The Secret Beneath the Sofa
Helen sat at the kitchen table, staring through the window where autumn leaves swirled in the wind. Her thoughts shattered when Vera burst in, breathless with excitement. “Mum, guess what? I’m getting married! Liam and I just registered—the wedding’s in a month!” Helen froze, her voice barely a whisper. “Love, are you serious? Why so sudden? You never said a word!”
Vera, glowing, recounted how Liam had swept her off her feet. “We were walking past the registry office, and he just grabbed my hand and said, ‘Got your ID? Let’s do it!’ I didn’t even argue.” Helen’s hands trembled as she murmured, “Liam’s coming tomorrow. With his mother.” She studied her daughter, struck by how quickly time had slipped away. “Best get ready,” she whispered, her heart squeezed between joy and dread.
At dawn, Helen was already scrubbing and polishing—guests like these didn’t come often. As the scent of apple pie filled the kitchen, her mind wandered. Liam was steady, five years older, running his own garage. A hard worker, raised by a single mother—reliable, surely. But memories clawed at her. Twenty years ago, she’d been young and in love with Anthony.
They’d met at a dance in Bradford. Charming, a glint in his eye, he’d whisked her on late-night walks, rowing on the River Aire, stealing kisses in fields of cut grass. Then she’d fallen pregnant. Her mother had scolded but stood by her. Anthony, ever the charmer, agreed to marry. “We’ll make it work,” he’d vowed. She believed him.
When she neared her due date, Anthony left for work up north—money was tight. He’d return with wads of cash, then vanish again. His mother, kind from the start, adored Helen. But when Vera was born, Anthony didn’t show. His mother arrived with flowers, avoiding Helen’s gaze. “Just running late,” Helen told herself, though dread coiled in her chest.
Months later, sweeping under the sofa, she found a crumpled letter in Anthony’s scrawl. *Mum, don’t know how to tell Helen. Got tangled with a girl at a mate’s party—she’s seventeen, pregnant. Her dad and brother gave me a choice: marry her or else. Can’t risk it. Tell Helen yourself. I’ll send money for Vera, but I can’t stay.* Helen gasped, tears burning her cheeks.
She survived—thanks to her mother and Anthony’s mum, who never turned away. “You’re like my own,” she’d say, bringing sweets for Vera. But illness took her. On her deathbed, she gripped Helen’s hand. “Don’t call Anthony, even when I’m gone. The house and savings go to Vera.” Helen kept her word. Anthony wasn’t at the funeral.
Years passed. Helen’s mother died. Then, one evening, Anthony appeared at her doorstep—worn, broken. “Helen,” he croaked. “Brought money. Life’s been rough.” She stared him down. “Your mum didn’t want you there. Not even at the end.” Neighbors later whispered: his wife left him—the child wasn’t his.
The oven timer beeped. Helen blinked away the past. Vera’s laughter rang from the hall as Liam helped his mother inside. “Mum, this is Margaret,” Vera beamed.
“Just Maggie,” the woman smiled, clasping Helen’s hand.
As the girls vanished upstairs, Helen and Maggie chatted like old friends. Laughter bubbled, worries melted. Their children would be loved. And for the first time in years, Helen exhaled.
