Vera never found out why her mum and dad didn’t stay together.
She was just three when they split up. Her mum took little Vera and moved back from the city to their hometown village.
“Well, you’ve ticked all the boxes, haven’t you?” Granny Jean couldn’t help remarking as she met them at the garden gate. “Got your degree, got married, had a baby, got divorced. You young ones—always in such a hurry.”
They say you shouldn’t judge a person by their words but by their actions.
Granny Jean was a kind grandmother. And the fact that she grumbled and scolded—well, everyone close to her was used to it.
But her pancakes? Absolutely divine. And the stories she could tell!
Vera loved it when Granny tucked her in at night. She’d sit on the edge of the bed, adjust the blanket, and start spinning another fairy tale in her slow, steady voice.
Of course, every child wants more than just stories—they want affection. But Granny Jean wasn’t the cuddly type. No bedtime kisses, no hugs, no whispered “love yous.” That just wasn’t her.
Vera’s mum had picked up the same way of dealing with people—straight from Granny.
Sometimes Vera wondered—maybe they didn’t love her at all? Why else wouldn’t they hug her?
But then she caught a nasty cold once, and for three days straight, she got worse instead of better. The doctor still hadn’t come. Granny Jean stayed by her side day and night. Mum was away somewhere that week.
If Vera thought about it, she’d 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.
Vera didn’t really understand what that meant. But she didn’t dare ask.
Then Mum’s trips became rarer, until they stopped completely. Vera thought—aha! She must’ve “sorted her life out” at last. Now she’ll stay with us forever.
Except… Mum walked around looking sad. Like she barely noticed Vera, always lost in her own thoughts.
Then Mum got sick. At first, they thought it was nothing serious—just a bug.
But she stopped eating, kept lying down at every chance. Not sleeping, just lying there with her eyes closed.
“She needs to go to the city, see a proper doctor, get tests done,” said a neighbour Granny had called over.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mum said—the first words she’d spoken in days.
Vera saw how much those few words cost her.
A week later, Mum was 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.
The days blurred together like a bad dream. Granny crying, suddenly looking so much older… Vera clinging to Mum’s things at bedtime, wrapping herself in Mum’s warm dressing gown, holding her gloves close—still smelling of her perfume.
“I wish it were me instead,” Granny would sigh. “What a tragedy… And what’ll become of you now?”
For the first time, Granny stroked Vera’s hair with her rough, wrinkled hand. Vera was afraid to move—what if she stopped?
Slowly, they moved on.
Vera went to school, helped around the house, did her homework. The days dragged by, one just like the next.
Only later did Vera realise how happy she’d been then. Granny took care of her, tried to be both mother and father in one.
Fifteen—no age to be left alone in the world. But fate had other plans.
One day, Granny went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Just slipped away quietly in the night.
At the funeral, Vera couldn’t even cry. Inside, she was just empty.
They took her to a children’s home.
A few days later, the headmistress called her in.
“Vera, we’ve found your dad. He’s coming for you today. Go pack your things.”
“But I don’t even know him.”
Go somewhere with a stranger? Call him “Dad”? She wasn’t ready for that.
“You’ll get to know him. You should be happy—your own father’s turned up. Didn’t wash his hands of you. Could’ve gone the other way.”
“Hey,” said the tall, awkward man who barely recognised the girl in front of him—if he recognised her at all.
“Let’s go.” He took Vera’s bag and headed for the door first.
Vera stood frozen.
“Don’t be scared. I’m nervous too,” he said with a hesitant smile, giving her a wink.
“Some man,” Vera thought, trailing after the father she’d never known.
They didn’t speak on the drive home. Didn’t know what to say.
At the flat, a polished, made-up woman greeted them. Dressed to the nines, jewellery on full display—nothing homely about her.
“Vera, this is Olivia, my wife,” Dad said. Then to Olivia: “My daughter, Vera.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Olivia said, eyeing Vera coolly.
“Liar,” Vera thought.
She stepped inside and gasped.
The table was set like a banquet! The whole flat looked like a show home. Paintings on the walls, a plush white carpet, a massive telly, heavy drapes…
Vera lived there a week without once calling him “Dad.” Just couldn’t bring herself to.
Olivia acted like Vera didn’t exist. Stayed in bed late, took long showers, did her makeup, sipped coffee.
Breakfast was Nigel’s job. Thick slices of ham. Pre-sliced bread—less hassle.
He’d pour Vera strong, sugared tea without asking how she liked it. She hated it but was too shy to say. What was she supposed to call him? “Dad” just wouldn’t come out.
Nigel drove a big Land Rover. Dropped her at school, but she walked home.
“Vera, lunch money,” he’d say, handing her crumpled notes.
She took it but never spent it. Saving up to run away… Back to the village.
“Dad and Olivia don’t want me here—that’s obvious,” she thought.
They wouldn’t come looking. No one would drag her back. Three years to tough it out, then she’d be an adult. Get a job. Food? No worries—there were sacks of potatoes in Granny’s cellar, shelves of pickles and preserves, jars of stewed fruit. She wouldn’t starve.
But her plan never happened…
…Vera poured herself a full glass of blackcurrant juice and headed to her room to drink it quietly while doing homework. Under Olivia’s glare, she couldn’t even swallow.
Tripping on the rug, she spilled it. Tried to wipe it up, but the stain spread—deep purple soaking into the cream pile.
Olivia appeared in the doorway.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” she hissed. “Talk about a millstone round our necks! Couldn’t have our own kids, so now we’re stuck with someone else’s…”
Vera watched her and thought—there she is. The real Olivia. The mask slipped, the act dropped.
That evening, Nigel came home. Vera heard raised voices behind the kitchen door. Then silence.
A knock. He walked in.
“Alright? Why sitting in the dark? Come eat. Still upset about the rug? Forget it—I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow, good as new.”
“Not hungry,” Vera mumbled.
“Leaving me to eat alone?”
“What about Olivia?”
“Olivia’s gone.”
A beat. He rubbed his stubbly cheek.
“She left? Because of me?” Vera pressed.
“Because of us. You and me—we’re a package deal now. Take both or neither. And… I’m getting used to having you around. Never thought I’d end up living with my daughter.”
“Me neither, Dad…”