That’s how decisions were made.
We learnt to swap roles without a word. We worked wherever we could.
I waited tables in the evenings and at weekends. I learnt to smile through aching feet and customers who snapped their fingers. Daniel worked on a building site early in the morning. When money was tight, he stocked shelves overnight.
Sometimes we’d bump into each other in the corridor at dawn.
“Are you going to sleep?” I asked once.
“Sometime,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
We learnt to swap roles without a word.
Sleep came in bits and pieces. Two hours here. Three there. We survived on cold coffee and adrenaline. Every unexpected expense felt like a threat. When the fridge broke down, I stared at it as if it had personally betrayed me.
“We’ll get it fixed,” said Daniel calmly.
“We don’t have the money.”
“We’ll find a way.”
We didn’t let the children see our fear. They had clean clothes. Packed lunches. Birthday cake, even if it was homemade and slightly lopsided.
We didn’t let the children see our fear.
Sophie hugged me once after she’d blown out the candles.
“This is the best birthday ever,” she said.
I turned away so she couldn’t see my eyes.
Our house was crowded. Noisy. Messy. But it was stable. Safe. Daniel and I became a team. We didn’t argue about who did more. We didn’t have time for that.
Slowly and painfully, things changed. We finished our degrees. Not on time. Not without setbacks. But we managed it. Daniel found a permanent job. So did I. The bills no longer made my chest feel so tight. The house felt brighter.
The children noticed it first. They laughed more. More plans for the future. We believed the worst was behind us.
Daniel and I became a system.
Then came a Saturday morning. Pancakes on the hob. A loud knock echoed through the house. I wiped my hands and opened the door. And for a split second, I wanted to slam it shut and scream.
Because standing there was the man who had run away from five children.
“Well,” he said, glancing into the house, “you’ve made it. I’ve got to give you credit for that.”
Daniel stepped closer. “Why are you here?”
There was the man who had run away from five children.
Dad sighed, as if it were all a bother.
“I’m tired of waiting. We need to talk.”
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.
He looked straight at me. ‘What belongs to me.’
‘If that’s what you want, then fine.’
‘Well,’ he said, straightening his jacket, ‘this house. It was bought by your mother and me. Now that she’s gone, it all belongs to me.’
‘What belongs to me.’
Daniel stiffened beside me. “Are you serious?”
Dad nodded, quite calmly. “I am. I’ve been patient. But now I need it back.”
“For what?” I asked quietly.
“My life. My girlfriend and I are going to move in here. I think you’ve had enough time here.”
Something hot shot through my chest. My hands went numb. I wanted to scream. To tell him he had no right to do this. That he’d run away. That we’d buried Mum on our own. That we’d raised his children whilst he was living his ‘love and joy’.
But I didn’t.
I wanted to scream. To tell him he had no right to do this.
“Okay,” I said.
They both looked at me.
Daniel spun round abruptly. “Anna—”
“It’s all right,” I interrupted, without taking my eyes off our father. “If that’s how it is.”
Dad’s shoulders relaxed. He smiled with relief. “Good. I knew you’d be sensible.”
“When do you want to come back?”
“Tomorrow. Around two.”
“If that’s the case.”
“All right. Come on. I’ll get everything ready.”
He left without another word.
The moment the door closed, Daniel let out a sharp breath. “What are you doing?”
“I’m setting a trap.”
We hardly slept that night. We spread everything out on the kitchen table. Papers piled up. Files we hadn’t opened for years. Documents we’d kept because someone had once told us we should never throw them away.
We hardly slept that night.
“Guardianship,” Daniel muttered, turning the pages. “The court order is here.”
“Adoption papers,” I said. “Copies.”
We worked in silence until my eyes stung.
At some point, I froze. “I remember something.”
Mum. Late at night. The hospital room was dimly lit. Her voice was soft from the painkillers. If anything happens to me, speak to the lawyer.
“I think she’d planned this,” I said.
We had an appointment in the morning.
“I think she planned this.”
The next day, at two o’clock sharp, our father returned. Confident. Relaxed. Like a man collecting something he’d already won.
“Well?” he said, stepping inside. “I hope you haven’t wasted my time.”
He glanced briefly at the files on the table.
“This won’t take long,” he added. “I’ve waited long enough.”
Then a man stepped forward.
‘Good afternoon. I am the family’s solicitor.’
Our father blinked. “Pardon?”
“I’ve waited long enough.”