The House You Never Return To
“They’re gone. Ran off. Left me alone like I was nothing to them. Why? What did I do?” William wiped his face with a rough hand, staring out the window where a drizzling rain had been falling for hours. The streetlamp’s flickering light trembled on the windowsill, casting a long shadow over the kitchen table where a half-drunk cup of tea sat cold. The clock ticked loudly, each second a reminder of the emptiness he lived in now.
He was alone again. His wife slept in the bedroom—the second one. And the kids… Well, the kids hadn’t written, hadn’t called, hadn’t visited in years. Emily and Beatrice. Once, they had run barefoot through the house, pigtails bouncing, toys clutched tight. Now—silence. He’d raised them the best he knew how. Never spared himself, never coddled them. Wanted them strong. Independent. Real. But maybe he’d pushed too hard. Or maybe he just never learned how to be a father, not when the pain of losing his first wife in childbirth still festered inside him.
He remembered burying her. Holding his newborn son, not knowing what to do. His decision had been quick, firm—like everything else. The boy? Sent to an orphanage. Better that way, safer. But the girls? He kept them. Thought he could manage. Thought he’d endure. That they’d understand. None of that happened.
Two months later, he brought another woman home. Margaret. She could cook a proper roast, sew a button, and knew when to keep quiet. But the girls despised her. Never accepted her. Never forgave him. Soon there were whispered arguments, late-night crying, cold stares. And he just got angrier. Shouted. Sometimes raised a hand. A father had rights, didn’t he? He worked himself raw. The factory, the shifts, the exhaustion—only to come home to a house with no warmth, no thanks, no understanding.
Beatrice withdrew first. Silent, avoiding eye contact. Emily fought back—argued, rebelled, blamed. Both of them strangers. And more and more, he found himself wondering when he’d lost them. Then, one day—they were just gone. No note. No goodbye.
He searched—called their friends, questioned neighbors, even went to the police. Useless. They’d left. Later, he heard they’d gone to Leeds. Rented a flat, found jobs. Lived—without him. And for years now, not a word.
Evenings, he sits at the kitchen table, turns on the radio, listens to the announcer’s detached voice drone on about things that mean nothing to him. He drinks cheap tea, smokes by the open window, remembers a tiny Emily once placing her hand on his knee. Beatrice begging for a bedtime story. Feels like another lifetime.
Sometimes, he imagines them returning. Knocking. Stepping inside. Asking, *“Dad, how have you been?”* He pictures himself nodding, gruffly saying, *“Come in. I’ve got tea.”* And only then—letting himself cry. Quietly. So they don’t see.
But then comes the other thought—maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ve got their own lives now, their own families. Maybe they’ve forgotten. And he’s left with that *maybe*, gnawing at him worse than any truth.
Meanwhile, across town, in a small flat with peeling windowsills, Beatrice pours tea while Emily clears the table. Autumn rattles the windowpanes, leaves scraping against glass. Beatrice murmurs,
*“Em… do you think we’ll ever go back?”*
Emily freezes, stares into her cup.
*“Only if we can forgive. Right now—we can’t.”*
Silence.
They remember living in fear. Every day a battlefield. Their father’s footsteps on the stairs making their hearts seize. Their stepmother’s scolding, demands, punishments. Emily wiping blood from Beatrice’s nose at night. Beatrice hiding bruises under long sleeves.
One night, Emily said, *“We can’t live like this anymore.”* Beatrice nodded. That same night, they packed bags, took old photos, what little cash they had—and left. Walked until they reached the coach station. Cried, shook, terrified—but didn’t turn back.
Leeds swallowed them silently. First, bunk beds in a hostel. Then a rented room. Worked where they could—Emily scrubbing dishes, Beatrice selling newspapers. Then better jobs. A café. A shop. Stability. They never complained. Because back *there*, complaining never helped.
Years passed. They learned to enjoy small things—a new tablecloth, a telly show, their first savings. Studied. Laughed. But never spoke of home. Not because they forgot. Because it still hurt.
One evening, Beatrice will say,
*“I wish he understood. Not even an apology. Just… understood.”*
Emily will reply softly,
*“Maybe he’s waiting too. Scared. Same as us.”*
And it’ll be true. Because even a broken house pulls at you. Not to return—but to shut the door for good, not with anger, but with peace.
For now—they live. Together. Know they escaped. Survived. Became themselves. No fear. No shouting. Just love—for each other, for their freedom.
And that’s enough.
