Vera never did learn why her mother and father never stayed together.
She was only three when they parted ways. Her mother took little Vera and left the city for their village back home.
“You’ve done it all, haven’t you?” Granny Agnes muttered as she met them at the garden gate. “Studied, married, had a child, divorced. You young ones move so fast…”
They say a person should be judged by their deeds, not their words.
Granny Agnes was a kind soul. If she grumbled and scolded, her family had long since grown used to it.
But those pancakes she made! And the fairy tales she told—so many of them.
Vera loved when her grandmother tucked her in at night. She’d sit on the edge of the bed, smooth the quilt, and begin another slow-spun story.
Every child, of course, wants tenderness as much as stories. But Granny Agnes had no patience for “mush.” Kisses at bedtime, hugs, whispering “I love you”—that wasn’t her way.
Vera’s mother had learned her manner of speaking to loved ones straight from her.
Sometimes Vera wondered—if they loved her, why didn’t they ever hold her?
But once, when Vera fell ill with a fever that wouldn’t break for three days, and the ambulance never came, Granny Agnes stayed by her side day and night. Her mother was away then, gone somewhere.
If she thought back, Vera had spent more time with her grandmother than with her mother.
“When will Mum come back?” she’d ask Granny Agnes.
“When she’s sorted her life out, then she’ll be back,” Granny would reply.
What “sorting her life out” meant, little Vera didn’t quite understand. But she never dared ask.
Then her mother’s visits grew fewer, until they stopped altogether. Vera thought—ah, she’s “sorted it out” at last. Now she’ll stay with us forever.
Only, her mother walked about so sadly. And she barely seemed to notice Vera, always lost in her own thoughts.
Then her mother fell ill. At first, they thought it was nothing, that it would pass.
She barely ate, lay down at every chance. But she wasn’t sleeping—just lying there with her eyes closed.
“You ought to take her to London, see a proper doctor, get tests done,” said the neighbour Granny Agnes had called in.
“I’m not going anywhere,” her mother replied, her first words in days.
Vera could see how much effort those few words had cost her.
A week later, her mother grew much worse. They had to call an ambulance after all.
Vera didn’t know it would be the last time she saw her.
Then it was just her and Granny Agnes.
She hardly remembers those days. Everything blurred into a bad dream. Granny crying, looking older all at once. Vera clutching her mother’s things at night—sleeping in her warm dressing gown, pressing her scented gloves to her chest.
“Better if I go next,” Granny Agnes would sigh. “What grief… And who’ll look after you then?”
Once, she ran her wrinkled, work-worn hand over Vera’s hair. The girl froze, afraid to move—what if Granny stopped?
Slowly, they came through it.
Vera went to school, helped around the house, did her lessons. The days stretched out, one much like the other.
Only later did she realise how happy she’d been then. Granny Agnes had cared for her, tried to be mother and father both.
…Fifteen is a cruel age to be left alone in the world. But fate had its own plans.
One day, Granny Agnes went to sleep and never woke. Slipped away quietly in the night.
At the wake, Vera couldn’t even cry. Inside, she was just hollow.
They took her to a children’s home.
Days later, the headmaster called her in.
“Vera, we’ve found your father. He’s coming for you today. Pack your things.”
“But I don’t know him.”
Going off with a stranger? Calling him “Dad”? She wasn’t ready.
“You’ll get to know him. You should be glad—your own father, stepping up. It might’ve gone differently.”
…”Well, hello,” said the tall man, awkward himself, facing a daughter he barely remembered.
If he remembered her at all.
“Come on then,” he took her bag and headed for the door.
Vera stood frozen.
“Don’t be scared. I’m nervous too,” he offered a hesitant smile and a wink.
“What a man,” Vera thought, trailing after the father she’d never known.
The drive home was silent. Neither knew what to say.
At the flat door, they were met by a pretty, carefully made-up woman—dressed for going out, not for home. A smart dress, jewellery at her throat and wrists.
“This is Olivia, my wife,” her father said. “And this is my daughter, Vera.”
“Pleasure,” said Olivia, eyeing the girl coolly.
“She’s lying,” Vera thought.
Inside, she gasped.
The table was laid for a proper meal! The whole flat looked like a museum—paintings on the walls, plush white carpets, a telly wide as the wall, heavy curtains.
…Vera lived there a week without once calling him “Dad.” She just couldn’t.
Olivia acted as if the girl wasn’t there. She lay in bed late, showered, did her makeup, drank coffee.
Breakfast was Richard’s doing. Thick-cut sausages. Sliced bread—less fuss.
He poured Vera strong tea, heavy on the sugar.
She hated it, but couldn’t say. And what to call him? “Father” stuck in her throat.
Richard drove a big Land Rover. He’d drop her at school, but she walked back alone.
“Vera, lunch money,” he’d press crumpled notes into her hand.
She took it but never spent it. She was saving—dreaming of running back to the village.
“Richard and Olivia don’t want me here, that’s plain,” she reasoned.
No one would come after her. Three years to endure, then she’d be grown. Could work. Didn’t fret over food—Granny’s pantry was full. Jars of preserves, potatoes, whole shelves of bottled fruit. She wouldn’t starve.
But her plans came to nothing.
…Vera poured cherry juice and headed to her room to drink it in peace and do homework. Under Olivia’s glare, she couldn’t swallow a drop.
Tripping on the rug, she spilled it. She scrubbed, but the stain seeped into the white pile.
Olivia appeared in the doorway.
“That’s it. I’ve had enough,” she snapped. “Took on more than we bargained for. No kids of our own, now we’re stuck with someone else’s…”
Vera watched her and thought—ah, there’s the real Olivia.
The mask had slipped.
That evening, Richard came home. From the kitchen, Vera heard raised voices, then silence.
A knock. Her father entered.
“How are you? Sitting in the dark? Come have supper. Still upset about the rug? Sod it—I’ll take it to the cleaners, good as new.”
“I’m not hungry,” Vera said softly.
“What, I’m to eat alone?”
“What about Olivia?”
“Olivia’s not here anymore.”
Richard paused, rubbed his unshaven cheek.
“She left? Because of me?” Vera pressed.
“Because of us. We’re a package deal now. Take both or neither. And… I’ve grown used to having you. Never thought I’d live with my daughter someday.”
“Neither did I… Dad.”
