Spring sunshine filtered through the window, casting light across the freshly painted walls. Clara stood at the stove, stirring the borscht, eyeing the clock. She had to rise early—the soup was James’s favorite, and it was his turn to be sour-faced the day before. She wasn’t about to ask why, not if he’d grumble himself out of the house again.
“Clarrie, have you seen my blue tie?” James emerged from the bedroom, half-buttoned shirt flapping at the collar.
“In the wardrobe, right drawer. Ironed it last night,” Clara replied, not glancing from the pot.
Breakfast passed in the usual silence. James scrolled through his phone, muttering, while Clara watched him eat. She wanted to ask what was wrong but knew the usual rule: if it’s serious, he’ll say.
“It’s good, thanks,” James set down his mug. “Listen, I’ve got something to say. My dad’s coming over today. Tonight. For a few weeks, he says.”
Clarrie froze mid-sip. Harold Thompson? The same man who’d thrown a tantrum at their wedding because the bride “wasn’t good enough for the Thompson legacy”? The one who’d ghosted them for years since?
“When?” was all she managed.
“Evening. I’ll pick him up. Seems like the stepmother situation is turning bleak. He wants to stay with us while it sorts out.”
“Few weeks?” Clara set down her mug, standing. “Harold? You remember how he treated me?”
“He’s changed,” James said, uncertain. “Had a heart attack, sorted some priorities. Couldn’t refuse, Clarrie. He’s still my dad.”
“You should’ve talked to me first,” Clara began stacking dishes. “My project today was at home, all planned.”
“I’m sorry,” James came behind her, hands on her shoulders. “I know. Just… scared of how you’d react.”
“And rightly so,” Clara said, pulling away. “Go. Don’t miss the train. Sort it out tonight.”
The day dragged in a daze. Clara tried to focus on work, but her mind kept circling back to the man who’d terrified her at their wedding. A retired officer with a temper, bounced through four marriages after his first wife died. This latest wife, a sleek blonde half his age, had somehow failed to see the cracks in the marriage.
By evening, Clara had scrubbed the house, everything in the guest room changed, and dinner plated. *Let the games begin*, she thought, setting the table.
The doorbell rang promptly at seven. Clara inhaled sharply, opening the door to find James standing there, and behind him his father, silver-haired, British-lookout-posture, a crumpled leather suitcase in hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Thompson,” Clara managed a smile that stung.
“Evening, Clara. Thanks for taking in the old man,” he said, voice gruffer than she remembered.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside. “Dinner’s ready.”
James did most of the talking over dinner—work, the new car, holiday plans. Harold nodded, asked questions. Clara passed dishes in silence.
“Delicious,” Harold surprised her by saying later, addressing her directly. “You’ve always been good with a stove?”
“Learned slowly,” Clara said, unsure about the compliment.
“My Sarah, rest her soul, was a proper cook,” Harold sighed. “This new wife? Can’t boil water without a microwave. Says it’s ‘not a woman’s job’ to hang about a stove. Hmph. What’s a modern girl like you to make of that?”
Clara exchanged a glance with James, who subtly shrugged.
“Mr. Thompson, I’ll show you your room,” Clara said after dinner. “It’s got a TV and bathroom.”
He followed, setting the suitcase by the bed. “Nice place,” he said, patting the chair. “Feels homely.”
“Thank you,” Clara said, tension easing slightly. “Let me know if you need anything.”
The next morning, Clara woke to kitchen noises. 6 a.m. James still asleep. She wrapped the dressing gown and peeked out. Harold, in jogging gear, was slicing bread, a teapot whistling on the stove.
“Morning,” he said, seeing her. “Hope I didn’t wake you. Army habit, really.”
“Not at all,” Clara said, heading for the fridge. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “Had a sandwich. You and James stay in bed.”
Clara watched in shock as he tidied the crumbs, washed the knife.
“Off to the park, then,” he said, heading out. “Back in an hour.”
After he left, Clara called Emily. “Have I gone mad? The *Harold Thompson* is coming over for breakfast. Turns out he’s polite. *Washes his dishes*. Can you believe it?”
“Sounded mad at your wedding?” Emily laughed. “When he called you ‘a charity case’ for buying the house on your own?”
“Exactly,” Clara sighed. “But he’s… different now.”
