Day 22 – Using better words

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Elevate Your Writing: Replacing Overused Words With Purpose (Without Sounding Like You’re Trying Too Hard)

Introduction:
Let’s face it: words like “good,” “bad,” “very,” and “thing” are writing crutches. We use them when our mental thesaurus hits a roadblock. But overused words don’t just make your prose feel lazy—they can also turn a compelling idea into a bland blur. The secret to engaging writing isn’t about stringing together the most obscure vocabulary (though a sprinkle of that can help). It’s about choosing words that work harder for you. This isn’t about sounding clever—just clearer, more vivid, and authentically thoughtful.

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Why We Fall into the “Word Rut”

We all do it. When we’re tired, stressed, or simply in a hurry, our brains default to the most familiar tools at hand. But just like using “very” to spice up a basic adjective, slapping a thesaurus-derived word onto a sentence for the sake of it doesn’t elevate your message. In fact, it can backfire. Ever read a sentence that feels like someone dressed their words up for a party, but the content wasn’t invited to? That’s what happens when you prioritise sound over meaning.

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5 Common Words to Upgrade (With Examples That Don’t Sound Forced)

1. “Good” → Be Specific
   • Overused: “This was a good movie.”
   • Better: “The film was hauntingly atmospheric, with a plot that lingered long after the credits rolled.”
     Why it works: Instead of using a vague adjective, focus on sensory details or emotional impact. Replace “good” with descriptors like “compelling,” “nuanced,” or “luminous.”
2. “Bad” → Explain How or Why
   • Overused: “The policy is bad for the environment.”
   • Better: “The policy exacerbates deforestation by relaxing critical regulatory safeguards.”
     Why it works: Specificity shows you’ve analysed the issue, not just thrown out an opinion. Words like “harmful,” “detrimental,” or “counterproductive” can anchor your argument.
3. “Very” → Use Stronger Adjectives
   • Overused: “I was very frustrated by the delay.”
   • Better: “The delay left me seething with irritation.”
     Why it works: Adverbs like “very” often highlight weak adjectives. Replace the pair with a punchier verb or descriptor: “absurd,” “exasperating,” or “unacceptable.”
4. “Thing” → Know What You Mean
   • Overused: “There are a few things to consider here.”
   • Better: “Several key factors demand attention: budget constraints, team capacity, and timeline realism.”
     Why it works: “Thing” is a placeholder for ideas you haven’t fully fleshed out yet. Replace it by naming what’s actually important.
5. “Stuff” → Be Exact
   • Overused: “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”
   • Better: “I need to finalise the report, schedule client calls, and prepare for tomorrow’s presentation.”
     Why it works: Specificity builds credibility. If “stuff” is unavoidably casual, try “tasks,” “materials,” or “details,” depending on context.

---

How to Use Better Words Without Falling into the “Try-Hard” Trap

1. Know Your Audience: A research paper deserves technical precision; a text to your friend calling off lunch doesn’t.
2. Write First, Polish Later: Let your ideas flow in the first draft. Use more precise language during revisions.
3. Read Aloud, Then Edit: Awkward phrasing sticks out when you hear it. Trim any word that feels like it’s showing off.
4. Learn Through Context: Read authors whose style you admire. Notice how they balance simplicity and flair.

---

The Final Word

Using better words isn’t about impressing anyone—just about expressing yourself more clearly, honestly, and vividly. It’s about caring enough to let your voice be distinct, not generic. So the next time you catch yourself typing “good,” “bad,” or “stuff,” pause. Ask: What am I really trying to say? Then choose a word that does the heavy lifting. Your readers—and your writing—will thank you.

P.S. Need a quick fix? Keep a list of go-to replacements handy (think: exceptional, nuanced, detrimental, nuanced, pragmatic). But remember: the best word is still the one that feels right for the moment.

Day 22 – Using better words

…

Elevate Your Writing: Replacing Overused Words With Purpose (Without Sounding Like You’re Trying Too Hard)

Introduction:
Let’s face it: words like “good,” “bad,” “very,” and “thing” are writing crutches. We use them when our mental thesaurus hits a roadblock. But overused words don’t just make your prose feel lazy—they can also turn a compelling idea into a bland blur. The secret to engaging writing isn’t about stringing together the most obscure vocabulary (though a sprinkle of that can help). It’s about choosing words that work harder for you. This isn’t about sounding clever—just clearer, more vivid, and authentically thoughtful.

---

Why We Fall into the “Word Rut”

We all do it. When we’re tired, stressed, or simply in a hurry, our brains default to the most familiar tools at hand. But just like using “very” to spice up a basic adjective, slapping a thesaurus-derived word onto a sentence for the sake of it doesn’t elevate your message. In fact, it can backfire. Ever read a sentence that feels like someone dressed their words up for a party, but the content wasn’t invited to? That’s what happens when you prioritise sound over meaning.

---

5 Common Words to Upgrade (With Examples That Don’t Sound Forced)

1. “Good” → Be Specific
   • Overused: “This was a good movie.”
   • Better: “The film was hauntingly atmospheric, with a plot that lingered long after the credits rolled.”
     Why it works: Instead of using a vague adjective, focus on sensory details or emotional impact. Replace “good” with descriptors like “compelling,” “nuanced,” or “luminous.”
2. “Bad” → Explain How or Why
   • Overused: “The policy is bad for the environment.”
   • Better: “The policy exacerbates deforestation by relaxing critical regulatory safeguards.”
     Why it works: Specificity shows you’ve analysed the issue, not just thrown out an opinion. Words like “harmful,” “detrimental,” or “counterproductive” can anchor your argument.
3. “Very” → Use Stronger Adjectives
   • Overused: “I was very frustrated by the delay.”
   • Better: “The delay left me seething with irritation.”
     Why it works: Adverbs like “very” often highlight weak adjectives. Replace the pair with a punchier verb or descriptor: “absurd,” “exasperating,” or “unacceptable.”
4. “Thing” → Know What You Mean
   • Overused: “There are a few things to consider here.”
   • Better: “Several key factors demand attention: budget constraints, team capacity, and timeline realism.”
     Why it works: “Thing” is a placeholder for ideas you haven’t fully fleshed out yet. Replace it by naming what’s actually important.
5. “Stuff” → Be Exact
   • Overused: “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”
   • Better: “I need to finalise the report, schedule client calls, and prepare for tomorrow’s presentation.”
     Why it works: Specificity builds credibility. If “stuff” is unavoidably casual, try “tasks,” “materials,” or “details,” depending on context.

---

How to Use Better Words Without Falling into the “Try-Hard” Trap

1. Know Your Audience: A research paper deserves technical precision; a text to your friend calling off lunch doesn’t.
2. Write First, Polish Later: Let your ideas flow in the first draft. Use more precise language during revisions.
3. Read Aloud, Then Edit: Awkward phrasing sticks out when you hear it. Trim any word that feels like it’s showing off.
4. Learn Through Context: Read authors whose style you admire. Notice how they balance simplicity and flair.

---

The Final Word

Using better words isn’t about impressing anyone—just about expressing yourself more clearly, honestly, and vividly. It’s about caring enough to let your voice be distinct, not generic. So the next time you catch yourself typing “good,” “bad,” or “stuff,” pause. Ask: What am I really trying to say? Then choose a word that does the heavy lifting. Your readers—and your writing—will thank you.

P.S. Need a quick fix? Keep a list of go-to replacements handy (think: exceptional, nuanced, detrimental, nuanced, pragmatic). But remember: the best word is still the one that feels right for the moment.

Day 21 – The nuts and bolts of grammar

…

Master English Grammar Without the Headache: Simplified Rules for Real-World Success

English grammar can feel like a labyrinth of rules, exceptions, and quirks. But what if you could cut through the complexity and focus on just the essentials? Whether you’re a language learner, a writer, or someone who wants to communicate with confidence, this post will simplify grammar basics into actionable, easy-to-remember tips. Let’s turn “how-tos” into “how-easies.”

---

Why Grammar Feels Overwhelming (and How to Fix It)

English grammar isn’t inherently impossible, but its irregularities and exceptions can trip anyone up. The key to mastering it lies in simplifying the basics and practising consistently. Here’s how to tackle the most critical areas with confidence.

---

1. Subject-Verb Agreement: Match Like Clockwork

Rule: A singular subject needs a singular verb; a plural subject needs a plural verb.

• Singular: The cat paws at the door.
• Plural: The cats paw at the door.

Common Mistake: Forgetting to adjust the verb when the subject is plural.

•  The team are late.
•  The team is late. (Collective nouns like team often take singular verbs.)

---

2. Tenses: Stay in Your Time Zone

Rule: Use the correct verb form to show when an action happened.

• Present: I write every day.
• Past: I wrote yesterday.
• Future: I will write tomorrow.

Pro Tip: Tenses shift in conditionals and habitual actions.

• Present Continuous for Future Plans: I am writing a blog post tonight.

---

3. Articles: “A,” “An,” and “The” Made Simple

Rule:

• Use “a” before words starting with consonants (a book).
• Use “an” before vowels (an apple).
• Use “the” when referring to a specific noun (the sun).

Common Mistake: Overusing or omitting articles.

•  “I want to study history.” →  “I want to study the history of art.”

---

4. Prepositions: Follow the Verb, Not Your Brain

Prepositions (e.g., on, in, at) often tie directly to verbs. Learn common pairs instead of second-guessing.

• Depend on someone.
• Wait for me.

Memory Hack: Watch movies, read books, or listen to songs to internalise how native speakers pair verbs and prepositions.

---

5. Punctuation: Keep It Clean

Rule of Thumb: Use commas to separate items in a list or in compound sentences.

• “I bought bread, eggs, and milk.”
• “I love coffee, but I hate tea.”

Quick Fix: Drop the comma before and in a list unless ending with a conjunction.

---

6. Commonly Confused Words: Know Your “Its” from “It’s”

Rule:

• “It’s” = it + is (contraction: It’s raining).
• “Its” = possession (The cat licked its paws).
• “Your” vs. “You’re: Your book vs. You’re welcome.

Pro Tip: Replace contractions with full words to double-check.

---

BONUS: Practice Strategies to Build Confidence

• Read Daily: Novels, articles, and even social media expose you to natural grammar patterns.
• Write and Revise: Journal for 10 minutes a day; review and correct your own work.
• Leverage Tools: Use grammar-check apps (like Grammarly) as a starting point, not a crutch.
• Embrace Mistakes: Every error is a chance to learn. Ask for feedback or use free online tools like Grammar Blogs.

---

Final Thoughts: Grammar is a Tool, Not a Chainsaw

English grammar isn’t here to trip you up—it’s a tool to express your ideas clearly. Focus on the core rules and gradually expand your skills. With practice, what once felt complex will become second nature.

Remember: Native speakers make mistakes too! Confidence and clarity matter more than perfection. So write boldly, speak freely, and keep simplifying.

Got a grammar question? Drop it in the comments—we’ll tackle it together!

---

This blog post blends actionable advice with a lighthearted tone, making grammar less intimidating and more approachable. By focusing on practical rules and common pitfalls, readers can apply these tips immediately—no labyrinth required!

