When the Stepmother Cast Out the Disabled Girl, a Billionaire Unexpectedly Changed Her Life…

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 15 minViews 2

28February2025 Diary

The rain hammered the cobbled streets of London, washing away the remnants of lipstick that clung to Amelia Johnsons tearstreaked face. She steadied herself on a wooden crutch, clutching a battered canvas bag and a stack of crumpled sketches the only things left after her stepmother, Victoria, had driven her from the house.

Behind her, Victorias sharp voice cut through the storm. Get out, you lazy parasite. A flash of lightning illuminated Amelias small figure slipping down the slick pavement, her coat torn, her hope as thin as the raindrops. No roof, no one to claim her as a daughter, only a fragile belief that God was still watching. By the roadside a broken mirror lay shattered, rain mingling with the blood on her knee. In her shaking hands she held a soaked drawing of a dress edged in golden thread.

She whispered, Mum, will these cracks ever shine again? She could not have imagined that the same night would set her on a path toward a chance encounter that would change everything.

Mornings in Birmingham always carried the scent of fresh scones and the faint hum of traffic outside the council estate where Amelia lived. In a modest terraced house in the TMA (Tottenham Manor) neighbourhood, the rhythmic clatter of a sewing machine blended with the soft humming of Margaret Maggie Hughes, a Jamaicanborn matriarch who had stitched her whole life together with patience and prayer.

Every stitch is a prayer, love, Maggie would tell her daughter, Amelia, as she guided the needle through cloth. Sew with your heart, not with fear. The home was tiny but filled with laughter. By eight, Amelia could cut fabric; at nine she embroidered her name in gold thread onto the bags her mother sold at the local market.

Her father, Martin Johnson, a longhaul lorry driver, brought home the smell of diesel, the wind of the motorway, and a small wooden toy for his budding seamstress each time he returned. Life was simple, rooted in faith.

One Sunday, Maggie was stitching a church dress when her hand trembled, sweat gathering on her brow. Mum, are you alright? Amelia asked, laying a gentle hand on her arm. Just a bit tired, love. Keep humming your hymns. As Amelia began to sing, the needle slipped and fell to the floor. The doctor later diagnosed Maggie with a heart condition that demanded rest.

Even ill, Maggie remained at her sewing table, stitching church robes. The Lord gave me these hands for a purpose, she said. Amelia fetched water, medicine, and wiped her mothers forehead. Please stop, Mum, she begged. You must learn to work through pain, Maggie replied, for sometimes light comes through the cracks.

One silent morning, Amelia rushed to her mothers room to find Maggie asleep, a faint smile on her lips, a broken wooden bracelet split in two on the bedside table. Amelia sat for hours, clutching the broken beads, whispering through tears, Mum, Ill keep sewing your dreams. The house felt larger, emptier.

Martin took a brief leave from the road to stay with Amelia, making tea, cooking breakfast, trying to fill a void that could never be fully mended. Grief never truly leaves; it merely quiets. A year later Martin returned to his routes, hugging a small handmirrored frame and whispering, Daddy works to keep this roof over you, love. Stay strong and remember your mothers words.

Amelia stayed home, learning to draw and embroider, holding tightly to Maggies lessons. The house lost its music, but Amelias drawings blossomed, each dress a tribute to her mothers vision.

Then Victoria Brooks entered the picture. Martin met her at a service station in the West Midlands. She had a warm smile, bright eyes, and a soft voice. You must get lonely on the road, she said. I work at a salon and cared for my sick mother. Martin saw in her the kindness he missed in Maggie. A few months later they married in a small ceremony with only a handful of friends.

Fourteenyearold Amelia stood in Maggies blue dress, clutching a wilted bouquet, watching Victoria step into their home. At first Victoria seemed caring. Call me Mum V, dear, she said, braiding Amelias hair, cooking, telling stories. Martin beamed, See, love, God still loves us. Yet false love soon revealed its sour taste.

