.
Victor almost sighed in relief. Finally, he felt like the man of the house. And slowly, his true colours showed.
Soon, Anna and her mother felt like indebted guests in their own home. Victor never let them forget it—ignoring Anna’s wages, her mother’s pension. “I’m supporting you,” he’d say, and that was that.
Years passed. Anna went back to work, little Lizzie started nursery, and Victor remained at the factory.
Then one evening, the doorbell rang. His cousin, Paul, stood there—all grins. He was opening a garage in Manchester, he explained, painting grand visions of turning it into a chain. He wanted Victor as a partner.
“Me? A partner?” Victor blinked. “I don’t know the first thing about cars!”
“We split the investment, split the profits. Simple!” Paul clapped his shoulder. “Go on, mate—take the leap!”
Victor was hooked. He pictured a new semi-detached, a flash car, holidays abroad. Everything he’d dreamed of!
Just one snag: where would the money come from?
“No worries!” Paul waved it off. “I’m selling my flat. That’ll cover startup costs.”
Victor looked at Anna. Her face said it all—she wasn’t keen.
Paul left, giving them time to think. Victor spent it trying to persuade her.
“This is our shot! We won’t get another!”
“How do you see this working?” Anna shot back. “Where would we live with a child? And Mum? She won’t agree. It’s too risky.”
He argued, wheedled, but Anna stood firm. Selling the house wasn’t happening.
Two weeks later, Paul rang. Hearing the refusal, he scoffed, “Suit yourself. You’ll regret it when it’s too late.” Then hung up.
Life plodded on. Lizzie finished school, Anna worked, her mother kept house, and Victor, now a fifth-grade mechanic, nursed his bitterness.
The smell of roast potatoes and garlic mingled with the TV’s drone, news of another recession blaring. Victor pushed his food around, fork scraping the plate.
“Paul rang,” he said suddenly, eyes down. “Bought a house in the countryside. With a pool.”
Anna slowly set down her spoon. She knew what came next: Paul’s updates, the pause, the jabs, then a week of icy silence.
“Good for him,” she said evenly.
“Good for him?!” Victor’s fork clattered. “He’s got everything! And us? And you know why? Because you clung to your mum’s apron strings and held me back!”
The door slammed—Lizzie fled the kitchen. She’d long since learned to escape these rows.
Anna went to the window. Snow fell outside, just like that evening Victor first held her at the bus stop. Back then, he’d smelled of dreams.
“We could’ve sold the house,” his voice was hollow. “Invested. Had a proper life.”
She turned. The familiar ache in his eyes—he was already living that other life, the one where he’d succeeded.
“And if it had failed?” she asked, steadying her voice.
“I’d have tried!”
She shut her eyes. Saw them in a bedsit, Lizzie ashamed to bring friends home, her mother coughing in the corner…
“Maybe you’re right,” she said suddenly. “We should’ve risked it.”
Victor froze. He’d waited years to hear those words. Now they tasted like ashes.
“See!” He laughed, bitter. “You admit it!”
“I do, just don’t shout. You’ll wake Mum.”
“I’m awake,” her mother said, sitting down. “Heard it all. Annie, he’s right—you should’ve risked it. I’d have backed you…”
Silence settled, thick as the snow outside.
“So you’d decided?” Victor spat. “After claiming Mum was against it! Because of you, we’ve got nothing!”
“We’ve got a family,” Anna said quietly.
“Family?” He sneered. “A daughter who hides from us? A wife who nags me non-stop?”
Something inside Anna snapped.
“And you?” Her voice sharpened. “What have you done except blame me? You could’ve changed jobs, achieved something!”
Victor reeled as if struck.
“You… don’t get it.”
“I get that you’re scared,” Anna stepped closer. “Scared to admit it’s you. Even with money, you’d stillEven now, standing in the same kitchen where they’d argued for decades, he couldn’t bring himself to say he was sorry.
