After getting his bonus from the factory, Andy was sitting in a small pub with his two mates. The bonus wasn’t huge, but he wasn’t married and didn’t fuss over money.
“Money’s nice when it’s there,” he said cheerfully. “If it’s not, oh well—I’ll wait till payday.”
His mates groaned about their wives taking all their wages, barely managing to stash a bit aside.
“Lucky you, Andy,” Ivan sighed. “Single blokes have it easy. I’ve got three lads and barely enough to cover things. Take my advice—don’t get married. The missus’ll nag you senseless—kids need feeding, shoes wear out, clothes barely last…”
They all chuckled, but just then, a lively, pretty girl slid into their booth. Spotting Andy, she plopped right onto his lap. He was the youngest of the lot, embarrassed but didn’t push her away.
“I’m Lily,” she said brightly. “And you?”
“Andy—er, Andrew,” he mumbled, while his mates smirked and elbowed each other.
Lily hopped off and took a seat next to him. Andy, a quiet lad from the countryside, wasn’t used to bold girls like her. But he fancied her straight off. That night, they left together. By morning, he woke up beside her.
“Got work,” he muttered, dressing fast while she lounged.
“Andy, love, hope this isn’t the last time?” she purred. “Come round mine after your shift. I’ll be waiting.”
The day dragged, but Andy sprinted to hers the moment the whistle blew. True to her word, Lily waited in her flat. He fell hard for her—never mind his mates’ warnings that she was always flitting between blokes. Soon enough, he’d even proposed.
A year later, their daughter, Sophie, arrived. At first, Lily played house—cooking, cleaning, nursing. But as soon as Sophie turned one, things soured. With Andy at work, Lily would dump the baby on their neighbour and vanish. Andy’d come home to find Sophie next door, the neighbour scolding,
“Andy, I’ve two girls of my own. Tell your Lily I won’t mind hers anymore!”
They fought. He threatened her when she stumbled home drunk. Then Lily started bringing men over. Andy’d walk in to a room full of strangers and toss them out. Finally, after one row too many, Lily snapped,
“Take Sophie and clear off. I’m done with both of you!”
So he did. He’d thought about it before, hoping she’d change. Back in his village, his mum, Margaret, was bedridden—neighbour Rose nursing her. Their fences were so rotted, Rose could step straight from her porch into his yard. Andy hadn’t visited in ages. He’d no idea how bad things were.
Now he was stuck—ill mother, two-year-old Sophie. He found work locally. Rose watched Sophie—her own boy, Tom, was three. The kids played together.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you, Rose,” Andy said, grateful.
Rose was married, but her husband, Mike, was a drunk, a bully. Andy had thrashed him more than once. Last time, Mike barely crawled away, then vanished—rumour said he’d fled to his mum’s. Rose wasn’t upset.
“Andy, the house is quiet now. Thank you,” she said. “He’d never dare raise a hand to a man.”
They divorced. A month later, Andy’s mum passed. After the funeral, Sophie would scamper next door whenever Andy worked. To repay Rose, he helped with chores. His cottage was tiny, crumbling. Rose’s place was sturdy—her dad, Jim, had been the village’s best carpenter, built it himself, barely lived to enjoy it.
Her parents died close together—her dad from overwork, her mum fading soon after. At sixteen, Rose was left with her older sister, who married and moved away. By eighteen, Rose was alone. That’s when Mike came sniffing. Margaret had nudged her:
“Take him, Rose. Better than rattling round this house alone.”
So she did. Tom came along. Rose adored him—but Mike soured fast, drinking daily.
After burying his mum, Andy started thinking. He fancied Rose—nothing like Lily. Rose was warm, kind, cooked brilliantly, looked at him soft-like.
“How’d I end up with Lily?” he’d wonder. “Rose is the sort you marry.”
One evening, he came home to find Sophie feverish in Rose’s bed.
“Doctor’s been. Gave her medicine. Let her stay—I’ve got her sipping tea with honey.”
He barely slept, checking at dawn.
“Fever broke. She’s resting. Go on to work.”
That night, Sophie sat up weak but smiling.
“Daddy,” she said, “let’s live with Auntie Rose. Can I call her Mum?”
Andy flushed. He and Rose had been circling each other, neither brave enough.
“Sophie, love, that’s not—”
“Why not?” Rose cut in, pink-cheeked. “She’s right. That drafty little place—” She faltered, embarrassed.
Andy rubbed his neck, then grinned.
“Suppose Sophie’s settled it. I’d been meaning to ask myself.”
They married. Life turned cosy. Tom and Sophie thrilled—now proper siblings. They played, walked to school, Tom shielding her like a proper big brother.
Years passed. Tom, sixteen, Sophie, fifteen—always glued together. Neither grasped why they’d started feeling… different. Tom was tall, blond, blue-eyed—girls flocked to him. He’d shrug them off, Sophie always beside him, her dark plait and grey eyes drawing looks too.
“Tom, why drag your sister everywhere?” girls griped.
“’Cause she’s mine. Touch her, you’ll see.”
Dates? Never. They read, swam, picked berries—content just them. By eighteen, Tom knew: he loved her.
“How?” he’d agonise in the hayloft. “She’s my sister—I can’t… but I can’t lose her.”
Sophie felt the same—had for years, jealous of any girl near him.
Then Tom got drafted. Sophie waved him off, already training as a chef.
When he returned, they collided in a hug. Rose watched—and understood. They couldn’t stop talking.
Tom finally cracked. “Sophie, I’m leaving for the city. Can’t stay.”
She ran to the garden’s old cherry tree—her crying spot. Rose found her there.
“Sophie? What’s wrong? Did Tom—?”
“No! He’d never…”
“Sweetheart, are you in love?”
Sophie gaped. “How’d you know?”
“I see it. You’re both torturing yourselves. But… you’re not siblings. When Andy and I wed, you were his, Tom was mine. You just don’t remember.”
Sophie shrieked, hugged her. “Mum! But Tom’s leaving—”
Rose dashed inside, finding Tom packing.
“Son, why? You’ve everything here.”
He turned—saw Sophie grinning behind her.
“Tom,” she burst out, “we’re not brother and sister!”
Rose nodded. “True. You’re step-siblings. That’s all.”
She slipped out. They clung to each other.
“You’re staying?” Sophie whispered.
“Only if you’ll marry me.”
“Just like that? What about wooing me? Midnight walks?”
“All of it. Every bit, love.”
They wed—a raucous, joyous do. A year later, their son, little Jack, arrived. The family thrived. Finally, properly happy.
