**The Tenant**
Edward Whitmore, a forty-year-old engineer, left his wife. He gave up their flat and belongings, taking only his father’s old Ford and a suitcase of personal items. He didn’t want to fight over the division of assets. “Our daughter is growing up—let her have everything,” he said.
His marriage had long been strained. Lately, his wife only ever said one thing: “Give me money.” Edward handed over his salary, bonuses, even his Christmas bonus, yet somehow, it was never enough. He pledged to pay child support and help his daughter however he could.
At first, he stayed with a friend, then was allocated a room in a company dormitory. As a valued specialist, he was put on the housing list. This was the 1980s, when council flats were still granted by the state.
Edward spent two years in the dormitory while his workplace constructed a new block of flats. Then, one day, the union chairman called him in.
“Edward,” he said, “you’re single, so you’re entitled to a one-bedroom flat. But we’ve got a small two-bedder available. You’re a top-notch specialist—take the keys.”
Edward was stunned. “Thank you. I’m just relieved to finally have my own place.”
A month later, he packed his modest belongings—mostly technical books—loaded them into the same old Ford, and drove to his new home.
The lift wasn’t working yet, so Edward climbed the five flights of stairs, heart pounding as he approached flat seventy-two. He slid the key into the lock—but it didn’t turn.
Confused, he heard muffled whispers behind the door. He knocked, demanding entry, but silence answered. Eventually, he fetched the caretaker, and together, they forced the door open. Inside, the flat was occupied—belongings strewn about haphazardly. A woman stood in the hallway, fear in her eyes as she faced the two men.
“I’m not leaving,” she said firmly. “You can’t throw me out—I’ve got children.”
Two boys, no older than seven or eight, watched nervously from behind her. Edward tried to reason with her, explaining the flat was legally his, but she refused.
“Try it,” she snapped, desperation cracking her voice. “Throw us out into the cold, then.”
Edward left. At the union office, he explained the situation. It turned out the woman, Lucy, was a widow. Her husband had died, leaving her in a condemned prefab with a handful of addicts as neighbours. The place was freezing, no matter how much she tried to heat it. She’d been on the council housing list for years, constantly pushed back. In despair, she’d broken into the new building.
“We’ll evict her,” the chairman said firmly. “It’ll take time, but we’ll take her to court.”
“Isn’t there another way?” Edward suggested. “Maybe if I speak to her?”
“Go ahead,” the chairman shrugged. “But good luck—women like that act like they’re above the law.”
Edward returned, finding Lucy as the locksmith repaired the door. “Let’s talk,” he said gently. “This isn’t your flat. The law isn’t on your side.”
“And you think it’s fair you get a flat just like that?” she shot back.
“I’ve worked twenty years for this. I have the papers to prove it.”
“I’ve got children. I won’t let them freeze in that rotting shack.”
“I understand, but why *my* flat?”
“Because it was the one I found,” she said bitterly. “They’ll give you another—you’re the clever one.”
Edward left empty-handed. The eviction process began, with officials warning Lucy she’d be forcibly removed. Learning she’d be thrown back into that icy prefab, Edward returned once more. This time, Lucy looked defeated, her eyes red, the boys clinging to her.
“You’ll have to leave,” he said quietly. “I’ve got nowhere else to go either.”
She sank onto a chair, exhausted. “Why won’t the council help you?” Edward asked.
“I’ve begged them,” she whispered. “But that smug housing officer just brushes me off.”
“Let’s go,” Edward said suddenly.
At the council office, normally reserved Edward felt a surge of determination. He talked his way past the secretary and confronted the officer.
“Her turn for a flat came up, but you keep delaying her. Shall we investigate how this list *really* works?”
The officer softened, suddenly all smiles. Lucy’s name was next in line—just two more months, he promised, and she’d get a two-bedroom flat in a new estate. Edward checked the documents himself.
“If she doesn’t get that flat,” he warned, “I’ll make sure everyone knows why.”
Back at the flat, Lucy began packing. “We’ll go back. You’ve done enough.”
Edward shook his head. “Take the living room. I’ll keep the bedroom. You can stay—as my tenant. No rent.”
Lucy burst into tears.
Edward worked late most nights, but he’d always return to a warm meal. In the mornings, Lucy made breakfast for the boys and him. He tried to pay her, but she refused. “This is how I thank you,” she said.
One evening, his ex-wife turned up unannounced. “So the rumours are true—you’ve taken in a stray,” she sneered.
Edward ushered her out, unimpressed. Lucy fretted, but he reassured her. “She’s got a nice flat. She’ll manage.”
Come spring, Lucy got her new home. Edward helped her move. Tearfully, she hugged him. “Thank you—for your kindness, for your heart.”
Not long after, Edward broke his leg badly and was hospitalised. Colleagues visited; so did his daughter. Then Lucy arrived, nervously clutching a handkerchief.
“I brought you dinner,” she said, unpacking roast potatoes, meatballs, and salad.
Edward took her hand. “We lived together two months but never shared a meal. Once I’m out, you’re all invited.”
They married soon after. The boys gained a father; Lucy, a steadfast husband. A year later, another son arrived, and they traded both flats for a larger house. Every evening, Edward returned to a home filled with laughter, warmth, and love—proof that sometimes, the kindest choices lead to the happiest endings.
