Vera never found out why her mum and dad didn’t stay together.
She was only three when her parents separated. Mum returned with little Vera from the city to their quiet village.
“You’ve done it all, haven’t you?” Granny Jean couldn’t help remarking as she met them at the garden gate. “Got your degree, married, had a baby, divorced. You young ones rush through everything…”
They say you shouldn’t judge a person by their words, but by their actions.
Granny Jean was a kind grandmother. Even if she grumbled and scolded, her family had long grown used to it.
But oh, the pancakes she made! And the stories she knew…
Vera loved it when Granny put her to bed. She’d sit on the edge, tuck the quilt around her, and begin another tale in that slow, steady voice of hers.
Of course, every child wants more than stories—they want hugs and warmth. But Granny Jean wasn’t one for “softness.” Kisses at bedtime, cuddles, whispering “I love you”—that wasn’t her way.
Vera’s mother had learned her manner of speaking from Granny.
Sometimes Vera wondered—if they didn’t love her, why wouldn’t they hug her?
But once, when Vera fell ill and didn’t get better for days, Granny Jean never left her side. Mum was away somewhere.
If she thought about it, Vera spent more time with Granny than with her mum.
“When’s Mum coming back?” she’d ask.
“When she sorts her life out,” Granny would say.
Little Vera didn’t quite understand what “sorting her life out” meant. But she never pressed for answers.
Then Mum’s visits grew fewer, then stopped altogether. Vera thought—maybe she’s “sorted it” now. Maybe she’ll stay.
But Mum was quiet, distant, lost in her own thoughts.
Then she fell ill. At first, they thought it was nothing serious.
She stopped eating, lay down at every chance. But she didn’t sleep—just lay there with her eyes closed.
“Take her to London, to a proper doctor,” a neighbour urged Granny Jean.
“No,” Mum murmured, breaking her silence.
Vera could see how much those few words cost her.
A week later, Mum got worse. They had to call an ambulance.
Vera didn’t know it then, but it was the last time she’d see her.
After that, it was just her and Granny Jean.
Vera barely remembers those days. It all felt like a bad dream. Granny, crying, suddenly older… Vera sleeping with Mum’s things—her soft dressing gown, her gloves still carrying the scent of perfume.
“I wish I were gone instead,” Granny sighed. “Such grief… And what’s to become of you?”
For the first time, she smoothed Vera’s hair with her wrinkled hand. The girl held still, afraid Granny might pull away.
Slowly, they carried on.
Vera went to school, helped around the house, did her homework. Days passed, each one just like the last.
Only later did she realise how happy she’d been then—Granny took care of her, trying to be both mother and father.
…Fifteen is too young to be left alone in the world. But fate had other plans.
One day, Granny Jean went to sleep and never woke up.
At the funeral, Vera couldn’t even cry. There was just emptiness inside.
She was sent to a children’s home.
A few 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.”
Go somewhere with a stranger? Call him “Dad”? She wasn’t ready.
“You’ll get to know him. Be glad he wanted you. It could’ve been worse.”
…
“Erm, hello,” the tall, uneasy man said, meeting the daughter he barely remembered.
If he remembered her at all.
“Let’s go,” he took her bag, leading the way.
Vera stood frozen.
“Don’t be scared. I’m nervous too,” he managed a hesitant smile and winked.
What a bloke, Vera thought, following this unknown father.
They walked home in silence.
At the flat door, a pretty, well-dressed woman greeted them—done-up hair, high heels, jewellery glinting at her wrists and neck.
“This is Emily, my wife,” he said. “…And this is my daughter, Vera.”
“Nice to meet you,” Emily said, eyeing her coolly.
Liar, Vera thought.
She stepped inside and gasped.
A feast awaited them—candles, fancy plates, the works. The whole place looked like a showhome—paintings, a plush white rug, a massive telly, heavy curtains.
…
Vera stayed a week but never once called him “Dad.”
Emily acted like Vera wasn’t even there—lounged in bed, took long showers, sipped coffee.
Robert—her father—made breakfast, slapping thick slices of ham onto pre-sliced bread.
He poured Vera tea, heavy on the sugar and leaves.
She hated it but said nothing. How was she even supposed to address him?
He drove her to school in his big SUV. She walked home alone.
“Take this for lunch,” he’d mutter, pressing crumpled notes into her hand.
She saved every pound—planning her escape back to the village.
“They don’t want me here. No one’ll come looking. Three more years, then I’m free.”
She’d manage. There were potatoes, jars of Granny’s preserves, shelves of jam.
But it wasn’t meant to be…
…
One evening, Vera poured cherry juice in her room—she could never drink under Emily’s glare.
Tripping on the rug, she spilled it. The stain seeped deep into the rug.
Emily stormed in.
“That’s it!” she hissed. “We take you in, and this is the thanks we get? Didn’t even want kids, now we’re stuck with someone else’s—”
Vera watched, calm. This was the real Emily—the mask was off.
That night, Robert came home.
Shouting. Silence.
Then a knock.
He stepped in.
“You alright? Why’s it dark in here? Come eat. Don’t fuss over the rug—I’ll take it to the cleaners.”
“Not hungry,” Vera whispered.
“Leaving me to eat alone?”
“…Where’s Emily?”
“Gone.”
A pause. He rubbed his unshaven cheek.
“Because of me?”
“Because of us. We’re a package deal now. And I… I’m getting used to having a daughter.”
“Me too, Dad,” she said softly.