When Martin left for a threeweek haul, Victorias demeanor changed overnight. Wash the dishes. Do my laundry. Dont touch my makeup. Amelia obeyed silently. One day she missed a couple of plates; Victoria snapped, Think your disability makes you special? Huh? Amelias crutch clattered to the floor. I didnt mean Victoria hissed, Shut up, you burden. Without you my husband would be happy. That night Amelia hid the broken bracelet beneath her pillow, tears soaking her cheek.

Victoria played the perfect stepmother over the phone. Amelia is doing great, love, she told Martin. Shes studying well, she added, then ordered Amelia to clean, cook, and run errands. Once Victoria borrowed Amelias phone to call a friend. When Amelia retrieved it, she discovered a sum withdrawn from Martins account. I used a little to pay your dead mothers hospital bills, Victoria smirked. You should be grateful. Amelia said nothing.

She still believed God watched. One humid summer evening, rain hammered the window panes. Victoria glared at a mirror, Think I dont know youve been drawing dresses? A cripple dreaming of being a designerpathetic. Amelia clutched her sketchbook, trembling. This is my mothers dream. I wont give it up.

Victoria ripped the pages apart, throwing them into the bin. Dreams wont buy bread, useless girl. Amelia stood still, watching the rain lash the glass, her heart shattering. That night she retrieved the wet sketches, pressed them between two old Bibles, and swore, They can take everything, but I will sew again with faith.

Weeks later Martin returned home. Victoria greeted him with music and food, a painted smile. Amelia stood in the corner, her crutch tapping softly. Martin patted her head. Daddys home, love. Arent you happy? She forced a smile. That night Victoria pretended to sleep on the couch while Martin whispered to Amelia, Ill be home longer this time.

Shall we go to the fashion exhibit in London? Amelias eyes lit up. Victoria, feigning fatigue, opened her eyes, fury simmering.

The next morning, a urgent work call forced Martin to deliver an early shipment. Just three days, he told them, then well go to London. Amelia nodded, but her chest grew cold, as if the air itself warned her.

When the door shut, Victoria hurled a cup to the floor. Without him youre nothing. Amelia lowered her head. Victoria grabbed her chin. Theres no room for two women here. That afternoon the sky opened wide.

Amelia sat at her sewing table, stitching the Roots & Wings dress her mother once dreamed of. Victoria entered, brandishing an envelope. I withdrew your insurance money. You have nothing left. Amelia froze. You cant do that. Youll understand once youre out of my house. She shoved Amelias bag outside, screaming, Get out. Go stitch your dreams on the streets.

Rain fell in sheets as Amelia stepped out, crutch in hand, eyes lifted toward heaven. In her bag were only half a bracelet and a few crumpled sketches. She did not know that at the end of that lane a man named Preston Cole had witnessed everything.

The following night fate began to turn. Preston, a quiet billionaire with a reputation for spotting raw talent, had seen Amelias desperation. He approached her the next afternoon, offering a card embossed with gold. I run Roots & Wings, a studio that believes in healing through design. Come tomorrow if youre willing to try. Amelias heart hammered between hope and fear.

At dawn she gathered her intact sketches, straightened her dress, and faced the cracked mirror. The girl staring back was thin, but her eyes held a steady flame. She boarded a bus to the glassclad building in the City of London that housed Roots & Wings. A security guard eyed her skeptically. Do you have an appointment? he asked. Amelia held up Prestons card. He nodded and let her in.

The fifth floor smelled of fresh fabric, humming sewing machines, and lavender. Portraits of strong, black women in proud garments hung on the walls. An older woman with silver hair, Evelyn Carter, stood by a cutting table. Are you here to learn or to work? Evelyn asked. Ill do anything, Amelia answered, voice trembling.