“Or pretending. Be careful, luv.”
That evening, James was called late to work. Clara cooked in silence under Harold’s gaze.
“Help?” he asked, out of nowhere.
“Carve the veggies for the salad,” she said, passing the board.
They worked in quiet. Then Harold cleared his throat.
“Clara, I want to apologize.”
” For what?”
“For the wedding. The rudeness, the judgment. I was wrong.”
Clara dropped the ladle.
“When you lay under drips and I couldn’t tell if I’d make it, things looked differently,” he said. “Turns out I’m alone. Son doesn’t speak, wife…” he shrugged. “Just using my pension and house. Found out she’s been feeding lawyers ‘I’m not lasting much longer’ lines. Officially searching for my will or whatever.”
Clara knew exactly who he meant. The woman who’d strolled in like a Bond villain week before.
“Maybe she’ll think twice if I don’t sign off on anything. Just said the house was for a few weeks to see if she’d change her tune.”
James arrived home, stunned to find Clara chatting with his dad on the kitchen floor.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
“Spot on,” Harold patted his shoulder. “Your wife’s a gem.”
The nights that followed blurred. Harold rose early, did stretches, and fixed light fixtures. They’d gather in the evenings, watching shows—sometimes football. Once, Clara overheard him and James.
“Why did you treat Clara so badly, Dad?” James asked.
“Scared,” Harold admitted. “Thought she’d steal my boy from me. When you left, I realized how selfish I was.”
Clara wiped her tears that night, thinking of her grandmother’s words: *People aren’t evil, love. Just scarred and scared.*
By Sunday, Clara’s old friend Emily arrived with her husband. Staring at Harold setting the table, Emily gasped.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Clara whispered. “He’s serious about changing.”
But Emily eyed her suspiciously. “No, what if he’s up to something? Trying to claim the house?”
“No,” Clara shook her head. “He’s got his own flat. Pension’s decent.”
Emily huffed but didn’t argue.
Two weeks later, the doorbell rang. Clara opened to a woman in high heels, sharp makeup.
“Where’s my husband?” she demanded.
“Galina?” Clara guessed. “Come in.”
The woman swept in, heels clacking.
“Kolia!” she trilled, spotting Harold. “I’ve been so *worried*!”
“Ah,” Harold said flatly. “And how *I wondered* if you were just glad to be rid of me.”
The woman spluttered.
“I had to check the bank account was intact. The locks—nothing broken. Papers all there.”
He stood upright. “I’ve heard the juicy bits, too—how ‘Kolia won’t last six months’ and plans to sell the house.”
Galina paled.
“You *thought*.” He gestured at her. “You’ve been plotting, dear. I’m filing for divorce. You can take the clothes and trinkets I bought you. Everything else mine.”
She turned to Clara, eyes wild. “She’s after you!”
“Clara’s happy with my son,” Harold said. “Because she *loves* him. Not the house. *That’s* what you never had for me.”
He walked away, and Galina fled.
That evening, James heard the tale.
“So the marriage’s over?” he asked.
“Officially,” Harold nodded. “Off to live alone, I suppose.”
“You can stay here,” Clara offered, surprising herself.
“Thank you, love,” Harold said, touched. “But this is your home. I won’t intrude.”
Weeks later, Harold packed. At the door, he hugged James, then Clara.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For giving me a chance to be better.”
“Change was mutual,” Clara said. “You taught me how a family should be. No pretending. Just love.”
After the door closed, Clara leaned into James’s arms.
“Never thought it’d turn out this way,” she said.
“Some people just need time,” he kissed her head. “Like us.”
That night, the phone rang. James handed Clara the receiver. “Your dad.”
“Clara,” Harold’s voice trembled. “I’m proud to be your father-in-law. When you two… well, if you have kids, I’d be honored to be a grandfather.”
Clara smiled into James’s chest. “Actually, we were about to tell you. Seven months give or take, you’ll get another Thompson on your lap.”
He whooshed in delight. “A boy or girl?”
“Still a secret,” Clara laughed. “But you’ll be the first to know when we find out.”
They hung up, curled together on the sofa. Rain tapped the window, but inside was warmth. People carried suitcases of life’s problems, but sometimes, behind those old cases, a second chance waited. All it took was the courage to open it.