Day 21 – The nuts and bolts of grammar

…

Master English Grammar Without the Headache: Simplified Rules for Real-World Success

English grammar can feel like a labyrinth of rules, exceptions, and quirks. But what if you could cut through the complexity and focus on just the essentials? Whether you’re a language learner, a writer, or someone who wants to communicate with confidence, this post will simplify grammar basics into actionable, easy-to-remember tips. Let’s turn “how-tos” into “how-easies.”

---

Why Grammar Feels Overwhelming (and How to Fix It)

English grammar isn’t inherently impossible, but its irregularities and exceptions can trip anyone up. The key to mastering it lies in simplifying the basics and practising consistently. Here’s how to tackle the most critical areas with confidence.

---

1. Subject-Verb Agreement: Match Like Clockwork

Rule: A singular subject needs a singular verb; a plural subject needs a plural verb.

• Singular: The cat paws at the door.
• Plural: The cats paw at the door.

Common Mistake: Forgetting to adjust the verb when the subject is plural.

•  The team are late.
•  The team is late. (Collective nouns like team often take singular verbs.)

---

2. Tenses: Stay in Your Time Zone

Rule: Use the correct verb form to show when an action happened.

• Present: I write every day.
• Past: I wrote yesterday.
• Future: I will write tomorrow.

Pro Tip: Tenses shift in conditionals and habitual actions.

• Present Continuous for Future Plans: I am writing a blog post tonight.

---

3. Articles: “A,” “An,” and “The” Made Simple

Rule:

• Use “a” before words starting with consonants (a book).
• Use “an” before vowels (an apple).
• Use “the” when referring to a specific noun (the sun).

Common Mistake: Overusing or omitting articles.

•  “I want to study history.” →  “I want to study the history of art.”

---

4. Prepositions: Follow the Verb, Not Your Brain

Prepositions (e.g., on, in, at) often tie directly to verbs. Learn common pairs instead of second-guessing.

• Depend on someone.
• Wait for me.

Memory Hack: Watch movies, read books, or listen to songs to internalise how native speakers pair verbs and prepositions.

---

5. Punctuation: Keep It Clean

Rule of Thumb: Use commas to separate items in a list or in compound sentences.

• “I bought bread, eggs, and milk.”
• “I love coffee, but I hate tea.”

Quick Fix: Drop the comma before and in a list unless ending with a conjunction.

---

6. Commonly Confused Words: Know Your “Its” from “It’s”

Rule:

• “It’s” = it + is (contraction: It’s raining).
• “Its” = possession (The cat licked its paws).
• “Your” vs. “You’re: Your book vs. You’re welcome.

Pro Tip: Replace contractions with full words to double-check.

---

BONUS: Practice Strategies to Build Confidence

• Read Daily: Novels, articles, and even social media expose you to natural grammar patterns.
• Write and Revise: Journal for 10 minutes a day; review and correct your own work.
• Leverage Tools: Use grammar-check apps (like Grammarly) as a starting point, not a crutch.
• Embrace Mistakes: Every error is a chance to learn. Ask for feedback or use free online tools like Grammar Blogs.

---

Final Thoughts: Grammar is a Tool, Not a Chainsaw

English grammar isn’t here to trip you up—it’s a tool to express your ideas clearly. Focus on the core rules and gradually expand your skills. With practice, what once felt complex will become second nature.

Remember: Native speakers make mistakes too! Confidence and clarity matter more than perfection. So write boldly, speak freely, and keep simplifying.

Got a grammar question? Drop it in the comments—we’ll tackle it together!

---

This blog post blends actionable advice with a lighthearted tone, making grammar less intimidating and more approachable. By focusing on practical rules and common pitfalls, readers can apply these tips immediately—no labyrinth required!

Day 20 – Writing exercise

You are just passing a doorway, and you hear, “the dumb bastard doesn’t know his arse from his elbow”, then “Richards, Monday, I can barely wait to see you.  Bye.”

20 years of blissful marriage just evaporated.

…

I wondered whether all parties were the same, with over 200 invitees, people with more wealth than the national debt, who all knew the person for whom the party was for.

Isabella Rowena Elizabeth Walthemphere.

I had the distinct honour of knowing that exact person for the last 20 years, and of course, it was the one who had a team of 20 organisers make sure it went off to perfection.

And after a quick waltz around the ballroom, specially built and opened for the occasion, she told me it was the best party she had ever had in her honour.

For the rest of the time, I had watched her weave her magic among the guests, stopping here and there, a quiet word in a war, a gentle hand on an arm, a hug where it was needed.

She had no enemies.

But, a little before midnight, before the fireworks, she disappeared.

Well, not disappear, I had seen her look around first, an expression appearing on her face as it briefly hit the light, an expression I hadn’t seen before.

One of pure joy.

And she had insisted in her hand, just barely visible, a cell phone, one that she promised she would leave in the anteroom along with all the others.

One I saw her put there.

She then stepped back into the house through the summer doors of the morning room, just as I approached on the other side of the pillar.

And the hushed coversation”

“I bet you say that to all the girls…”

“Of course, I adore you.”

“He doesn’t, he couldn’t, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”

“I can’t wait, Richards Cafe, Monday.  See you then.”

It was a conversation that no husband ever wanted to hear, and a conversation, at the very least, not to be having at a party your husband was throwing for you.

If it actually meant what I thought it meant, which didn’t make any sense at all.  Why wait 20 years to cheat on your husband?

The first fireworks exploded, and I just saw her which by, almost running.  She would be missed.  I would not.

…

Being married to Isabella Raisa Elizabeth Walthemphere was the opportunity of a lifetime, and somehow, out of a mass of very worthy and far more suitable candidates, she picked me.

It was, even for me, an odd choice.  It wasn’t the cut of the tuxedo, it wasn’t my ability to dance like a ballroom professional, it wasn’t the fact I was neither rich nor poor; perhaps it was because I cared.

We met incongruous, I did not know who she was, but just a girl called Margaret on holiday with a friend.

Someone had called out ‘Isabella,’ and in a moment, I saw this poor girl stumble, get up and run, and then completely knock me over.

I cursed her in four languages.

She cursed me back in five.

I helped up.  “If you want to be helpful, get in those people’s way.”

“Why?”

She cursed me again and then ran down a lane, then disappeared.

I got in the way.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.  Should I?”

“The Countess Isabella… oh, forget it.”

And they took off down the lane much too late to catch her.

A week later he face was plastered all over the newspapers, the Countess was marrying a Prince something or other.

Good luck with that.  The Prince looked like he was a hundred years old, but one day would be king.  She didn’t look like queen material to me.

A week after that, in a dumpy hotel in Paris, at the end of my sojourn from the real world, I ran into her again.

Literally.

She was hiding from the media, and apparently, her mother and the soon-to-be king.  For a reason, her mother wanted her married into the rich and famous so that she could keep the Counts’ castle, after being left penniless when he died.

She had a plan, one I think she formulated after running into me again, testing to brush off runny eggs and greasy bacon, my only clean set of clothes I had to go back home in.

Would I marry her for a week, then get unmarried so she couldn’t marry the prince?  She could not be divorced.

I would get a hundred thousand dollars for my cooperation.

Who would turn down an offer like that?

We married in a quaint church in Paris, her mother married the Prince, the daughter became a princess and wasn’t allowed to divorce.

It was the oddest start to a relationship i ever had, and for a year I was basically a cardboard carpet turning up at events, being the dutiful husband, having promised to go quietly at the end of a contract.

Except here we were 20 years later, doing what I had expected her to 20 days later, but didn’t and hadn’t, until now.

…

I guess the deciding factor had been the title, and the pile of stones in a wet but beautiful county in
The middle of England.

My father always moaned about the fact that death duties had destroyed the family finances and our ability to pay for the estate’s upkeep.

My older brother consumed a lot of the wealth with gambling debts and got on the wrong side of the loan sharks and my father drank himself to death, leaving my sister and I with a broken mother who lasted six years before dementia took her away from us.

I finished school, went on a gap year holiday to consider what I was going to do, and then it was all decided for me.

Isabella came and conquered; her mother and the prince bailed me out of a very deep hole, and now I was Lord of the Manor.

I didn’t want to be, but for appearances, I had to be.  It became part of Royalty Inc.

20 years playing the game, 20 years of not producing an heir of my own, but Anthea found herself a nice boy and had 6 of her own, one who could take the title if I didn’t reproduce, which seemed unlikely.

20 years after which the train was about to run off the rails.

…

“Where have you been?”  Anthea was holding the fore, looking every bit the princess herself.

Not quite as famous but every bit as stunning.

She hadn’t believed my luck. 

I hadn’t believed my luck.

Now my luck had run out.

“You know I hate these things.”

“Four times a year, then you can go and hide in the summer house.  Or wherever it is you go.”

I made a face.  “You love this pompous.”

“Of course.  Rubbing shoulders with the cream of society, having every move I make documented for the world at large, taking a platoon of bodyguards in what amounts to a motorcade.”

Last week, meeting an old school friend, male, saw her under a headline ‘stepping out … not with her husband’ and a picture of an innocent kiss.

“Discretion dear.  Discretion.”

Isabella suddenly appeared at my side.  “Where were you?”  It was an innocent question with four barbs attached.

“Looking for you.  The party glow had disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”  And smiled in a way that was not usual.

“You’re being strange.  Too much champagne.”

And then caught the eye of a guest and dashed off as she does in the middle of a conversation.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You think she’s having an affair “

I nearly choked.  How could she possibly think that?

“No.”

“Would it matter if she did?”

Did she know something I didn’t?”

“Everything has a use-by date.  Mine was 19 years ago, but someone rubbed it off.”

She elbowed me in the ribs.  “You’re a fool.  Always was, always will be.  Go and mingle.  They’ll be going home soon.”

…

“You were acting strange tonight.”  Isabella had flipped into a large lounge chair and kicked off her shoes.

I poured a bottle of beer into a glass and took a sip.  It was uncouth to drink from the bottle.

“You disappeared.  Poof!”

“I did not.  I was probably in the restroom.”

“With your cell phone?”

She glared at me in a manner that could be called disconcerting.  Would she lie?

“I was expecting an important call?”

“Who could be so important that it transcends your birthday party?”

She didn’t answer.  Not immediately.  Instead, I got the, I’m working through a thousand scenarios to find one you will believe.

“No matter,” I said.  “It’s none of my business.  I have an early morning with the horses.”  I went over and kissed her on the cheek.  “Have fun down in London.”

As I stood back up, she took my hand and gave me the most intense look I’d ever received.

“How do you know I’m going to London?”

I gave her my I don’t care what you do look, smiled, and said, “You hate Mondays here, always have, and like always, you will simply leave me a note and flit off on some new adventure.  I know you so well.”

She looked miffed.

“What if, for once, you are wrong?”

“I’m always wrong, dear, it’s part of my job.”

She let go of my hand.  “I love you.  And thank you for a wonderful party.”

“You should thank the 20 event planners you employed for me.”

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”

“After 20 years?  I’m sure I have annoyed you many times before now.”

She stood, brushed the imaginary creases out of her dress and looked me straight in the eye.

“What is going on with you?”

I tried looking inscrutable, but couldn’t.

“Nothing dear.  I’m just tired, and I have an early morning.”