Evelyn tossed a strip of fabric to her. Stitch this straight line. Dont rush; be honest. Amelia sewed slowly, each stitch deliberate. After a few minutes, Evelyn smiled. Not bad. Your hands shake, but your heart is steadyrare.

Preston entered, eyes bright. You really came? he said. I want to try. I have no credentials, only faith. He smiled. Faith is what we hire most here. He gave her a small workspace, a sketchpad, and a brief: Design a dress that lets imperfect women feel beautiful. Amelias mind raced. She drew a long, flowing skirt with a soft draped bodice, edges finished in gold thread.

Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, murmuring, Lovely, youre stitching your heart back together.

Meanwhile, back in the Midlands, Victorias rage boiled over. She called a friend, bragging, That girls now working somewhere fancy. I cant stand seeing her shine. She withdrew the accident insurance money from Martins account, then tried to smear Amelias name online.

One rainy evening, Victoria confronted Amelia at a mirror, Think I dont know youve been drawing dresses? A cripple dreaming of designpathetic. Amelia clutched her sketchbook, whispering, This is my mothers dream. I wont give it up. Victoria ripped the pages, throwing them into the bin. Dreams wont buy bread, useless girl. Amelia stood still, watching the rain lash the glass, her heart shattering. That night she retrieved the wet sketches, pressed them between two old Bibles, and swore, They can take everything, but I will sew again with faith.

Shall we go to the fashion exhibit in London? Amelias eyes lit up. Victoria, feigning fatigue, opened her eyes, fury simmering.

Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, murmuring, Lovely, youre stitching your heart back together.

Months later, with Prestons mentorship, Amelias designs were showcased at the London Fashion Weeks Healing Collection. The audience, a mix of industry leaders and everyday people, responded with genuine applause. A stern investor from a major department store whispered, Your work is raw, but its powerful. Preston smiled, Shes turning pain into fabric, and the world needs that.

Victoria, desperate, tried one last sabotage. She called the studio, claiming she had withdrawn Amelias insurance payout. Prestons lawyer quickly traced the transaction, exposing Victorias fraud. The police arrived, and Victoria was arrested, her smug grin fading as she was led away.

In the aftermath, Amelia stood on the runway, wearing a white dress with golden crutches, the broken bracelet now restitched around her wrist. The lights blazed, the crowd roared, and she felt her mothers voice echo in the music, Dont fear the cracks; they are where the light enters.

Later that night, back in the modest flat she now called home, Amelia opened her journal. She wrote:

Today I learned that a broken heart can become a beacon if you let the light in. I was once tossed out into the rain, but every step since has been guided by a faith that refuses to be silenced. I am no longer the girl who begged for a roof; I am the woman who builds shelter for others with needle and thread.

The diary entry ends here, and I, John, the man who has watched Amelias journey from the shadows, take away one truth: hardship may strip us bare, but it also offers the raw material for a new tapestry. The lesson I carry forward is simpleif we stitch our wounds with purpose, we become the very fabric that holds others together.

