THE LODGER
Edward Wilson, a forty-year-old engineer, left his wife. He surrendered the flat and all their possessions, taking only his father’s old Ford and a suitcase of personal belongings. He had no interest in fighting over assets. “Our daughter is growing up—let her have everything,” he said.
Their marriage had long been strained. Lately, his wife spoke only two words to him: “Give money.” Edward handed over his salary, bonuses, even his Christmas bonus, yet somehow, it was never enough. He agreed to pay monthly child support and help his daughter separately.
At first, he stayed with a friend. Then he was assigned a room in a company dormitory, and as a valued specialist, he was placed on the housing list. This was the early 1980s—a time when council flats were still allocated by the state.
Edward spent two years in the dorm while his workplace constructed a new block of flats. Finally, the union chairman called him in.
“Edward,” the man said, “You live alone, so you qualify for a one-bedroom flat. But we can offer you a small two-bedroom instead—consider it recognition of your skill and dedication.”
Edward was stunned. “Thank you. I’m grateful to finally have my own place.”
A month later, he packed his modest belongings—mostly technical books—loaded them into the same Ford, and drove to his new flat.
The lift wasn’t working yet, so he climbed to the fifth floor, heart pounding as he approached flat seventy-two. He slid the key into the lock—but it wouldn’t turn.
“What on earth?” Edward muttered.
Then he heard shuffling and whispers behind the door. He knocked, demanding entry, but silence followed. He went downstairs, found the caretaker, and together they forced the door open. Inside, the flat was occupied. Boxes and furniture stood haphazardly about. A woman stared at them from the hallway, her face pale with fear.
“I won’t leave. You can’t throw me out—I’ve got kids,” she hissed.
Two boys, seven and eight years old, peeked from behind her, equally frightened. Edward tried explaining—this was his flat; he had the paperwork. But she had moved in illegally.
“Try it! Throw us onto the street in the middle of winter!” she cried in desperation.
Edward left. At the union office, he recounted everything. Investigations revealed the woman—Lucy—was a widow. Her husband had died, leaving her in a condemned prefab with addicts for neighbours. The place was freezing, no matter how hard she tried to heat it. She had petitioned the council for years, always pushed down the waiting list. Finally, she snapped and moved into the empty flat.
“We’ll evict her,” the union chairman said firmly. “Take her to court. It’ll take time, but she’ll go.”
“Is there another way?” Edward suggested. “Maybe I could talk to her.”
“Go ahead, but don’t expect miracles. Single mothers like her—they’re desperate, reckless. The law means nothing to them.”
Edward returned, finding a locksmith repairing the door.
“Let’s talk calmly,” he said. “You know this isn’t right. The law is clear—this flat is mine.”
“And you think you *deserve* it?” she snapped.
“I’ve worked at the factory twenty years. Yes, I’ve earned it.”
“I’ve got children. I won’t let them freeze in that dump.”
“I understand, but why *this* flat?”
“Because it was empty! They’ll give you another one—you’re the clever one, aren’t you?”
Edward left empty-handed. Eviction proceedings began. Officials visited, issued warnings, set deadlines.
When Edward learned Lucy would be forced back into that icy prefab, he went to see her again. She sat slumped at the kitchen table, eyes red, the boys clinging to her.
“You’ll have to go,” he said gently. “I’ve lost my room at the dormitory—I’ve nowhere else.”
She exhaled sharply, sinking onto a chair.
“Why hasn’t the council helped you? You’re on the list.”
“I’ve begged them! That smug, arrogant housing officer just brushes me off. ‘Wait your turn,’ he says.”
“Come on,” Edward said suddenly. “We’re going there now.”
Usually reserved, he felt an unfamiliar boldness surging through him. He bypassed the secretary, marched into the housing office with Lucy in tow.
“Her turn came and went,” he challenged the officer. “Perhaps we should audit the waiting list?”
The man’s manner shifted instantly. Smiling, he assured them Lucy’s allocation was imminent—just two more months. A two-bedroom in the new estate. Edward inspected the paperwork himself, noting the address.
“If she doesn’t get that flat, I’ll demand an inquiry,” he warned.
Back at the flat, Lucy began packing. “We’ll go back. You’ve done enough.”
“Stay,” he said abruptly. “Take the living room. I’ll use the bedroom. Once your flat’s ready, you leave. No rent—just keep the place tidy.”
She burst into tears.
Edward worked late often, buried in a new project. Yet every night, supper waited for him. Mornings, Lucy cooked breakfast for the boys—and for him. He tried paying her; she refused. “Let me thank you this way,” she insisted.
One evening, his ex-wife appeared at the door, smirking. “So the rumours are true—you’ve taken in a lodger.”
She tried needling further, but Edward steered her out, sending her home when it was clear she’d come only to stir trouble.
Lucy fretted, ashamed of the scene, but Edward reassured her. “She’s got a lovely flat. Our daughter wants for nothing.”
Come spring, Lucy’s new flat was ready. Edward helped her move. Weeping, she hugged him. “Thank you—for your kindness, your heart. Men like you are rare.”
While she settled in, Edward had an accident—a bad fall, a broken leg. Hospitalised, he received visits from colleagues, his daughter. Then Lucy came, twisting a handkerchief in her hands.
“I brought food—roast potatoes, beef pie, salad.”
He took her hand. “Two months under one roof, yet we never shared a meal. Once I’m home, you’re invited. Properly.”
They married. The boys gained a father; Lucy, a devoted husband. A year later, another son arrived. They swapped both flats for a four-bedroom house. Every evening, Edward returned to a home filled with laughter, warmth, and a family thriving under one roof.
