My mother, Helen Harper, always stood on my stepfather Gordon Turner’s side. One night the weight grew too heavy, and I vowed to put an end to it.
For years I lived with Helen and my younger sister, little Ethel, while my grandmother Agnes, who lived just down the lane, dropped by often. I have no memory of my own father at all, but the man who was Ethels father still haunts my thoughts.
At first Gordon treated me kindly, but after I settled in, both he and Helen seemed to erase my existence from their world. Gordon would often raise his hand against me; tears fell like rain, yet I kept silent, fearing to break my mothers fragile peace. That changed the day she finally saw, with her own eyes, the way he struck me.
A fierce argument erupted between Helen and Gordon, and as if swallowed by the night, he vanished from our lives forever. From then on the three of usHelen, Ethel, and Istayed together, and a quiet happiness settled like morning mist. Agnes frequently watched over Ethel, knitting blankets that seemed to float in the air.
When I finished school, I chose to study in Manchester, even though a scholarship abroad had glittered on the horizon. I could not abandon the little world that held me.
One afternoon Helen proposed that we sell both homesour cramped flat and Agness cottageand buy a threebedroom terrace house in Salford, paying in pounds that felt heavier than gold. The plan sounded sensible, a promise of space for everyone. We agreed, and soon we moved into the new dwelling. I claimed a room for myself, Ethel stayed with Agnes in the upstairs flat, and Helen took the third room. All seemed settled, each door opening onto a strange, quiet hallway that stretched like a dream.
There, Helen met the nextdoor neighbour, Mr. Alfred Finch, a widower of her own age, recently divorced. From that moment his attention lingered on Helen, and she began to blossom like a night flower.
Later Helen invited my uncle, Robert Whitfield, to stay. He decided to let his own flat be let to us, and for a while everything felt right, as if the house itself sang. But Robert soon began to hurl barbs, especially at me, his disdain thin as fog. Disagreements flared, yet Helen always leaned toward his side, as if she were bound by some invisible rope.
The tension made me uneasy, so I resolved to study in Liverpool, away from the house that felt both familiar and confining. Helen seemed indifferent, even relieved, as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders; she no longer had to choose between me and Uncle Robert. Yet the relief did not soothe my own heart. How could a mother trade her own child for the favor of another man? The question lingered, echoing through the empty rooms of my mind, a surreal reverie that would not end.