She tilted her head slightly and made a new face, one I hadn’t seen before.

“Come with me.”

This was new, too.  “Where?”

“Wherever.  Anywhere.  Just come with me.”

“And make a mess of whatever it is you have planned.  I don’t think you need me.  I’m the horse and hounds part of this, whatever it is, and you are the brains behind everything else.  I can order gardeners, butlers, farmers and sometimes the livestock about.  That’s it.”

She shook her head.

“Only a fool would believe that Henry.  If I thought that of you, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“No.  You’d probably be a queen.”

“I am a princess.”

“I am a Lord or Marquis or something or other.  Titles don’t define us, Isabella.  What’s in our hearts defines us.  My heart is yours, Bella.  Don’t ever forget that.  Call me when you’re finished doing what you’re doing?”

..

She came into my room at 3am when she thought I was asleep and snuggled into me.

It had been a while since the last time.

She was not the sort who wanted to have sex morning, noon and night or every day of the week, and that suited me as well.

I had thought early on that she preferred that sort of relationship with other men and didn’t bother trying to prove it was the case or not.

Our relationship was built on trust.  I trusted her.  I had no idea what she thought of me. 

She left about three hours later, and when I got out of bed, she was gone.

I made the phone call to a man who sorted problems for me, and gave him some precise instructions, and then thought no more about it.

I did not fear for her safety.  I just wanted to make sure she was protected, even though she had that as the princess, i was never quite sure where anyone’s loyalties lay.

There was mischief afoot in her mother’s kingdom, mischief she continually neglected to tell her daughter about.  The king was old and getting on.  It was time for an heir to take over, which was precisely the problem.  There were six, other than the rightful heir, in contention.

Yes, I had spies everywhere.

I bought some horse I sold some horses, I rode a horse and gave an interview to a nice young lady who could actually ride a horse.

I took lunch in the morning room, took the call from my observer, and received the photos of the man she couldn’t wait to see.  They had lunch, all very dignified, but the looks between them.

I shrugged.

All good things must come to an end.  I sat in the library for over an hour, casting my eyes over the many books, some quite old, but most of the read at one time or another and pondered my fate.

I don’t think I wanted to become a joke among her friends.  I was very aware of what they thought of me, despite being polite.

They were her friends.

Mine, I could count on the fingers of one hand.  The rest, passing acquaintances who lingered to be in the shadow of fame, or as an introduction to the main act.

The place could survive without me.  It would have to eventually.

So, having one of those faces that blended well into the background, I donned my camouflage, went to the airport with the boring nondescript passport and bought a ticket to the third plane out.

Which took me to an interesting place called Queenstown, in one of the mother country’s far-flung colonies, New Zealand, though now it was more interestingly called Aotearoa.

It took a week to get there.  My tourist guide told me there were a lot of places in between that i should visit.  I did.

And the marvellous thing about it.  No one recognised me, I was simply Henry James.  I checked, and no one had reported me missing, only that I was temporarily indisposed.  The world could do very well without me, as could Isabella.

…

I should have known that any woman with the name Daphne was going to be trouble.

Day two in the idyllic tourist town of Queenstown was dissolving into a perfect sojourn when this wretched American woman practically threw herself into the chair opposite mine at the cafe where I was reading a newspaper and drinking a perfect cup of coffee.

I glared at her over the newspaper.

“You think they could at least make coffee properly.”

Flushed and annoyed, she grimaced.

“If you want American coffee, go to Starbucks.” Then went back to my paper, a suspicious death in Wanaka. 

“Anyone tell you you are rude?”

“Frequently.  It’s a condition that we old people acquire as we get on in years.”

She smiled, and the severity of her expression lessened.  “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough to be your father.  I’m sure he’d be very unhappy about the way you address your elders.”

“My father wouldn’t care.  Not as much as you do, apparently.  My name is Daphne.”

“Do you only have one name, like Cher?  Is that an American thing?”  I didn’t put the paper down, i was hoping she would be insulted and go off in a huff to the nearest Starbucks.

The waitress delivered her coffee and gave me one of those looks, I pity you, and left quickly.  Had she been here before and complained?

“No.  But it is polite to tell me your name in return.”

I sighed.  She was not leaving.  “Henry.”

She waited a minute to see if I was going to add to it, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face.

“Why are you here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.  Having coffee.  Reading the paper.  Being interrupted by a woman called Daphne, who doesn’t like local coffee.”

“And who is rude?”

“And who is rude.  Why are you here?”  Then, realising I might be opening a can of worms, added, “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Because my girlfriend had to go home to a sick mother and just abandoned me here.”

I’d have a sick mother, too, if this was what Daphne was like.

“Well, I’m sorry about that.  I’m sure there are plenty of others with whom you can talk.  I’m not the talkative or friendly sort.”

“You’re a tourist.”

“I’m here for some lone time.  Get away from everyone and everything.  The rest of the world, and everything in it, at the moment, is something I just don’t want to cope with.”

She gave me a curious look.  “You break up with a wife or girlfriend.  You cheated, she cheated.”

“That’s what happened to you?”

“Me?  No.  Boys don’t see me for who I am, just what I look like.”

I looked at her again, this time looking past the angry American.  Youngish, mid twenties, though I was not an expert, fair, almost perfect skin, brown hair with reddish tinges and blonde highlights, that stuff I knew from Freda and her children, she was under that scruffy exterior quite attractive.

Perhaps it was the reason she was hiding who she was. 

I shrugged.  “You are what you are.  Savour it while you have it.  Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than annoy father figures.  This newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”

“If you had an iPad it would.”.

“I refuse to live in the digital world.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“So people can’t find me.  We survived without them once; we can do it again.  Try exercising them from your life and see how it changes.”

I didn’t think she would.

…

I changed cafes, thinking that Daphne would reappear.  I didn’t find out if it was true.

But I did feel a little different after the verbal sparring.  She was a lot like Mandy, Freda’s eldest daughter, overly dependent on devices and taciturn and critical of everything. 

Day five, I took to the water on an old steamship, the TSS Earnslaw, a century-old ship that plied the lake.

It was something that I’d not done before because I was too busy doing all the wrong things when I was younger, and then didn’t have time when I was older

I sat on the deck and soaked up the fresh air.  Winter was coming, and it was getting colder.  The surroundings reminded me of home.

I was almost asleep when someone came and sat next to me.  There wasn’t a dearth of passengers and plenty of other spaces to sit.

Then I got the faint hint of perfume.

Not Daphne.

Isabella.

Damn.

I pretended to ignore her.  She took my hand in hers and squeezed it, then sat there until I could no longer ignore her.

“I was having such a good time.”  I opened my eyes and looked at her. 

She was hardly recognisable without the accoutrements of wealth.  Not even a single necklace that would be worth more than the ship or thereabouts.

No rings, no jewellery, no fancy clothes, nothing that would distinguish her from any other British tourist.

“Without me?”

“Without you.”

“I thought you loved me?”

“I do.  Enough to set you free.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t that what you want.  After all, I’ve served my purpose; the use-by date has come and gone.  I’m sure there are so many other fish in that sea.”

She looked at me with serious concern.

“What are you babbling about.  Use by date?  Fish.  What had fish got to do with anything?”  Then she stopped, took a breath.  “That’s why you said I was going to London the next morning.  You overheard my conversation.”

“I was wandering around near the morning room.  You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“And you thought…”

“It was time to move on.  You are famous, other than being a princess now, and you don’t need me anymore.  I see you with your people.  They are your sort of people, I’m not.”

She sighed.  “You are a silly, silly man.  I love you more than anything.  Anything Henry.  It’s why I’m here.  I have been beside myself for days, wondering what happened to you.  You’re acting strange.  I thought you were sick.  I thought you were dying.  I didn’t know what to think.”

“It felt like I was dying.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  I made my choice 20 years ago, and I’ve never regretted it.  I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, but the only thing that I had on my mind was getting home to you.  I’m not interested in anyone else.  This is a nice place.  What made you come here?”

“The third plane out of the airport after I arrived.”

“Good choice.  Where are we?”

“On a ship.”

“No, where are we?”

“Queenstown.  Going to Walter Peak Farm for morning tea.  Scones, jam and clotted cream, I hope.”

“Not as good as your cook’s, I suspect.”

“She’s not my cook.”

I could see the little wharf in the distance, and we would be arriving soon.  People were moving to the front of the ship to get a look.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Henry?”

“You’re busy.  I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Don’t ever do this to me again.  I had to move heaven and earth to find you.  You’re very good at disappearing.”

“Do you have an employee named Daphne, though I refuse to believe that’s her name.”

“She’s going to be your new companion.  There’s trouble at home, and that’s what really scared me when you went missing.  I thought you had been kidnapped.  I was going to tell you but…”

There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but it was not surprising.

“I didn’t know.  And do I have to put up with such a rude person?”

“You were rude first.”

“Is she here?”

“No.  I figured if you saw her again, you’d throw her overboard.  Just so you know, I thought you might do that to me, too?”

“Can you swim?”  Her expression changed.  It was a good thing we were slowing down and making the turn toward the pier.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 20 – Writing exercise

You are just passing a doorway, and you hear, “the dumb bastard doesn’t know his arse from his elbow”, then “Richards, Monday, I can barely wait to see you.  Bye.”

20 years of blissful marriage just evaporated.

…

I wondered whether all parties were the same, with over 200 invitees, people with more wealth than the national debt, who all knew the person for whom the party was for.

Isabella Rowena Elizabeth Walthemphere.

I had the distinct honour of knowing that exact person for the last 20 years, and of course, it was the one who had a team of 20 organisers make sure it went off to perfection.

And after a quick waltz around the ballroom, specially built and opened for the occasion, she told me it was the best party she had ever had in her honour.

For the rest of the time, I had watched her weave her magic among the guests, stopping here and there, a quiet word in a war, a gentle hand on an arm, a hug where it was needed.

She had no enemies.

But, a little before midnight, before the fireworks, she disappeared.

Well, not disappear, I had seen her look around first, an expression appearing on her face as it briefly hit the light, an expression I hadn’t seen before.

One of pure joy.

And she had insisted in her hand, just barely visible, a cell phone, one that she promised she would leave in the anteroom along with all the others.

One I saw her put there.

She then stepped back into the house through the summer doors of the morning room, just as I approached on the other side of the pillar.

And the hushed coversation”

“I bet you say that to all the girls…”

“Of course, I adore you.”

“He doesn’t, he couldn’t, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”

“I can’t wait, Richards Cafe, Monday.  See you then.”

It was a conversation that no husband ever wanted to hear, and a conversation, at the very least, not to be having at a party your husband was throwing for you.

If it actually meant what I thought it meant, which didn’t make any sense at all.  Why wait 20 years to cheat on your husband?

The first fireworks exploded, and I just saw her which by, almost running.  She would be missed.  I would not.

…

Being married to Isabella Raisa Elizabeth Walthemphere was the opportunity of a lifetime, and somehow, out of a mass of very worthy and far more suitable candidates, she picked me.

It was, even for me, an odd choice.  It wasn’t the cut of the tuxedo, it wasn’t my ability to dance like a ballroom professional, it wasn’t the fact I was neither rich nor poor; perhaps it was because I cared.

