Vera never found out why her mum and dad didn’t stay together.
She was three when her parents split up. Her mum took little Vera and left the city, moving back to their quiet village.
“Well, you’ve done it all,” Granny Mabel muttered when she met them at the gate. “Gone to university, married, had a baby, divorced. You young ones rush through everything these days…”
They say you shouldn’t judge a person by their words, but by their actions.
Granny Mabel was kind, no doubt about it. Her habit of grumbling and scolding was something the family had long grown used to.
But her pancakes! 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 start telling a new tale in that slow, steady voice.
Of course, every child wants more than just stories—they want hugs and kisses too. But Granny wasn’t the affectionate sort. Bedtime cuddles, whispered “I love yous”—that wasn’t her way.
Vera’s mum had picked up the same habit, keeping her own distance.
Sometimes, Vera wondered—maybe they didn’t love her at all?
Then one winter, Vera caught a bad cold. Three days passed with no sign of recovery, and the ambulance never came. Granny didn’t leave her side, day or night. Mum was away somewhere, just gone.
If she thought about it, Vera had spent more time with Granny than with her own mother.
“When’s Mum coming back?” she’d ask.
“When she sorts out her life,” Granny would say.
Vera didn’t really understand what “sorting out her life” meant, but she never pressed further.
Then Mum’s trips grew fewer, then stopped altogether. Vera thought—finally, she must’ve “sorted it.” Now she’d stay.
Except Mum walked around as if lost in thought, barely noticing Vera.
Then she fell ill. Just a passing thing, they thought at first.
But she stopped eating, took to bed at every chance, lying there with her eyes closed, not asleep, just still.
“You ought to go to London,” a neighbour suggested. “See a proper doctor, get tests done.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mum said—the first words she’d spoken in days.
Vera could tell how much effort even that had cost her.
A week later, Mum was worse. They had to call an ambulance.
Vera didn’t know it then, but that was the last time she’d see her.
After that, it was just her and Granny Mabel.
The days blurred. A bad dream. Granny, suddenly old, crying. Vera clutching Mum’s things—her soft dressing gown, her gloves, still smelling of her perfume.
“I wish I were gone too,” Granny sighed. “What a sorrow… And who’s left to care for you?”
For the first time, her rough hand stroked Vera’s hair. The girl didn’t dare move—what if Granny stopped?
Slowly, life settled.
Vera went to school, helped with chores, did her homework. Days passed like twins, one after another.
Only later did she realise—she had been happy then. Granny had tried her best, filling in for both parents.
Fifteen is too young to be left alone in the world. But fate had other plans.
One night, Granny fell asleep and didn’t wake up.
At the funeral, Vera couldn’t even cry. Inside, just emptiness.
They took her to a children’s home.
A few days later, the headmistress 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. You should be glad he’s come forward at all. It could’ve gone differently.”
“—Alright then,” the tall man shifted awkwardly in front of the girl he barely remembered. If he even did.
“Let’s go.” He took her bag and walked ahead.
Vera stood frozen.
“Don’t be scared,” he offered a shaky smile, winking. “I’m nervous too.”
*What a bloke*, Vera thought, trailing the father she’d never known.
The car ride was silent. Neither knew what to say.
At the flat, a woman waited—made-up, dressed smartly, nothing homely about her. Fancy dress, jewellery on full display.
“Meet Olivia, my wife,” Dad said. “And this is Vera, my daughter.”
“Pleasure,” Olivia said, eyeing the girl coolly.
*Liar*, Vera thought.
She stepped inside, looked around, and gasped.
The table was set like a feast! The whole place looked like a museum—paintings, plush white rugs, a telly covering half the wall, heavy curtains.
A week passed. Vera still couldn’t call him *Dad*.
Olivia acted like Vera wasn’t there. Slept late, took long showers, painted her face, sipped coffee.
Dad—Michael—made breakfast. Sliced thick ham, bought pre-cut bread to save time. Poured Vera strong, sugary tea.
She hated it, but didn’t say. What was she supposed to call him? *Dad* stuck in her throat.
He drove her to school in his big jeep. She walked back alone.
“Vera, lunch money,” he’d press crumpled notes into her hand.
She took it but didn’t spend it. Saving for escape… Dreaming of the village.
*They don’t want me. They won’t even look for me.* Three more years, then she’d be free. There were potatoes in the garden, jars of preserves Granny had stacked high. She’d manage.
But life had other ideas.
One evening, she carried a full glass of cherry juice to her room, trying to sip under Olivia’s glare.
Her foot caught the rug. Juice splashed, staining the pristine white. She scrubbed, but the mark set fast.
Olivia stormed in.
“That’s it! Had enough of this! No kids of our own, now we’ve saddled with a stranger—”
Vera watched her. The mask had slipped.
That night, Michael came home. They argued behind the kitchen door. Then silence.
A knock. He stepped in.
“You alright? Sitting in the dark? Come eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Should I eat alone then?”
“What about Olivia?”
“Olivia’s gone.”
He rubbed his unshaven cheek.
“She left? Because of me?”
“Because of *us*. If we’re family, it’s both or neither. And I’ve grown used to having you here. Never thought I’d raise a daughter…”
“Neither did I… Dad.”