On the Edge of This Summer Working in the local library, Dana always found her life dull—there were hardly any visitors these days, with everyone online. She often rearranged books, dusting them off as she went. The only real perk was that she’d read an unimaginable number of books: romance, philosophy, and everything in between. Yet at thirty, she suddenly realised romance had passed her by. A respectable age—surely time to start a family—yet her looks were unremarkable, her job not well paid. It hadn’t even occurred to her to change careers; she was content enough. These days only university students, the occasional schoolchild, and a few pensioners visited the library. Recently, a regional professional competition took place. To Dana’s complete surprise, she won the grand prize: an all-expenses-paid fortnight at a seaside resort. “That’s brilliant. I’ll definitely go,” she cheerfully told her friend and her mum. “On my salary, I could never afford it, so this is happiness dropped in my lap.” Summer was drawing to a close. Dana walked along the deserted beach—the cafe was busier, with most holidaymakers staying inside as the sea was especially rough today. Her third day by the sea, she felt like wandering alone, to think and to dream. Suddenly, she saw someone swept from the pier by a wave—a young man. Without thinking, she rushed to help. Luckily it was close to the shore, and while she wasn’t a brilliant swimmer, she’d always been able to hold her own in water. The waves helped her haul the boy by the collar, then dragged them back, but Dana persevered, finally managing to reach shallow water and get to her feet. She realised, standing there in her soaked dress, that the “young man” was a boy of about fourteen—just tall for his age. “What were you thinking, swimming in this weather?” she asked, but the boy simply thanked her, then staggered away. Dana just shrugged and watched him go. The next morning, sunny and warm, Dana smiled as she looked out at the gently lapping blue sea—the waves seemed almost apologetic for yesterday. After breakfast, she stretched out on the beach, and later wandered to a small funfair in the park. Spotting a pop-up shooting range, she decided to have a go; she’d been good at marksmanship at school and university. First shot missed, second was a bullseye. “Well done! That’s how it’s done, son!” said a man behind her. Turning, Dana saw yesterday’s teenager with his father. The boy looked worried when he recognised her—a secret perhaps best kept. The man, introducing himself as Anthony, was amiable and asked if she’d show them a thing or two. Dana agreed, and soon the three of them were eating ice cream in a seaside café, then riding the Ferris wheel. Dana expected the boy’s mother to turn up, but no one else came; father and son were relaxed, unhurried. Anthony turned out to be great company, easy to talk to, and Dana found herself warming to him more with every passing minute. “Dana, have you been here long?” “No, just started my first week. I’ve another one left.” “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” To their amusement, they soon realised they all lived in the same city—small world indeed. For the next week, they met every morning on the beach, parted late at night, even went on day trips together. With time, Dana noticed the boy, Jamie, seemed preoccupied, but perhaps she was imagining things. She learned that father and son were staying at the hotel next door to hers. One day, only Jamie turned up at the beach. “Hi—Dad’s come down with a temperature. I told him you’d look out for me, if that’s alright. Didn’t fancy a day stuck in the room!” Dana got Anthony’s number and rang to check in. “Don’t worry and do enjoy yourselves. Jamie promises he’ll listen to you!” Anthony said, trying to sound upbeat. After a swim, Jamie looked up at Dana and said, “You’re a real mate, you know that?” She smiled. “Why do you say that?” “Thanks for not telling Dad about what happened the other day. I really got caught out by that wave.” The conversation drifted—Dana gently enquired about his mum. Jamie hesitated, then decided to trust her and began to tell their family story. Anthony, it turned out, worked away now and again. When he was gone, Jamie stayed with his mum, Marina. They seemed, outwardly, the perfect family, but reality was different. Anthony had been sent to London for a work course—if it went well, he’d get promoted, and money would be better for them all. His wife seemed pleased, if anything, when he left. Two days later, Marina announced she’d invited her colleague, Arthur, and his daughter, Ciara, over for the evening. Jamie was to take Ciara out for ice cream. Ciara was a couple of years older and pretty streetwise. As the days went by, she let slip that her dad “paid her” to distract Jamie so their parents could “entertain themselves” at home. Jamie found it hard to believe, but the truth stared him in the face. Soon after Anthony returned, Jamie overheard his parents arguing. “Yes, I’ve been seeing someone else,” his mum admitted. “Fine,” replied Anthony, “I’ll file for divorce. Jamie stays with me—you seem not to need him.” “Fine by me—I’ll have a new family soon.” Jamie stayed in bed the next morning, listening to his mum pack. “Don’t worry, son,” Anthony tried to explain, but Jamie cut in: “No need, I know everything. I love you, Dad. We’ll be fine.” Anthony smiled, ruffling his hair: “You’ve grown up, son. Stay in touch with your mum, if you like—she’s left me, not you.” Jamie admitted he didn’t feel ready to see her again—not yet. That day, Jamie and Dana visited Anthony with some fruit. He promised to join them at the beach soon. Three days later, Anthony and Jamie had to leave; Dana stayed on a few more days. Summer was ending—on the edge of this summer, they said goodbye. Anthony promised to meet Dana at the airport. Jamie smiled beside him. Dana made no plans, just basked in the sweet texts Anthony sent, telling her how much he missed her already and how eagerly he awaited her return. Soon after, Dana moved in with Anthony and Jamie—perhaps happiest of all was Jamie, for his dad, for Dana, and for himself. On the Edge of This English Summer