We met incongruous, I did not know who she was, but just a girl called Margaret on holiday with a friend.

Someone had called out ‘Isabella,’ and in a moment, I saw this poor girl stumble, get up and run, and then completely knock me over.

I cursed her in four languages.

She cursed me back in five.

I helped up.  “If you want to be helpful, get in those people’s way.”

“Why?”

She cursed me again and then ran down a lane, then disappeared.

I got in the way.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.  Should I?”

“The Countess Isabella… oh, forget it.”

And they took off down the lane much too late to catch her.

A week later he face was plastered all over the newspapers, the Countess was marrying a Prince something or other.

Good luck with that.  The Prince looked like he was a hundred years old, but one day would be king.  She didn’t look like queen material to me.

A week after that, in a dumpy hotel in Paris, at the end of my sojourn from the real world, I ran into her again.

Literally.

She was hiding from the media, and apparently, her mother and the soon-to-be king.  For a reason, her mother wanted her married into the rich and famous so that she could keep the Counts’ castle, after being left penniless when he died.

She had a plan, one I think she formulated after running into me again, testing to brush off runny eggs and greasy bacon, my only clean set of clothes I had to go back home in.

Would I marry her for a week, then get unmarried so she couldn’t marry the prince?  She could not be divorced.

I would get a hundred thousand dollars for my cooperation.

Who would turn down an offer like that?

We married in a quaint church in Paris, her mother married the Prince, the daughter became a princess and wasn’t allowed to divorce.

It was the oddest start to a relationship i ever had, and for a year I was basically a cardboard carpet turning up at events, being the dutiful husband, having promised to go quietly at the end of a contract.

Except here we were 20 years later, doing what I had expected her to 20 days later, but didn’t and hadn’t, until now.

…

I guess the deciding factor had been the title, and the pile of stones in a wet but beautiful county in
The middle of England.

My father always moaned about the fact that death duties had destroyed the family finances and our ability to pay for the estate’s upkeep.

My older brother consumed a lot of the wealth with gambling debts and got on the wrong side of the loan sharks and my father drank himself to death, leaving my sister and I with a broken mother who lasted six years before dementia took her away from us.

I finished school, went on a gap year holiday to consider what I was going to do, and then it was all decided for me.

Isabella came and conquered; her mother and the prince bailed me out of a very deep hole, and now I was Lord of the Manor.

I didn’t want to be, but for appearances, I had to be.  It became part of Royalty Inc.

20 years playing the game, 20 years of not producing an heir of my own, but Anthea found herself a nice boy and had 6 of her own, one who could take the title if I didn’t reproduce, which seemed unlikely.

20 years after which the train was about to run off the rails.

…

“Where have you been?”  Anthea was holding the fore, looking every bit the princess herself.

Not quite as famous but every bit as stunning.

She hadn’t believed my luck. 

I hadn’t believed my luck.

Now my luck had run out.

“You know I hate these things.”

“Four times a year, then you can go and hide in the summer house.  Or wherever it is you go.”

I made a face.  “You love this pompous.”

“Of course.  Rubbing shoulders with the cream of society, having every move I make documented for the world at large, taking a platoon of bodyguards in what amounts to a motorcade.”

Last week, meeting an old school friend, male, saw her under a headline ‘stepping out … not with her husband’ and a picture of an innocent kiss.

“Discretion dear.  Discretion.”

Isabella suddenly appeared at my side.  “Where were you?”  It was an innocent question with four barbs attached.

“Looking for you.  The party glow had disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”  And smiled in a way that was not usual.

“You’re being strange.  Too much champagne.”

And then caught the eye of a guest and dashed off as she does in the middle of a conversation.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You think she’s having an affair “

I nearly choked.  How could she possibly think that?

“No.”

“Would it matter if she did?”

Did she know something I didn’t?”

“Everything has a use-by date.  Mine was 19 years ago, but someone rubbed it off.”

She elbowed me in the ribs.  “You’re a fool.  Always was, always will be.  Go and mingle.  They’ll be going home soon.”

…

“You were acting strange tonight.”  Isabella had flipped into a large lounge chair and kicked off her shoes.

I poured a bottle of beer into a glass and took a sip.  It was uncouth to drink from the bottle.

“You disappeared.  Poof!”

“I did not.  I was probably in the restroom.”

“With your cell phone?”

She glared at me in a manner that could be called disconcerting.  Would she lie?

“I was expecting an important call?”

“Who could be so important that it transcends your birthday party?”

She didn’t answer.  Not immediately.  Instead, I got the, I’m working through a thousand scenarios to find one you will believe.

“No matter,” I said.  “It’s none of my business.  I have an early morning with the horses.”  I went over and kissed her on the cheek.  “Have fun down in London.”

As I stood back up, she took my hand and gave me the most intense look I’d ever received.

“How do you know I’m going to London?”

I gave her my I don’t care what you do look, smiled, and said, “You hate Mondays here, always have, and like always, you will simply leave me a note and flit off on some new adventure.  I know you so well.”

She looked miffed.

“What if, for once, you are wrong?”

“I’m always wrong, dear, it’s part of my job.”

She let go of my hand.  “I love you.  And thank you for a wonderful party.”

“You should thank the 20 event planners you employed for me.”

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”

“After 20 years?  I’m sure I have annoyed you many times before now.”

She stood, brushed the imaginary creases out of her dress and looked me straight in the eye.

“What is going on with you?”

I tried looking inscrutable, but couldn’t.

“Nothing dear.  I’m just tired, and I have an early morning.”

She tilted her head slightly and made a new face, one I hadn’t seen before.

“Come with me.”

This was new, too.  “Where?”

“Wherever.  Anywhere.  Just come with me.”

“And make a mess of whatever it is you have planned.  I don’t think you need me.  I’m the horse and hounds part of this, whatever it is, and you are the brains behind everything else.  I can order gardeners, butlers, farmers and sometimes the livestock about.  That’s it.”

She shook her head.

“Only a fool would believe that Henry.  If I thought that of you, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“No.  You’d probably be a queen.”

“I am a princess.”

“I am a Lord or Marquis or something or other.  Titles don’t define us, Isabella.  What’s in our hearts defines us.  My heart is yours, Bella.  Don’t ever forget that.  Call me when you’re finished doing what you’re doing?”

..

She came into my room at 3am when she thought I was asleep and snuggled into me.

It had been a while since the last time.

She was not the sort who wanted to have sex morning, noon and night or every day of the week, and that suited me as well.

I had thought early on that she preferred that sort of relationship with other men and didn’t bother trying to prove it was the case or not.

Our relationship was built on trust.  I trusted her.  I had no idea what she thought of me. 

She left about three hours later, and when I got out of bed, she was gone.

I made the phone call to a man who sorted problems for me, and gave him some precise instructions, and then thought no more about it.

I did not fear for her safety.  I just wanted to make sure she was protected, even though she had that as the princess, i was never quite sure where anyone’s loyalties lay.

There was mischief afoot in her mother’s kingdom, mischief she continually neglected to tell her daughter about.  The king was old and getting on.  It was time for an heir to take over, which was precisely the problem.  There were six, other than the rightful heir, in contention.

Yes, I had spies everywhere.

I bought some horse I sold some horses, I rode a horse and gave an interview to a nice young lady who could actually ride a horse.

I took lunch in the morning room, took the call from my observer, and received the photos of the man she couldn’t wait to see.  They had lunch, all very dignified, but the looks between them.

I shrugged.

All good things must come to an end.  I sat in the library for over an hour, casting my eyes over the many books, some quite old, but most of the read at one time or another and pondered my fate.

I don’t think I wanted to become a joke among her friends.  I was very aware of what they thought of me, despite being polite.

They were her friends.

Mine, I could count on the fingers of one hand.  The rest, passing acquaintances who lingered to be in the shadow of fame, or as an introduction to the main act.

The place could survive without me.  It would have to eventually.

So, having one of those faces that blended well into the background, I donned my camouflage, went to the airport with the boring nondescript passport and bought a ticket to the third plane out.

Which took me to an interesting place called Queenstown, in one of the mother country’s far-flung colonies, New Zealand, though now it was more interestingly called Aotearoa.

It took a week to get there.  My tourist guide told me there were a lot of places in between that i should visit.  I did.

And the marvellous thing about it.  No one recognised me, I was simply Henry James.  I checked, and no one had reported me missing, only that I was temporarily indisposed.  The world could do very well without me, as could Isabella.

…

I should have known that any woman with the name Daphne was going to be trouble.

Day two in the idyllic tourist town of Queenstown was dissolving into a perfect sojourn when this wretched American woman practically threw herself into the chair opposite mine at the cafe where I was reading a newspaper and drinking a perfect cup of coffee.

I glared at her over the newspaper.

“You think they could at least make coffee properly.”

Flushed and annoyed, she grimaced.

“If you want American coffee, go to Starbucks.” Then went back to my paper, a suspicious death in Wanaka. 

“Anyone tell you you are rude?”

“Frequently.  It’s a condition that we old people acquire as we get on in years.”

She smiled, and the severity of her expression lessened.  “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough to be your father.  I’m sure he’d be very unhappy about the way you address your elders.”

“My father wouldn’t care.  Not as much as you do, apparently.  My name is Daphne.”

“Do you only have one name, like Cher?  Is that an American thing?”  I didn’t put the paper down, i was hoping she would be insulted and go off in a huff to the nearest Starbucks.

The waitress delivered her coffee and gave me one of those looks, I pity you, and left quickly.  Had she been here before and complained?

“No.  But it is polite to tell me your name in return.”

I sighed.  She was not leaving.  “Henry.”

She waited a minute to see if I was going to add to it, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face.

“Why are you here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.  Having coffee.  Reading the paper.  Being interrupted by a woman called Daphne, who doesn’t like local coffee.”

“And who is rude?”

“And who is rude.  Why are you here?”  Then, realising I might be opening a can of worms, added, “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Because my girlfriend had to go home to a sick mother and just abandoned me here.”

I’d have a sick mother, too, if this was what Daphne was like.

“Well, I’m sorry about that.  I’m sure there are plenty of others with whom you can talk.  I’m not the talkative or friendly sort.”

“You’re a tourist.”

“I’m here for some lone time.  Get away from everyone and everything.  The rest of the world, and everything in it, at the moment, is something I just don’t want to cope with.”

She gave me a curious look.  “You break up with a wife or girlfriend.  You cheated, she cheated.”

“That’s what happened to you?”

“Me?  No.  Boys don’t see me for who I am, just what I look like.”

I looked at her again, this time looking past the angry American.  Youngish, mid twenties, though I was not an expert, fair, almost perfect skin, brown hair with reddish tinges and blonde highlights, that stuff I knew from Freda and her children, she was under that scruffy exterior quite attractive.

Perhaps it was the reason she was hiding who she was. 

I shrugged.  “You are what you are.  Savour it while you have it.  Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than annoy father figures.  This newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”

“If you had an iPad it would.”.

“I refuse to live in the digital world.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“So people can’t find me.  We survived without them once; we can do it again.  Try exercising them from your life and see how it changes.”

I didn’t think she would.

…

I changed cafes, thinking that Daphne would reappear.  I didn’t find out if it was true.

