She traded her grandchildren for an old dog, then silently buried her guilt.
“Charlotte, keep your boy away! He’s driving my poor Winston mad!” hissed Evelyn sharply, pointing at the disheveled dog curled up in the armchair. “I’ve told you plainly—take your little devil away this instant!”
Charlotte, pale, pulled young Oliver aside and whispered softly, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
From the bedroom stepped Oliver Sr., rubbing his temples wearily:
“What’s all the shouting now? I can’t concentrate with all this noise!”
“Oh, *we’re* disturbing *him!*” his mother sneered. “Never mind that Winston’s in his final days, and here you are with your shouting and nappies! Enough! Move out! You weren’t planning to sponge off me forever, were you?”
“Mum, that’s not fair—we’re not sponging! We buy groceries, Charlotte helps around the house—”
“I don’t care! I’ve had my turn—now build your own life! Pack up. You’ve got three days.”
Oliver shot a dark look at the old dog before stalking off. Charlotte sank onto the edge of the crib where their six-month-old twins slept, the tears spilling silently.
“We’ll leave tonight,” her husband murmured, squeezing her shoulder.
“But where? We’ve no money, no place—”
“James lent me his flat while he’s away on business. We’ll stay there, and I’ll find extra work. We’ll manage, Lottie—I promise.”
She nodded and began packing. Evelyn didn’t even come to see them off—just shouted from the kitchen:
“Fine, running off? Good riddance!”
But fate had other plans. The taxi taking them to James’s flat was t-boned by a speeding car. Oliver and the twins died instantly. Charlotte survived, barely—left unconscious, fighting for her life in hospital.
She lay in a coma for two months. Then, on a dreary, drizzly morning, her lashes fluttered open. The first face she saw was Evelyn’s.
“Charlotte, love… Oh, thank God you’re awake—” She pressed a trembling kiss to her palm.
“Who… who are you?” Charlotte whispered weakly.
“Your mother,” Evelyn lied, voice shaking.
She kept quiet about the accident. Told the doctors Charlotte’s memory was gone and begged them to say nothing. *Not yet.* She threw out Oliver’s things, hid the twins’ photos in a box atop the wardrobe. She wanted to undo it—fix *something.*
Charlotte was discharged. Slowly, she recovered. The only comfort she found was in Alex, the physiotherapist. With him, she felt safe—only for him did she smile. Evelyn? Charlotte shrank from her touch, sensing something hollow and cold.
One day, Evelyn wobbled on a rickety stool while dusting. It cracked beneath her—she fell, wrenching her ankle. Charlotte drove her to A&E, but they’d left the paperwork behind.
Back home, she spotted the dusty box. Opened it. Inside—photos. Her. Oliver. The twins… And *everything* returned. Agony stabbed through her skull. Charlotte screamed.
She stormed into A&E, clutching the pictures.
“Tell me the truth. Where are my children? Where’s Oliver?!”
Evelyn wept—true, broken sobs of guilt and grief. Silence cut deeper than words. Charlotte blacked out on the threshold.
When she woke, she bolted. Rain lashed her face as she ran blindly, stumbling toward the bridge. The river below promised quiet. An end.
Then—hands. Strong, steady. Alex.
“Charlotte… Don’t. Scream. Cry. But don’t disappear. I’m here.”
She buried her face in his chest and *howled.* He held her, silent, stroking her hair.
There was so much ahead—forgiveness, healing, learning to breathe again. But there, in the wind and grey, a new page turned. Not happiness—not yet. But light, faint on the horizon.