On the Brink of This Summer While working in a small-town library, Dana felt her life was painfully dull—there were barely any visitors these days, since everyone was online. Most days she spent shuffling books on dusty shelves, her only comfort the endless novels and philosophy tomes she devoured. By thirty, Dana realized that all the romance she read about in books had utterly bypassed her own life. Her age was “respectable,” as her mother put it, and it was high time to think of starting a family. Not that her modest looks, low-paying job, or general inertia helped matters; she’d never seriously thought of changing things up. The only visitors at the library were the odd student, a stray pupil, or an elderly pensioner. Recently, though, she’d been entered—quite unexpectedly—into a county-level professional competition, and, to her own astonishment, had won the grand prize: a fully-paid, two-week seaside holiday. “That’s fantastic. I’m definitely going!” she announced to her mum and best friend, beaming. “It’s not like my salary could ever pay for something like this—just pure luck!” As summer faded, Dana walked along the deserted shore. Most holidaymakers hid in cafés, as the sea was unusually wild that day. It was only her third day at the sea and she’d wanted a little solitude to wander the beach, contemplate, and daydream. Suddenly, she spotted a boy swept off the pier by a crashing wave. Not thinking twice, and despite never being a strong swimmer, Dana raced into the water—thankfully not far from shore. The waves helped and hindered in turns, but she managed, half-standing in the surf, to drag the boy to safety. Gasping and soaked, her summer dress clinging ungracefully to her skin, Dana checked on the teenager—tall for his age but surely no more than fourteen. “What on earth possessed you to swim in this weather?” she scolded gently, relieved as he wobbled to his feet and mumbled his thanks before heading off shakily, leaving Dana bemused. The next morning, sunshine glittered over the rippling waves. Dana, in much brighter spirits, wandered once more to the shore, basked in the warmth, then, nearer sunset, took a stroll through the park, stopping by the shooting gallery. She hadn’t fired a shot since her school and uni days—missed wildly with her first, but nailed the second. “Oi, look here, son, that’s how it’s done!” came a cheerful voice. Turning, she saw yesterday’s boy—and the man beside him, presumably his father, smiling warmly. The boy—Zhenya—seemed startled to recognize Dana, as if worried she might mention his mishap, but she only smiled knowingly. “Maybe you’d give us a masterclass?” the tall, amiable father—Anton—asked, chuckling as he introduced himself and his son, admitting neither was much good at these amusements. The three spent the evening together, sampling ice creams and riding the Ferris wheel. Dana wondered if Zhenya’s mother might join them, but neither father nor son seemed to expect anyone else. Anton proved wonderful company—curious, witty, and easy to talk to—and with every moment, Dana found herself drawn to him. “And how long’ve you been on your holidays here, Dana?” Anton asked as the sun dipped lower. “Just a week so far. I’ve got another to go! Where are you from?” “A bit funny, really—same city as you!” Anton laughed and soon the three were sharing stories about home. That night, as they said goodbye, father and son walked Dana back to her hotel, arranging to meet again at the beach the next day. She arrived early. Her newfound friends were late, nearly an hour so. “Good morning, Dana!” called Anton. “I’m terribly sorry, honestly—we just plain overslept. Forgot to set the alarm!” “Dad, I’m off for a swim!” Zhenya declared, running towards the surf. Dana’s heart leapt. “Stop! You can’t swim!” “Can’t swim?” Anton looked puzzled. “He’s a champion at school! Won swim meets and everything…” She blinked, embarrassed—had she imagined his struggle? Or had something else been troubling him… With evenings spent strolling or lingering over seaside fish and chips, their days together grew idyllic. Dana sensed Zhenya was troubled and longed for a chance to speak with him privately. That chance finally came—Zhenya arrived alone at the beach, informing her his father was ill in bed with a fever. After some friendly prompting, Zhenya thanked her for keeping his earlier accident secret. He admitted the waves had caught him off guard—he really did panic, just that once. Dana hesitated, then gently asked about his mum. Zhenya, after a moment, quietly confided: things at home weren’t easy. His parents’ marriage—a picture of happiness—had been slowly falling apart. When his father travelled for work, his mother spent more and more time with a colleague; eventually, her infidelity led to divorce and she left. Zhenya opted to stay with his dad—he didn’t care for his mum’s new partner or their daughter, Kira. He was angry, but loved his father fiercely, relieved to be away together by the sea. A few days later, when Anton recovered, they made the most of their remaining time—excursions, banter, lazy days in the sun. But soon, summer would end. Anton and Zhenya’s coach drew near; Dana had two days left, and they promised to meet again at home. Anton said he’d pick her up from the airport; Zhenya grinned with approval. Though Dana dared not plan too far ahead, her heart soared with each affectionate message from Anton, counting down days until their reunion. And soon—much to Zhenya’s delight—Dana found herself moving into their comfortable flat, feeling like, at the edge of that unforgettable summer, she’d finally walked into the pages of her own long-awaited love story. On the Brink of This Summer

