**Shell Manage**
Allie grew up in a childrens home, and for as long as she could remember, the only family shed ever known were the other kids and the weary carers. Life wasnt exactly a slice of cake, but she learned to stand up for herselfand for the littler ones too. She had this fierce sense of fairness; seeing someone pick on the weak made her blood boil. Sure, she took a few knocks herself, but she never cried. In her mind, she was suffering for what was right.
Shed been christened Annabel, but the home had shortened it to Allie. The moment she turned eighteen, they nudged her out the door into the big, wide world. Lucky for her, shed already trained as a cook and had been working at a café as the sous chef for a couple of months. Theyd given her a room in a student digsthough room was generous. More like a cupboard with peeling wallpaper.
Around that time, shed started seeing Vince, three years older, who drove a delivery van for the same café. Things moved fast, and before she knew it, she was shacking up in his grans old one-bed flat.
“Annabel, just move in with me,” hed said. “That digs of yours is a dump. The lock doesnt even work. Needs a proper refurb.” Shed agreed without a second thought.
Vince appealed to her because he seemed mature, steady. But one evening, over a takeaway, the topic of kids came up, and he dropped the bomb:
“Cant stand ankle-biters. Nothing but noise and hassle.”
“Vince,” shed said, blinking. “But if its your own kidyour own flesh and bloodhow can you say that?”
Hed waved her off. “Whatever. Topic closed. No kids. End of.”
It stung, but she brushed it aside. Maybe hed change his mind.
Allie worked hard at the café, even covering for the head chef, Valerie, when she called in with another “migraine”though everyone knew Valeries migraines came in liquid form.
“One more slip-up, and youre out,” the manager, Max, warned herthough privately, he knew Valerie was a brilliant cook. Regulars raved about her.
“Your chefs top-notch, Max,” mates would say.
So Valerie clung on, enduring the warnings. She knew they only kept her for her skills. And shed noticed Alliequick, capable, cooking with heart. Even Max had started eyeing her differently.
One day, Allie overheard Max talking to the floor manager.
“Valeries out if she skips again. Allies young, but shes got talent. Works hard. Doesnt mess about.”
Allies eyes widened. Poor Valerie. She kept it to herselfdidnt even tell Vince.
Sure enough, Valerie vanished for a week. Allie stepped up, and not a single customer complained. When Valerie finally slunk back in, shaking and hollow-eyed, Max called her into the office. Sacked on the spot.
Then he walked into the kitchen. “Allie, youre head chef now. Youve got potential. Dont let me down.”
“Thanks,” she stammered, equal parts thrilled and terrified.
That evening, Vince brought home a bottle of bubbly. “To the new head chef,” he smirked. “Knew youd get there.”
Theyd been together nearly three years. He didnt drink much, drove all the time, never laid a hand on her. Sure, they bickered, but they always made up. Still, no ring. No talk of marriage. She wondered sometimesmaybe if she got pregnant?
Then she did.
The GP confirmed it. Small, but there. Hers.
Vince came home that night to find her beaming. “Whats got you glowing?”
“I saw the doctor today. Were having a baby.”
His face went blank. “Not happening. Either sort it out, or pack your bags. I told youno kids.”
She froze. Hed never shouted, but his voice was ice.
“Youve got nowhere to go,” he added. “Think about it.”
The next day, after her shift, she went back to the digs. Room 35, the door scraped and loose on its hinges. Inside: damp, dust, dead flies on the sill. A rusty bed, a wobbly table, a wardrobe missing a door.
She set down her bagclothes, a couple of books, a mug. Then she touched her still-flat stomach.
“Well manage,” she whispered.
Next door, someone yelled, drunk. She jumped. “Welcome home, Allie,” she muttered.
The shared kitchen was grimstained stove, fridge humming like an old man, cockroaches by the bin. Back in her room, she wedged the door shut. For a second, she wanted to cry. Thenoddlyshe felt free.
Vince had sneered, “Wherell you go?”
Well. Here.
She rolled up her sleeves.
By nightfall, the room was clean. The window gleamed. Tomorrow, shed buy bedding, a proper lock. Maybe some paint.
Bit by bit, life settled. The caretaker, Pete, fitted the lock, cracking jokes the whole time.
At work, a new waiter, Tom, kept glancing her way. Everyone knew shed be on maternity leave soon.
One evening, walking her home, she offered tea out of politeness. He accepted. That night, she realisedhe fancied her. Panic flared. Pregnant? No chance.
But Tom kept at it.
“Allie,” he said one day, “marry me. Youre alone. Im alone. Well, theres my gran in Devon, butI love you. And the baby.”
She touched her bump. “But”
“Hell be mine too,” he said simply. “I want a house full of kids.”
She thought of Vince. Night and day.
She said yes.
Months later, Tom waited outside the hospital, grinning. At home, hed repainted, hung balloons. When she walked in, she barely recognised the place.
She looked around, then at their son.
“Well manage,” she whispered.