But I did feel a little different after the verbal sparring.  She was a lot like Mandy, Freda’s eldest daughter, overly dependent on devices and taciturn and critical of everything. 

Day five, I took to the water on an old steamship, the TSS Earnslaw, a century-old ship that plied the lake.

It was something that I’d not done before because I was too busy doing all the wrong things when I was younger, and then didn’t have time when I was older

I sat on the deck and soaked up the fresh air.  Winter was coming, and it was getting colder.  The surroundings reminded me of home.

I was almost asleep when someone came and sat next to me.  There wasn’t a dearth of passengers and plenty of other spaces to sit.

Then I got the faint hint of perfume.

Not Daphne.

Isabella.

Damn.

I pretended to ignore her.  She took my hand in hers and squeezed it, then sat there until I could no longer ignore her.

“I was having such a good time.”  I opened my eyes and looked at her. 

She was hardly recognisable without the accoutrements of wealth.  Not even a single necklace that would be worth more than the ship or thereabouts.

No rings, no jewellery, no fancy clothes, nothing that would distinguish her from any other British tourist.

“Without me?”

“Without you.”

“I thought you loved me?”

“I do.  Enough to set you free.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t that what you want.  After all, I’ve served my purpose; the use-by date has come and gone.  I’m sure there are so many other fish in that sea.”

She looked at me with serious concern.

“What are you babbling about.  Use by date?  Fish.  What had fish got to do with anything?”  Then she stopped, took a breath.  “That’s why you said I was going to London the next morning.  You overheard my conversation.”

“I was wandering around near the morning room.  You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“And you thought…”

“It was time to move on.  You are famous, other than being a princess now, and you don’t need me anymore.  I see you with your people.  They are your sort of people, I’m not.”

She sighed.  “You are a silly, silly man.  I love you more than anything.  Anything Henry.  It’s why I’m here.  I have been beside myself for days, wondering what happened to you.  You’re acting strange.  I thought you were sick.  I thought you were dying.  I didn’t know what to think.”

“It felt like I was dying.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  I made my choice 20 years ago, and I’ve never regretted it.  I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, but the only thing that I had on my mind was getting home to you.  I’m not interested in anyone else.  This is a nice place.  What made you come here?”

“The third plane out of the airport after I arrived.”

“Good choice.  Where are we?”

“On a ship.”

“No, where are we?”

“Queenstown.  Going to Walter Peak Farm for morning tea.  Scones, jam and clotted cream, I hope.”

“Not as good as your cook’s, I suspect.”

“She’s not my cook.”

I could see the little wharf in the distance, and we would be arriving soon.  People were moving to the front of the ship to get a look.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Henry?”

“You’re busy.  I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Don’t ever do this to me again.  I had to move heaven and earth to find you.  You’re very good at disappearing.”

“Do you have an employee named Daphne, though I refuse to believe that’s her name.”

“She’s going to be your new companion.  There’s trouble at home, and that’s what really scared me when you went missing.  I thought you had been kidnapped.  I was going to tell you but…”

There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but it was not surprising.

“I didn’t know.  And do I have to put up with such a rude person?”

“You were rude first.”

“Is she here?”

“No.  I figured if you saw her again, you’d throw her overboard.  Just so you know, I thought you might do that to me, too?”

“Can you swim?”  Her expression changed.  It was a good thing we were slowing down and making the turn toward the pier.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 19 – Which character should tell the story

…

Who Should Tell the Story? Choosing the Right Narrator for Maximum Impact

Every story begins with a voice. Whether it’s a whisper from the shadows, a confession shouted from the rooftops, or a quiet journal entry scribbled at midnight, the way a story is told is just as important as what happens in it. One of the most crucial decisions a writer makes—often before writing a single sentence—is who will tell the story.

Will it be the protagonist, standing front and centre, eyes wide open to every triumph and tragedy? The casual observer, sipping tea on the periphery while chaos unfolds nearby? Or perhaps a bit player—the stagehand who sees everything but is barely seen?

Each narrative perspective offers unique strengths, limitations, and emotional textures. Let’s explore the three classic choices and discover when each one shines.

---

1. The Protagonist: The Heart of the Storm

When the main character narrates their own story, readers are granted intimate access to their thoughts, fears, dreams, and flaws. Think of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, or Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games. We don’t just witness the journey—we live it.

Strengths:

• Deep emotional connection. Readers bond with the narrator through raw honesty and vulnerability.
• A strong voice and personality can elevate the entire tone of the story.
• Immediate stakes. When the protagonist speaks, every danger feels personal.

Best Used When:

• The story is about personal transformation or internal conflict.
• Voice is a critical element (e.g., a sarcastic teen, a traumatised veteran).
• You want readers to empathise deeply with the character’s choices—even when they’re flawed.

Caution: A protagonist-narrator can be limited by their own biases and blind spots. You lose the ability to show scenes they weren’t present for, and if the character isn’t compelling, the whole narrative risks falling flat.

---

2. The Casual Observer: The Quiet Witness

This narrator isn’t swept up in the central action, but stands just close enough to see—and interpret—it all. Think of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, watching Gatsby’s rise and fall with a mix of fascination and detachment. Or Dr Watson, chronicling Sherlock Holmes’ genius with admiration and occasional bewilderment.

Strengths:

• Offers a more objective lens while still being emotionally engaged.
• Can provide commentary and reflection, adding layers of meaning.
• Freedom to step back and describe the bigger picture or societal context.

Best Used When:

• The protagonist is mysterious, unreliable, or larger-than-life.
• You want to explore themes like perception, memory, or social critique.
• The story gains power through contrast—what the observer sees versus what they understand.

Caution: It’s easy for an observer to become passive. To work well, they still need their own arc, stakes, and reasons for telling the story. Otherwise, they risk feeling like a camera on a tripod—recording, but not quite living.

---

3. The Bit Player: The Unlikely Truth-Teller

These are the characters we might overlook—the secretary, the neighbour, the childhood friend who drifted away. Yet when they take the microphone, their perspective can be revelatory. Consider “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” by Agatha Christie, in which the seemingly minor character of Dr Sheppard upends everything through his narration.

Strengths:

• Surprise factor. Readers don’t expect depth or insight from minor characters—so when they deliver, it’s powerful.
• Access to multiple characters and private moments without being the centre of attention.
• Can subtly manipulate tone and truth, especially if they have hidden motives.

Best Used When:

• You want to subvert expectations or play with unreliability.
• The story benefits from a grounded, realistic perspective amid larger-than-life events.
• The theme involves invisibility, power dynamics, or the unnoticed threads that hold society together.

Caution: A bit player narrator must be given enough presence and reason to tell the story. Why them? What stakes do they have? Without proper setup, their narration can feel contrived.

---

So, Who Should Tell Your Story?

Ask yourself:

• Whose journey matters most? If it’s deeply personal, go with the protagonist.
• Is the truth elusive? An observer or bit player might reveal it more effectively.
• What tone do you want? Intimate and urgent? Detached and reflective? Ironic and unreliable?

Sometimes, the magic isn’t in who lives the story, but in who tells it. The same event—a betrayal, a wedding, a war—can feel entirely different depending on whether it’s recounted by the hero, the bystander, or the one who cleaned up the aftermath.

The voice you choose doesn’t just shape the narrative—it shapes the reader’s soul.

So next time you begin a story, don’t just ask, What happens?
Ask, Who gets to say it happened?

Because in storytelling, perspective isn’t just everything—
It’s the only thing.

Day 19 – Which character should tell the story

…

Who Should Tell the Story? Choosing the Right Narrator for Maximum Impact

Every story begins with a voice. Whether it’s a whisper from the shadows, a confession shouted from the rooftops, or a quiet journal entry scribbled at midnight, the way a story is told is just as important as what happens in it. One of the most crucial decisions a writer makes—often before writing a single sentence—is who will tell the story.

Will it be the protagonist, standing front and centre, eyes wide open to every triumph and tragedy? The casual observer, sipping tea on the periphery while chaos unfolds nearby? Or perhaps a bit player—the stagehand who sees everything but is barely seen?

Each narrative perspective offers unique strengths, limitations, and emotional textures. Let’s explore the three classic choices and discover when each one shines.

---

1. The Protagonist: The Heart of the Storm

When the main character narrates their own story, readers are granted intimate access to their thoughts, fears, dreams, and flaws. Think of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, or Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games. We don’t just witness the journey—we live it.

Strengths:

• Deep emotional connection. Readers bond with the narrator through raw honesty and vulnerability.
• A strong voice and personality can elevate the entire tone of the story.
• Immediate stakes. When the protagonist speaks, every danger feels personal.

Best Used When:

• The story is about personal transformation or internal conflict.
• Voice is a critical element (e.g., a sarcastic teen, a traumatised veteran).
• You want readers to empathise deeply with the character’s choices—even when they’re flawed.

Caution: A protagonist-narrator can be limited by their own biases and blind spots. You lose the ability to show scenes they weren’t present for, and if the character isn’t compelling, the whole narrative risks falling flat.

---

2. The Casual Observer: The Quiet Witness

This narrator isn’t swept up in the central action, but stands just close enough to see—and interpret—it all. Think of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, watching Gatsby’s rise and fall with a mix of fascination and detachment. Or Dr Watson, chronicling Sherlock Holmes’ genius with admiration and occasional bewilderment.

Strengths:

• Offers a more objective lens while still being emotionally engaged.
• Can provide commentary and reflection, adding layers of meaning.
• Freedom to step back and describe the bigger picture or societal context.

Best Used When:

• The protagonist is mysterious, unreliable, or larger-than-life.
• You want to explore themes like perception, memory, or social critique.
• The story gains power through contrast—what the observer sees versus what they understand.

Caution: It’s easy for an observer to become passive. To work well, they still need their own arc, stakes, and reasons for telling the story. Otherwise, they risk feeling like a camera on a tripod—recording, but not quite living.

---

3. The Bit Player: The Unlikely Truth-Teller

These are the characters we might overlook—the secretary, the neighbour, the childhood friend who drifted away. Yet when they take the microphone, their perspective can be revelatory. Consider “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” by Agatha Christie, in which the seemingly minor character of Dr Sheppard upends everything through his narration.

Strengths:

• Surprise factor. Readers don’t expect depth or insight from minor characters—so when they deliver, it’s powerful.
• Access to multiple characters and private moments without being the centre of attention.
• Can subtly manipulate tone and truth, especially if they have hidden motives.

Best Used When:

• You want to subvert expectations or play with unreliability.
• The story benefits from a grounded, realistic perspective amid larger-than-life events.
• The theme involves invisibility, power dynamics, or the unnoticed threads that hold society together.

Caution: A bit player narrator must be given enough presence and reason to tell the story. Why them? What stakes do they have? Without proper setup, their narration can feel contrived.

---

So, Who Should Tell Your Story?

Ask yourself:

• Whose journey matters most? If it’s deeply personal, go with the protagonist.
• Is the truth elusive? An observer or bit player might reveal it more effectively.
• What tone do you want? Intimate and urgent? Detached and reflective? Ironic and unreliable?

Sometimes, the magic isn’t in who lives the story, but in who tells it. The same event—a betrayal, a wedding, a war—can feel entirely different depending on whether it’s recounted by the hero, the bystander, or the one who cleaned up the aftermath.