You Just Can’t Find a Way to Connect With Him “I’m not doing it! And stop bossing me around—you’re nothing to me!” Daniel slammed his plate into the sink so hard that water splashed across the counter. Anna froze for a second, stunned. The fifteen-year-old glared at her with the kind of anger that made it seem as if she’d single-handedly ruined his entire life. “I only asked you to help with the washing up,” Anna said, trying to keep her voice calm. “It’s a simple request.” “My mum never made me wash dishes! I’m not some girl! Who are you to tell me what to do, anyway?” Daniel spun on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Moments later, music began to blare from his bedroom. Anna leaned back against the fridge, eyes closed, taking a shaky breath. Just a year earlier, things had seemed so different… Max had come into her life by chance. He was an engineer in the office next to hers at one of London’s major construction firms. They’d kept crossing paths at meetings—first sharing coffee during breaks, then dinner after work, and finally late-night, hours-long phone conversations. “I’ve got a son,” Max confessed during their third date, nervously twisting a napkin between his fingers. “Daniel. He’s fifteen. His mum and I divorced two years ago. He’s… having a rough time.” “I understand.” Anna placed her hand gently over his. “Divorce is hard on kids. And fifteen’s a tough age.” “Are you sure you’re ready… for the both of us?” At the time, Anna truly believed she was. At thirty-two, one unsuccessful childless marriage behind her, she was desperate to create a real family. Max seemed like the solid, genuine Englishman she could actually build a future with. Six months later he proposed, awkward and endearing, the ring hidden in a box of her favourite Marks & Spencer biscuits. Anna laughed and said yes without hesitation. They opted for a modest wedding: a handful of family members, a few close friends, and a reserved table in a small, stylish pub. Daniel sat in his suit all evening, glued to his phone, not once looking up at the newlyweds. “He’ll come round,” Max whispered, seeing Anna’s uncertainty. “He just needs time.” Anna moved into Max’s spacious three-bed home in West London the very next day. Bright, modern, a big kitchen, and a balcony overlooking the communal garden. Yet from the first moment, Anna couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a guest—an outsider in someone else’s life… Daniel treated her like furniture; he ignored her, looked straight through her. When she entered a room, he’d pointedly put on his headphones. If she dared ask a question, he’d respond with clipped answers, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. The first few weeks, Anna assumed it was just adjustment. After all, it was difficult for any boy to accept a stepmother. Surely, things would improve. They didn’t. “Daniel, please don’t eat in your bedroom. We’ll never get rid of the mice.” “Dad always let me.” “Daniel, have you done your homework?” “None of your business.” “Daniel, could you tidy up after yourself, please?” “Do it yourself. