Olivia typed the final message and hit send, finally able to pour herself a coffee. She leaned back in her chair, sipped the weak instant brew, and strolled to the break room where Marla sat, sniffling into a tissue. Olivia hesitated. She preferred not to meddle in others’ affairs, but the sight of her coworker’s red eyes stirred something in her.
“Is it the translator software error again?” Olivia asked, setting her cup down. “Did the client reject your last batch of files?”
Marla ignored her at first, staring out the window. “The only thing you understand is money,” she muttered.
“Then why cry about it? Take a pregnancy test. It’s obvious you’re hiding the results. Just don’t let it define you.”
Marla choked on a stifled sob. “Who told you—?”
“Your future. I see it clearly. You’ll keep working nights, pay childcare costs on your salary, watch your savings evaporate. You’ll trade weekends for late-night revisions. Eventually, you’ll transfer to a school, teach by day, translate by night. Then you’ll marry an accountant, double the chaos. He’ll grow distant in two years, tired of your exhaustion. You’ll end up working two jobs just to afford his alimony and their private school fees.”
“Shut up,” Marla hissed. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Only because I’ve seen it before,” Olivia said, picking up her coffee. “My parents offered a front-row seat to that exact story.”
Back at her desk, Olivia thought of the past. Her father had once built a creative agency, until a partner vanished with his savings. He returned to teaching math at a technical college, where he’d built a humble life. Her mother, though, obsessed over their cramped Victorian flat in Bristol, comparing him to the friends’ entrepreneurs with superyachts.
One night, their arguments tipped over into the hallway. Olivia had been fifteen when she overheard the truth. Her father’s quiet dignity crushed by her mother’s selfishness. She had seen the taxi following her mother home that day, a midlife lover in the passenger seat. The next morning, her mother feigned ignorance. “He’s helping me with the bills,” she’d said, eyes swollen.
Olivia chose her side. She studied languages at a distance in Manchester, worked at a publishing house, and eventually escaped to London. She dated men who brought casserole dishes to her flat, but their hints about “shared expenses” made her laugh. Love was not a game of resources.
Now, as she folded her resignation letter, Olivia drove to her father’s council house. He met her at the door, pale and hunched from years of grading papers. “You’re leaving for the translator gig in Edinburgh?” he asked.
“Only if it doesn’t pull you down,” she said. “You’ve always supported me.”
He smiled, but refused to move. “Your mother’s happy,” he said quietly. “Stop hating her.”
Olivia left the file on his kitchen table, then turned to the final goodbye. She found her mother at the local farmers’ market, bargaining for apples with a younger man. She wasn’t unkind, her mother, just… blinkered. Olivia didn’t wait to hear his excuses.
That night, as the train left London, Olivia stared at the countryside. She understood now—children didn’t inherit their parents’ choices. They inherited the shape of those choices, the gaps and scars left behind. Whether you built your life in defiance or imitation, the blueprint was always there.
And Olivia had decided long ago never to build with borrowed bricks.