The voice you choose doesn’t just shape the narrative—it shapes the reader’s soul.

So next time you begin a story, don’t just ask, What happens?
Ask, Who gets to say it happened?

Because in storytelling, perspective isn’t just everything—
It’s the only thing.

Days 17 and 18 – Writing exercise

On your 18th birthday celebration, eating out with parents and brothers and sisters, your youngest sister blurts, “You do know you’re adopted.”

…

I had always been last for everything.  I had three elder brothers and two elder sisters, and then there was me, tail end Charlie, my father called me, a name I didn’t quite understand.

I thought it was because there were six years between me and the older siblings.

My brothers went to the best school, all three excelling in their studies and after high school, college and university.  My sisters went to the same school my mother attended, and college, but then chose marriage and children over a career.

Me, I attended grade school, middle school, high school, and had moderate success, but there was never any suggestion that I go to college.

It seemed that as the last one, I had not inherited the smarts of my other siblings and that the farming job I had with the Renfrews, out on the road to Weston, was good enough.

I barely graduated high school, and was discouraged from going to the prom, perhaps because I did not have a girl I could ask, though I suspected my siblings had ruined any chance I might have had with the one I thought would agree.

It was what it was, though I could never understand why they apparently disliked me so much.  It was not overtime, but from about the time I turned ten, I began to notice a distinct separation, like I was not one of the family.

I didn’t complain. 

But now, school over and prom gone, it was my 18th birthday, and I was heading into town to the family party.  Not the lavish affairs that were thrown at the country club for my siblings, with practically the whole town attending, this was just a quiet meal.

Again, it wasn’t a big deal.  I heard my parents talking about it one night when they thought everyone had gone to bed or was away.

The hushed voices in the main room.

“It’s not as if we can’t afford it, and he is a member of this family.”

“And if your sister…”

“What?  Thrown herself at you, and you couldn’t…”

“I think I’ve more than made up for that indiscretion a hundred times over.”

“But it’s never been the same, second best, if he was lucky.”

“You know why.”

“Well, it’s wrong.”

“He’s lucky he has a home, people who care enough.  Your sister, God rest her soul, was never going to cope.  He’ll be moving on once Renfrew makes his job permanent, and that’ll be the end of it.  God knows we’ve paid him enough.”

It was a conversation that made no sense.  I had no idea that my mother had a sister, not one that was referred to in those terms. 

The Renfrews had always employed me on and on over the years, but I thought I had got that job on my own merits.  Perhaps then I hadn’t, but it was not a question I was going to ask

My father had been irritable of late and not well disposed towards me, and the siblings that remained at the home had taken less interest in me since the eldest John had got married and left to work in New York.

About the time he left, six years ago, things changed.  I had seriously believed that the family thought I had driven him away.  Certainly, on several occasions, by the youngest sister, she had insisted that I was causing unnecessary problems between ‘her’ parents.

Were they not mine too?

But the day arrived.  I was in town with one of the few friends I had from school, and had agreed to join them at a particular time.

When I got there, they had all arrived and had already ordered.  It was like they had decided that I was almost irrelevant.

At least there was a seat next to my mother. 

She seemed to be the only one who cared whether I was there.  The others were arguing over what they were getting and the merits of besting each other with the most expensive dishes.

I was never that lucky and rarely got to choose.  The others would say that, as the youngest, I should be having the children’s meal.  Even when I got older, it was a running joke, one that neither parent stopped.

But today I was 18.  At the same time, my older brother got the keys to a new car, and a wad of money.  The same sort of gifts flowed down through the others.

I had expected the same, but that morning, there was a card with seven names scrawled on it, without any well-wishes or anything.  There was definitely no money, and had I been expecting a pleasant surprise now, I honestly believed that that ship had sailed

Perhaps they no longer had the money, certainly they no longer bragged about how well off they were, and the last time John was home, I had heard him asking for money, and my father telling him things were tight.

So, no car and no money.  And by the look of it, no present.  Of course, when the food came out, I could see that no expense had been spared for them.

It was going to be just like I had been told it would.

…

A question that I never thought would enter my head when old man Renfrew handed me a small boat wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with common garden twine.

Underneath the twine was an envelope with my name on it and the words “For your 18th birthday”.  When I asked him who it was from, he simply said it was on the front porch when he came home.

That was two days before my birthday.

Inside the envelope was a card, but mysteriously, it didn’t say who it was from, and a letter in an envelope that looked quite old and yellowing at the edges.  My name was written on it in rather exquisite lettering, Aloysius Charles William Henry.

What did that mean?  Was my last name Henry?  I didn’t think so.

Under my name was, ‘Do not open this until after your 18th family birthday party’.

I was curious, and had I not exercised the patience my mother had tried to teach the rest of her children, I might have torn the envelope open in the hope of finding a large cash reward or a loaded credit card.

It’s what seemed to motivate the other siblings.

I guess inadvertently, my parents had taught me all the virtues of patience and no expectation, but by all the wrong methods.

I then asked Mrs Refrew, who was less grumpy than her husband, and I knew she recognised the writing, and quite possibly who it was from, but she said that the good Lord had his reasons, and patience was a virtue.

So, without the benefit of whatever sage advise or revelations that lay within that envelope, I went, with a promise to myself that I would not show any emotion because I had reached the conclusion that there was something in my past that had been covered up or omitted, and that best guess, my father or mother had had an affair and I was the product of it. 

It was the only explanation for my treatment over the years and the change in the way my siblings treated me, at least from six years ago.  That was when they must have told them, the last of their children turning 18.

The youngest sister, still unmarried and prone to having bad relationships and bouts of drug addiction, was currently clean and had been for nearly a year, and this party was more about her achievement than my birthday.

As a reward the had given her a multi-thousand-dollar gift card.  I had seen it as a put-down, and I think it was deliberate on her part just to put me in my place.  I simply smiled, which seemed to annoy her.

In her sickly sweet voice, she said, “I hope you’re having a wonderful birthday.”

“Every bit as much as your year of sobriety, Anna.  At least I won’t be having another 18th Birthday.”

OK.  I didn’t mean to be that harsh, but I was human after all.

The dulcet tones turned into her angry squeak.  “What do you mean by that?”

The table went quiet, and all eyes were on me.  I’d just attacked one of their own, and the pack mentality came out.  Hyenas circling the dying animal.

“Three times now.  And given your choice in bad boys, I expect we’ll be back here next year.  You’re only 18 once.  Thankfully.”

“You’re an ass, Charlie.  You do know you’re adopted and you’re not one of us.  You don’t even deserve to sit at this table.”

My so-called mother looked horrified.  My so-called father and the rest of them looked smug.

What were they expecting?  For me to turn into a blubbing mess so they could laugh at me.

“That was uncalled for, Anna.”

“It’s true.  Why did you bother wasting your time?  I hope he’s not getting anything in your wills.  He’s not even family.”

Then I saw something I had never seen before in my life.  My so-called mother was angry.

“It depends on your definition of family, and unfortunately, no one in this family ever taught you the meaning of it.”  She turned to her husband.  “You promised.”

“They deserved to know.”

“Do you remember what I said back when you made that promise?”

“God, woman, that was 18 years ago.  Who cares?”

“You will.  And every one of these spawn of the devil you’ve created.  You know who I am.  You know what I gave up.  Well, I suspected you had betrayed me, so I took the appropriate steps.”

She stood and looked down at me with moist eyes. She was genuinely ashamed.  “Charlie.  I’m sorry you had to find out this way.  I was going to tell you the truth tonight.  Well, it seems that time has arrived early.”  Then she looked around at the sea of astonished faces.  “In what you might all call a cruel twist of fate, you are all now going to pay for your father’s sins.  No more money, no more handouts.” Then to her husband.  “Start looking for a job.  You’re going to need one.”

“Seriously, Martha, all this over a bastard son of a prostitute?”

I saw a small shudder going through her and the clenching and unclenching of fists.  She was beyond angry now, and the look on her face was one of pure hatred and disgust.

“You forget one important detail.  She was a prostitute who had a three-hundred-million-dollar inheritance, which she left to me to look after her son.  You have all benefited.  I’m willing to bet he did not tell you about the conditions that came with the benefits.”

“Anna was the one who blabbed.  None of us.  We’re not at fault.”  John was in full panic mode, seeing his never-ending well dry up before his eyes.

She glared at him.  “You sat back and laughed along with the rest of them.  You are the eldest, supposed to set an example.  Of what, greed, and ambivalence.  All of you had a chance to prove yourselves, and you missed it.  One chance.  You are all cut off; there will be no inheritance.  Now, get out of my sight.”

Dinner half eaten, drinks about to be served, not one of the siblings wanted to irritate her more than they already had.  I suspect all of them believed, as they shuffled out, that things would be back to normal tomorrow.

My so-called father didn’t move.

Her eyes rested on him.  “You don’t mean any of that; it was just a wake-up call to what I admit have been a few annoying children.  But let’s face it, we both spoiled them.  It’s as much….”

She picked up her glass of wine and threw it at him, the wine not the glass.

“Rethink those words, Roger.  If that’s the defence you’re going with, you’re in big trouble.  Leave now before I pick up the phone and call my lawyers.”

He stood slowly.  “We can talk later.  How will you get home?”

“Charlie can take me.”

I could see his nose wrinkle at the thought of my so-called mother being seen in a ’60s Ford truck.

Another repentant look at her, he left, joining the others out on the pavement.  They hadn’t gone, still stunned from their mother’s outburst.

She sighed, then sat.

I was stunned, still trying to come to terms with what had been said.  Adopted.  My so-called mother had a sister worth 300 million.  How?  I was my mother’s sister’s child.  And something else I remembered, my father was my father in a weird twist of fate.

I was, in a sense, family.  But my aunt, who was my mother for all intents and purposes, hadn’t done a very good job.

…

It was five minutes, maybe more, before she spoke.  I think that at that time she ran through every scenario, and not one of them would suffice.

A sigh, then, “You should be angry.  I don’t think there’s anything I can say that you would believe just how sorry I am.  That’s on me.  I want to use the excuse that both my twin sister and I were stupid spoilt drug addled kids who honestly believed life had no consequences, that we could do whatever we liked. 

“I met your father, Susannah stole him, he dumped her and picked me, then shagged her anyway.  She got pregnant, couldn’t handle it, killed herself, and it was a miracle you survived.  We agreed to adopt you and call you our own.  After all, there was no difference between my sister and I.  I just went away with you for nine months, and everything was fine.

“My problem was in marrying your father; I had to forgo my inheritance.  I got an allowance, but I didn’t really care all that much about money, and let him manage it.  I had no idea how much he disadvantaged you to the benefit of the others, not until a year ago, with Anna and her endless visits to rehabilitation.  And all the money he’d poured into John’s black hole was caused by idiotic investments.  The others are not much better.

“I’m sorry you got nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.  It taught me lessons they will never get.  If you have nothing to start with, then every step up is appreciated all the more.  Perhaps the best birthday present was to see them finally look as scared as I have felt all my life.  It won’t hurt them, but It might be too late to make a point.”

“It’s never too late.  And the point will be made.  Did you get the box?”

“With a card and a letter?”