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” Anna tried to discuss things with Max, treading carefully so as not appear the wicked stepmother. “I think we need some ground rules,” she suggested one evening after Daniel went to his room. “No eating in bedrooms, clean up after yourself, homework finished by a certain time—” “Anna, he’s struggling,” Max groaned, rubbing his brow. “The divorce, a new person in the house… Let’s not push him.” “I’m not pushing. I just want some order.” “He’s just a child.” “He’s fifteen, Max! Fifteen-year-olds can learn to wash their own mugs.” But Max just sighed and turned up the telly, making it clear the discussion was over. Every day, things got worse. When Anna asked Daniel to take out the rubbish, he looked openly disgusted by her. “You’re not my mum. You’ll never be my mum. You can’t boss me around.” “I’m not bossing. I’m asking you to help in the house we all live in.” “This isn’t your house. It’s my dad’s. Mine.” Anna went to Max again. He promised to talk to Daniel. But either those talks never happened or they had no effect at all—Anna couldn’t tell anymore. Daniel started returning home well past midnight with no warning, no text. Anna lay awake, listening to every noise in the flat. Max snored away beside her, seemingly oblivious. “Can you at least ask him to message us where he is?” Anna pleaded over breakfast. “Anything could happen.” “He’s old enough, Anna. We can’t control him.” “Old enough? He’s fifteen!” “I was out late at his age, too.” “Yes, but can you at least talk to him? Explain that we worry?” Max just shrugged and left for work… Every attempt to set any boundaries led to a row. Daniel would shout, slam doors, accuse Anna of ruining their family. Every time, Max sided with his son. “He’s having a hard time after the divorce,” he’d repeat like a mantra. “You have to understand.” “But what about me?” Anna finally snapped. “I’m living in a house where I’m openly despised and you pretend everything’s fine!” “You’re exaggerating.” “Exaggerating? Your son told me directly I’m nothing to him. He said that. Word for word.” “He’s a teenager. They’re all like this.” Anna phoned her mum—no one steadies her quite like Mum. “Sweetheart,” her mum’s voice was anxious. “You sound miserable. I can hear it in every word.” “Mum, I don’t know what to do. Max won’t even recognise there’s a problem.” “Because for him, there isn’t. He’s comfortable. You’re the one who’s suffering.” Her mother paused, then quietly added: “You deserve better, Anna. Please, think about that.” Feeling untouchable, Daniel really let loose. Music blared until 3 a.m. Dishes showed up everywhere—the coffee table, the windowsill, even the bathroom. Socks covered the hallway; textbooks piled up on the kitchen counter. Anna cleaned, unable to stand the mess. But cleaning made her cry from frustration and helplessness. Eventually, Daniel stopped even acknowledging her existence—except to throw out a nasty remark or sneer. “You just don’t know how to relate to kids,” Max declared one night. “Maybe you’re the problem?” “Relate?” Anna gave a sad, bitter laugh. “I’ve been trying for six months, and he literally calls me ‘that woman’ in front of you!” “You’re being dramatic.” Anna gave it one last try. She found Daniel’s favourite recipe—roast chicken in honey glaze with herby potato wedges—online, bought the best ingredients, and spent four hours cooking. “Daniel, dinner’s ready!” she called as she laid the table. Daniel came in, glanced at the plate, and grimaced. “I’m not eating that.” “Why not?” “Because you cooked it.” He left. Minutes later, the front door slammed—Daniel had gone out to his mates. Max came home, saw the cold dinner and Anna’s defeated face. “What’s happened?” Anna explained. Max sighed. “Come on, Anna… Don’t be upset with the boy. He doesn’t mean it.” “Doesn’t mean it? He goes out of his way to humiliate me. Every. Single. Day.” “You’re too sensitive.” A week later, Daniel brought home five mates from school. They raided the fridge, left food everywhere. “Out, now!” Anna commanded, finding the group sprawled