“Yes.  Did you read the letter?”

“No.  It said not to until after the party.”

“You have it?”

I took it out of my pocket and showed her.  I knew now who it was from.  My mother.  My real mother.

She took it with shaking hands and tears running down her cheeks.  There were eighteen years of pain etched on her face.

“I was there when you were born.  She had one last breath in her; as she breathed life into you, she exhaled her last.  I loved you like you were mine, until I got lost in a sea of self pity an post natal depression.  We were twins; I felt her pain, I felt everything that she would have felt.  I’m sorry I wasn’t made of stronger stuff.”

“I think I’ve always regarded you as my mother.  Though preferring the other five, well, that took a little understanding, of which in the end I had none.”

“I come from an era of women who preferred to hide behind their husbands.  It was drummed into us, but Anna was never going to be like that.  Still, that’s not an excuse.”  She handed the letter back.
You should read it now, then we can decide what to do.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Yes.”

…

If you are reading this, you will have just turned 18, a very important moment in your life.

If you have not been told, you will have been adopted by my twin sister, and she has promised me she will look after you better than I could.

I was not very good at managing anything.  Our lives were ruined from the start by parents who did not care at all what happened to us, that if they threw enough money at the problem, it would go away.

Money does not solve problems; it simply amplifies them into bigger problems.

I hope she has not gone down that path.  If she has, then I am sorry that I trusted her, that you did not get a life that was not as it should have been.

And if, on the other hand, she has managed to teach you the value of life, and more importantly, that it is family, those we choose and those we have to live with, and others who will have a guiding influence that will make us who we will become.

Given the five examples that constitute her current children, I’m not holding my breath that she will make a good fist of it.

Still, on my deathbed, I can only hope.  Perhaps there is some afterlife where I can come down and reprimand them if they falter.  You will be the judge of that.  Try not to be too critical.  Her upbringing, like mine, was terrible, and it’s hard to break out of a cycle you’ve known and been subject to for most of your life.

But, whatever the circumstances you find yourself in, if you are reading this letter, my sister has had the wherewithal to give it to you.  It means even if she is ashamed of what happened, it cannot be so bad that you might unequivocally hate her.

In the box is a key to a safety deposit box.  It is where your inheritance is.  The other key’s location can be obtained from the family lawyers, name and address with the key.  It can only be given to you, so you will have to undergo a DNA test and a few other identity tests that Freda will help you with.

What you do with your inheritance is up to you. I can only hope that you will not take a leaf out of my book and waste the opportunity to do some good, the good I realised far too late that I could have done.

Remember that I loved you then with all of my heart, and will to the end of tine.

Susannah.

…

“Were you that bad?”

“What did she say?”

“Your parents threw money at the problem, hoping it would go away.”

“Then yes.  I married your father to break that cycle and find some normality, but he was a poor fool who found himself in a world he couldn’t cope with.  My parents were right to disown me.”

“You had your sister’s fortune.”

“No.  We never mentioned that to him, only that she would provide a certain sum for your upbringing.  We had money, but that boost allowed helping to help indulge his children, where in the end they were no better off than my brothers and sisters were.  He wanted the life I hated.”

“And by a quirk of fate, you both brought me up the way in which mother had hoped you would, by a totally different method.  Resentment.  I have not once ever had to thought i could have anything I wanted, not like the others.  Cars, gift cards, credit cards with no limit, houses, and apartments.  None 9f them really work for a living, and I can’t see how they’re going to function.”

“They can come and see you for advice on how to live within their means.”

They were still outside the restaurant, trying to come to terms with what just happened.  They’d turned on Anna, then the father, then each other.

“Did you mean what you said to them?”

“Yes.  No more.”

“I don’t think they quite get that.  They’re still outside.”

She shrugged.  “Then it’s going to be a cold day in hell tomorrow.  We have a road trip.  New York.  I want to tell you everything about your mother before we go home, our home, where she came from, and where you will be welcomed.”

“How could that be possible?”

“That you will discover is the advantage of being a firstborn Rossiter.  My sister was born three minutes before me, and therefore, is the eldest child.  The eldest Rossiter then becomes the heir.  You were her first and eldest child, and therefore the current heir to the Rossiter legacy. 

“And you have a sister, something my husband never knew about, a twin sister.  The caretaker.  There is a world that my husband and my other children know nothing about because I was excommunicated. 

“Because now you are of age and can accept the inheritance, if you want to, of course, there’s no obligation; it has to be your choice, you can give me the chance to come back, but that too is only at your discretion, and I will understand if you rule against it.

“But its complicated and messy and swamped with rules and protocols and its the reason both my sister and I ran away. You might too when you discover the full extent of it.”

“I can make their lives easier,” I waved a hand in their direction.

“You could, but they never made it easy for you.  None of us did.  By choice or by ignorance.  That might never have changed if it had not been for Anna’s outburst.”

“But you said you were making changes.  That means you knew you were wrong and wanted to do something about it.”

“After 16 years of neglecting my sister’s wishes?”

I shrugged.  “We will have much to talk about.  Shall we go?  Out the back.  I had a feeling, one way or another, I would be slinking out of here.”

Good to see, also, it had started snowing.  It was the first of the season, and it meant Christmas was around the corner.  It might not be fun at home, but as a member of the town’s Christmas committee, the pageantry, the fete, the Christmas tree plot, and charity events always made it worthwhile.

Perhaps this year I could do more.

My mother, so-called, was my mother, good and bad.  She was the only mother I’d had, and I’d learned from school that it wasn’t always a luxury for all the kids there.

I gave her a hug, which surprised her, a hug that had every one of those 18 years her twin had been gone, but rather strangely was still with her in body and spirit.  I realised then I didn’t have to imagine the woman I had never met because she was the woman standing there in front of me.

It was the best and only present I could ever want for what was the most memorable and remarkable birthday of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 17 and 18 – Writing exercise

On your 18th birthday celebration, eating out with parents and brothers and sisters, your youngest sister blurts, “You do know you’re adopted.”

…

I had always been last for everything.  I had three elder brothers and two elder sisters, and then there was me, tail end Charlie, my father called me, a name I didn’t quite understand.

I thought it was because there were six years between me and the older siblings.

My brothers went to the best school, all three excelling in their studies and after high school, college and university.  My sisters went to the same school my mother attended, and college, but then chose marriage and children over a career.

Me, I attended grade school, middle school, high school, and had moderate success, but there was never any suggestion that I go to college.

It seemed that as the last one, I had not inherited the smarts of my other siblings and that the farming job I had with the Renfrews, out on the road to Weston, was good enough.

I barely graduated high school, and was discouraged from going to the prom, perhaps because I did not have a girl I could ask, though I suspected my siblings had ruined any chance I might have had with the one I thought would agree.

It was what it was, though I could never understand why they apparently disliked me so much.  It was not overtime, but from about the time I turned ten, I began to notice a distinct separation, like I was not one of the family.

I didn’t complain. 

But now, school over and prom gone, it was my 18th birthday, and I was heading into town to the family party.  Not the lavish affairs that were thrown at the country club for my siblings, with practically the whole town attending, this was just a quiet meal.

Again, it wasn’t a big deal.  I heard my parents talking about it one night when they thought everyone had gone to bed or was away.

The hushed voices in the main room.

“It’s not as if we can’t afford it, and he is a member of this family.”

“And if your sister…”

“What?  Thrown herself at you, and you couldn’t…”

“I think I’ve more than made up for that indiscretion a hundred times over.”

“But it’s never been the same, second best, if he was lucky.”

“You know why.”

“Well, it’s wrong.”

“He’s lucky he has a home, people who care enough.  Your sister, God rest her soul, was never going to cope.  He’ll be moving on once Renfrew makes his job permanent, and that’ll be the end of it.  God knows we’ve paid him enough.”

It was a conversation that made no sense.  I had no idea that my mother had a sister, not one that was referred to in those terms. 

The Renfrews had always employed me on and on over the years, but I thought I had got that job on my own merits.  Perhaps then I hadn’t, but it was not a question I was going to ask

My father had been irritable of late and not well disposed towards me, and the siblings that remained at the home had taken less interest in me since the eldest John had got married and left to work in New York.

About the time he left, six years ago, things changed.  I had seriously believed that the family thought I had driven him away.  Certainly, on several occasions, by the youngest sister, she had insisted that I was causing unnecessary problems between ‘her’ parents.

Were they not mine too?

But the day arrived.  I was in town with one of the few friends I had from school, and had agreed to join them at a particular time.

When I got there, they had all arrived and had already ordered.  It was like they had decided that I was almost irrelevant.

At least there was a seat next to my mother. 

She seemed to be the only one who cared whether I was there.  The others were arguing over what they were getting and the merits of besting each other with the most expensive dishes.

I was never that lucky and rarely got to choose.  The others would say that, as the youngest, I should be having the children’s meal.  Even when I got older, it was a running joke, one that neither parent stopped.

But today I was 18.  At the same time, my older brother got the keys to a new car, and a wad of money.  The same sort of gifts flowed down through the others.

I had expected the same, but that morning, there was a card with seven names scrawled on it, without any well-wishes or anything.  There was definitely no money, and had I been expecting a pleasant surprise now, I honestly believed that that ship had sailed

Perhaps they no longer had the money, certainly they no longer bragged about how well off they were, and the last time John was home, I had heard him asking for money, and my father telling him things were tight.

So, no car and no money.  And by the look of it, no present.  Of course, when the food came out, I could see that no expense had been spared for them.

It was going to be just like I had been told it would.

…

A question that I never thought would enter my head when old man Renfrew handed me a small boat wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with common garden twine.

Underneath the twine was an envelope with my name on it and the words “For your 18th birthday”.  When I asked him who it was from, he simply said it was on the front porch when he came home.

That was two days before my birthday.

Inside the envelope was a card, but mysteriously, it didn’t say who it was from, and a letter in an envelope that looked quite old and yellowing at the edges.  My name was written on it in rather exquisite lettering, Aloysius Charles William Henry.

What did that mean?  Was my last name Henry?  I didn’t think so.

Under my name was, ‘Do not open this until after your 18th family birthday party’.

I was curious, and had I not exercised the patience my mother had tried to teach the rest of her children, I might have torn the envelope open in the hope of finding a large cash reward or a loaded credit card.

It’s what seemed to motivate the other siblings.

I guess inadvertently, my parents had taught me all the virtues of patience and no expectation, but by all the wrong methods.

I then asked Mrs Refrew, who was less grumpy than her husband, and I knew she recognised the writing, and quite possibly who it was from, but she said that the good Lord had his reasons, and patience was a virtue.

So, without the benefit of whatever sage advise or revelations that lay within that envelope, I went, with a promise to myself that I would not show any emotion because I had reached the conclusion that there was something in my past that had been covered up or omitted, and that best guess, my father or mother had had an affair and I was the product of it. 

It was the only explanation for my treatment over the years and the change in the way my siblings treated me, at least from six years ago.  That was when they must have told them, the last of their children turning 18.

The youngest sister, still unmarried and prone to having bad relationships and bouts of drug addiction, was currently clean and had been for nearly a year, and this party was more about her achievement than my birthday.