across the living room. “It’s nearly eleven!” Daniel didn’t even turn his head. “This is my house. I’ll do what I want.” “This is our home. There are rules here.” “What rules?” one of Daniel’s friends sniggered. “Dan, who is she, anyway?” “No one. Ignore her.” Anna retreated to the bedroom and called Max. He came home an hour later, after the mates had left. He glanced at the mess, at his exhausted wife. “Anna, stop being so dramatic. They were only here for a bit.” “A bit?” “You’re blowing this out of proportion. In fact—” Max frowned “—it feels like you’re pitting me against my own son.” Anna stared. She barely recognised her husband. “Max, we need a serious talk,” she said the next day. “About us. About our future.” Max stiffened but sat opposite her. “I can’t do this anymore,” Anna said, weighing her words. “For six months I’ve put up with disrespect—Daniel’s rudeness, your total indifference to my feelings.” “Anna, I—” “Let me finish. I tried. I genuinely tried to be part of this family. But there isn’t one. There’s you, your son, and me—the outsider, tolerated because I cook and clean.” “You’re being unfair.” “Unfair? When was the last time your son said anything kind to me? When did you ever take my side?” Max stayed silent. “I love you,” he finally whispered. “But Daniel’s my son. He comes first.” “Before me?” “Before anything.” Anna nodded. Her chest felt hollow and cold. “Thank you for being honest.” Two days later, Anna found her favourite blouse—her mum’s birthday present—shredded on her pillow. There was only one suspect. “Daniel!” Anna stormed in, holding the scraps of fabric. “What is this?!” He just shrugged, eyes glued to his phone. “I’ve no idea.” “That’s my property!” “So?” “Max!” Anna rang her husband. “Come home. Now.” Max arrived, looked at the blouse, at Daniel, at Anna. “Dan, did you do this?” “No.” “See?” Max spread his hands. “He says he didn’t do it.” “Who then? The cat? We don’t own a bloody cat!” “Maybe you tore it by accident—” “Max!” Anna looked at her husband and realised it was pointless. He would never change. He would never take her side. She was nothing but a handy housekeeper to him, and Daniel was all that mattered. “Daniel misses his mum,” Max echoed yet again. “You have to see that.” “I do,” Anna replied quietly. “I understand everything now.” That evening, she pulled out her suitcase. “What are you doing?” Max stood frozen in the doorway. “Packing. I’m leaving.” “Anna, wait! Let’s talk!” “We’ve been talking for six months. Nothing’s changed,” Anna replied as she folded her clothes. “I have a right to be happy too, Max.” “I’ll change! I’ll talk to Daniel!” “It’s too late.” She looked at him—the grown man who’d never learned to be anything but a father. Not a husband. And a father who’d spoiled his son rotten with blind devotion. “I’ll file for divorce next week,” Anna said, zipping up her suitcase. “Anna—” “Goodbye, Max.” Without glancing back, she left the flat. In the hall, she caught sight of Daniel—for the first time, his eyes held something besides disdain. Uncertainty? Fear? Anna no longer cared. Her new rented flat was small but cosy—a North London one-bed with a view across a peaceful street. Anna unpacked, made a cup of tea, and sat on the window ledge. For the first time in months, she felt calm. The divorce was complete two months later. Max tried to call, asking her to come back. Anna politely refused—no. She’d survived. She wasn’t bitter. She simply realised that happiness isn’t endless sacrifice and patience. Happiness is being respected and valued. And someday, she’d find it. Just not with this man.