As a reward the had given her a multi-thousand-dollar gift card.  I had seen it as a put-down, and I think it was deliberate on her part just to put me in my place.  I simply smiled, which seemed to annoy her.

In her sickly sweet voice, she said, “I hope you’re having a wonderful birthday.”

“Every bit as much as your year of sobriety, Anna.  At least I won’t be having another 18th Birthday.”

OK.  I didn’t mean to be that harsh, but I was human after all.

The dulcet tones turned into her angry squeak.  “What do you mean by that?”

The table went quiet, and all eyes were on me.  I’d just attacked one of their own, and the pack mentality came out.  Hyenas circling the dying animal.

“Three times now.  And given your choice in bad boys, I expect we’ll be back here next year.  You’re only 18 once.  Thankfully.”

“You’re an ass, Charlie.  You do know you’re adopted and you’re not one of us.  You don’t even deserve to sit at this table.”

My so-called mother looked horrified.  My so-called father and the rest of them looked smug.

What were they expecting?  For me to turn into a blubbing mess so they could laugh at me.

“That was uncalled for, Anna.”

“It’s true.  Why did you bother wasting your time?  I hope he’s not getting anything in your wills.  He’s not even family.”

Then I saw something I had never seen before in my life.  My so-called mother was angry.

“It depends on your definition of family, and unfortunately, no one in this family ever taught you the meaning of it.”  She turned to her husband.  “You promised.”

“They deserved to know.”

“Do you remember what I said back when you made that promise?”

“God, woman, that was 18 years ago.  Who cares?”

“You will.  And every one of these spawn of the devil you’ve created.  You know who I am.  You know what I gave up.  Well, I suspected you had betrayed me, so I took the appropriate steps.”

She stood and looked down at me with moist eyes. She was genuinely ashamed.  “Charlie.  I’m sorry you had to find out this way.  I was going to tell you the truth tonight.  Well, it seems that time has arrived early.”  Then she looked around at the sea of astonished faces.  “In what you might all call a cruel twist of fate, you are all now going to pay for your father’s sins.  No more money, no more handouts.” Then to her husband.  “Start looking for a job.  You’re going to need one.”

“Seriously, Martha, all this over a bastard son of a prostitute?”

I saw a small shudder going through her and the clenching and unclenching of fists.  She was beyond angry now, and the look on her face was one of pure hatred and disgust.

“You forget one important detail.  She was a prostitute who had a three-hundred-million-dollar inheritance, which she left to me to look after her son.  You have all benefited.  I’m willing to bet he did not tell you about the conditions that came with the benefits.”

“Anna was the one who blabbed.  None of us.  We’re not at fault.”  John was in full panic mode, seeing his never-ending well dry up before his eyes.

She glared at him.  “You sat back and laughed along with the rest of them.  You are the eldest, supposed to set an example.  Of what, greed, and ambivalence.  All of you had a chance to prove yourselves, and you missed it.  One chance.  You are all cut off; there will be no inheritance.  Now, get out of my sight.”

Dinner half eaten, drinks about to be served, not one of the siblings wanted to irritate her more than they already had.  I suspect all of them believed, as they shuffled out, that things would be back to normal tomorrow.

My so-called father didn’t move.

Her eyes rested on him.  “You don’t mean any of that; it was just a wake-up call to what I admit have been a few annoying children.  But let’s face it, we both spoiled them.  It’s as much….”

She picked up her glass of wine and threw it at him, the wine not the glass.

“Rethink those words, Roger.  If that’s the defence you’re going with, you’re in big trouble.  Leave now before I pick up the phone and call my lawyers.”

He stood slowly.  “We can talk later.  How will you get home?”

“Charlie can take me.”

I could see his nose wrinkle at the thought of my so-called mother being seen in a ’60s Ford truck.

Another repentant look at her, he left, joining the others out on the pavement.  They hadn’t gone, still stunned from their mother’s outburst.

She sighed, then sat.

I was stunned, still trying to come to terms with what had been said.  Adopted.  My so-called mother had a sister worth 300 million.  How?  I was my mother’s sister’s child.  And something else I remembered, my father was my father in a weird twist of fate.

I was, in a sense, family.  But my aunt, who was my mother for all intents and purposes, hadn’t done a very good job.

…

It was five minutes, maybe more, before she spoke.  I think that at that time she ran through every scenario, and not one of them would suffice.

A sigh, then, “You should be angry.  I don’t think there’s anything I can say that you would believe just how sorry I am.  That’s on me.  I want to use the excuse that both my twin sister and I were stupid spoilt drug addled kids who honestly believed life had no consequences, that we could do whatever we liked. 

“I met your father, Susannah stole him, he dumped her and picked me, then shagged her anyway.  She got pregnant, couldn’t handle it, killed herself, and it was a miracle you survived.  We agreed to adopt you and call you our own.  After all, there was no difference between my sister and I.  I just went away with you for nine months, and everything was fine.

“My problem was in marrying your father; I had to forgo my inheritance.  I got an allowance, but I didn’t really care all that much about money, and let him manage it.  I had no idea how much he disadvantaged you to the benefit of the others, not until a year ago, with Anna and her endless visits to rehabilitation.  And all the money he’d poured into John’s black hole was caused by idiotic investments.  The others are not much better.

“I’m sorry you got nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.  It taught me lessons they will never get.  If you have nothing to start with, then every step up is appreciated all the more.  Perhaps the best birthday present was to see them finally look as scared as I have felt all my life.  It won’t hurt them, but It might be too late to make a point.”

“It’s never too late.  And the point will be made.  Did you get the box?”

“With a card and a letter?”

“Yes.  Did you read the letter?”

“No.  It said not to until after the party.”

“You have it?”

I took it out of my pocket and showed her.  I knew now who it was from.  My mother.  My real mother.

She took it with shaking hands and tears running down her cheeks.  There were eighteen years of pain etched on her face.

“I was there when you were born.  She had one last breath in her; as she breathed life into you, she exhaled her last.  I loved you like you were mine, until I got lost in a sea of self pity an post natal depression.  We were twins; I felt her pain, I felt everything that she would have felt.  I’m sorry I wasn’t made of stronger stuff.”

“I think I’ve always regarded you as my mother.  Though preferring the other five, well, that took a little understanding, of which in the end I had none.”

“I come from an era of women who preferred to hide behind their husbands.  It was drummed into us, but Anna was never going to be like that.  Still, that’s not an excuse.”  She handed the letter back.
You should read it now, then we can decide what to do.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Yes.”

…

If you are reading this, you will have just turned 18, a very important moment in your life.

If you have not been told, you will have been adopted by my twin sister, and she has promised me she will look after you better than I could.

I was not very good at managing anything.  Our lives were ruined from the start by parents who did not care at all what happened to us, that if they threw enough money at the problem, it would go away.

Money does not solve problems; it simply amplifies them into bigger problems.

I hope she has not gone down that path.  If she has, then I am sorry that I trusted her, that you did not get a life that was not as it should have been.

And if, on the other hand, she has managed to teach you the value of life, and more importantly, that it is family, those we choose and those we have to live with, and others who will have a guiding influence that will make us who we will become.

Given the five examples that constitute her current children, I’m not holding my breath that she will make a good fist of it.

Still, on my deathbed, I can only hope.  Perhaps there is some afterlife where I can come down and reprimand them if they falter.  You will be the judge of that.  Try not to be too critical.  Her upbringing, like mine, was terrible, and it’s hard to break out of a cycle you’ve known and been subject to for most of your life.

But, whatever the circumstances you find yourself in, if you are reading this letter, my sister has had the wherewithal to give it to you.  It means even if she is ashamed of what happened, it cannot be so bad that you might unequivocally hate her.

In the box is a key to a safety deposit box.  It is where your inheritance is.  The other key’s location can be obtained from the family lawyers, name and address with the key.  It can only be given to you, so you will have to undergo a DNA test and a few other identity tests that Freda will help you with.

What you do with your inheritance is up to you. I can only hope that you will not take a leaf out of my book and waste the opportunity to do some good, the good I realised far too late that I could have done.

Remember that I loved you then with all of my heart, and will to the end of tine.

Susannah.

…

“Were you that bad?”

“What did she say?”

“Your parents threw money at the problem, hoping it would go away.”

“Then yes.  I married your father to break that cycle and find some normality, but he was a poor fool who found himself in a world he couldn’t cope with.  My parents were right to disown me.”

“You had your sister’s fortune.”

“No.  We never mentioned that to him, only that she would provide a certain sum for your upbringing.  We had money, but that boost allowed helping to help indulge his children, where in the end they were no better off than my brothers and sisters were.  He wanted the life I hated.”

“And by a quirk of fate, you both brought me up the way in which mother had hoped you would, by a totally different method.  Resentment.  I have not once ever had to thought i could have anything I wanted, not like the others.  Cars, gift cards, credit cards with no limit, houses, and apartments.  None 9f them really work for a living, and I can’t see how they’re going to function.”

“They can come and see you for advice on how to live within their means.”

They were still outside the restaurant, trying to come to terms with what just happened.  They’d turned on Anna, then the father, then each other.

“Did you mean what you said to them?”

“Yes.  No more.”

“I don’t think they quite get that.  They’re still outside.”

She shrugged.  “Then it’s going to be a cold day in hell tomorrow.  We have a road trip.  New York.  I want to tell you everything about your mother before we go home, our home, where she came from, and where you will be welcomed.”

“How could that be possible?”

“That you will discover is the advantage of being a firstborn Rossiter.  My sister was born three minutes before me, and therefore, is the eldest child.  The eldest Rossiter then becomes the heir.  You were her first and eldest child, and therefore the current heir to the Rossiter legacy. 

“And you have a sister, something my husband never knew about, a twin sister.  The caretaker.  There is a world that my husband and my other children know nothing about because I was excommunicated. 

“Because now you are of age and can accept the inheritance, if you want to, of course, there’s no obligation; it has to be your choice, you can give me the chance to come back, but that too is only at your discretion, and I will understand if you rule against it.

“But its complicated and messy and swamped with rules and protocols and its the reason both my sister and I ran away. You might too when you discover the full extent of it.”

“I can make their lives easier,” I waved a hand in their direction.

“You could, but they never made it easy for you.  None of us did.  By choice or by ignorance.  That might never have changed if it had not been for Anna’s outburst.”

“But you said you were making changes.  That means you knew you were wrong and wanted to do something about it.”

“After 16 years of neglecting my sister’s wishes?”

I shrugged.  “We will have much to talk about.  Shall we go?  Out the back.  I had a feeling, one way or another, I would be slinking out of here.”

Good to see, also, it had started snowing.  It was the first of the season, and it meant Christmas was around the corner.  It might not be fun at home, but as a member of the town’s Christmas committee, the pageantry, the fete, the Christmas tree plot, and charity events always made it worthwhile.

Perhaps this year I could do more.

My mother, so-called, was my mother, good and bad.  She was the only mother I’d had, and I’d learned from school that it wasn’t always a luxury for all the kids there.

I gave her a hug, which surprised her, a hug that had every one of those 18 years her twin had been gone, but rather strangely was still with her in body and spirit.  I realised then I didn’t have to imagine the woman I had never met because she was the woman standing there in front of me.

It was the best and only present I could ever want for what was the most memorable and remarkable birthday of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026