The Wendy House at the End of the Garden

Renowned meat magnate Patrick O’Brien had a love/hate relationship with the quaint Wendy House at the bottom of his garden.

He hated it because it reminded him of his family and his past that he was so trying desperately to forget. He had almost managed to do it, were it not for the Wendy House.

Every time he looked at it, he was reminded of the days he visited the manor with his family when his now deceased grandparents were still the owners of it.

He remembered playing in it with his sister, Aoife; a woman he now despised along with his parents who he hadn’t seen for almost two decades.

The best solution of course would be to dismantle the Wendy House so he didn’t need to look at it ever again, but every time he planned to do so the sentimental and nostalgic part of his mind stopped him.

And so, the house remained at the bottom of the garden.

“One day, I’m going to get rid of it.” Patrick said to his butler Cordell Verger whilst the two of them were looking at the house during a break from their croquet game.

“You’ve said that multiple times, yet you never do.” Cordell said.

“Yes. But soon I will be able to repress the part of my mind that is making me hesitate.” Patrick said.

“I’m sure it’s possible, sir.” Cordell said.

Cordell knew to humour Patrick during the early weeks of June, as Patrick was particularly angry in the days leading up to Father’s Day; the other time when he remembered his past.

“Perhaps we could have it demolished whilst you’re away so you don’t have to see your childhood destroyed.” Cordell suggested.

“Yes. But even thinking about the house makes me fell nostalgic. I hate it.” Patrick said.

“Then we’ll simply do it without you knowing.” Cordell said.

“But I’ll know that it’s been done because I’ll see the empty space.” Patrick said.

“You might not,” Cordell said.

“Maybe,” Patrick said.

Just then, Patrick’s Personal Assistant George Blythe walked up to Patrick and George with a envelope.

“You have some post, sir.” George said. Giving the envelope to Patrick.

Patrick looked at the envelope, he recognised the handwriting on the envelope as his father Seamus’. He knew what it was about.

“Leave me, please,” Patrick said to his butler and his PA.

The two men obliged and walked away.

Patrick opened the letter and began to read it. It was exactly what he was expecting.

Hi Pat,

As you probably know, Father’s Day is coming up. Usually I would be expecting a card from you, but here we are.

Patrick sighed angrily. Seamus was once again trying to guilt trip him into sending him a Father’s Day card and reconcile with his family after twenty odd years. Patrick rolled his eyes and carried on reading.

I’ve grown to accept that you’re probably never going to send me anything for Father’s Day or see me again, although that would still be appreciated.

“Why had I opened this card rather than shred it?” Patrick thought to himself. Still, he’d got this far, he might as well read to the end. So he did.

We are always available with open arms should you wish to return to us. In the mean time, I hope the Wendy House at the bottom of the garden is still there so that you can always remember us when you look at it.

Forever thinking of you,

Your parents Seamus and Moira, and your sister Aoife.

Patrick turned around and looked at the Wendy House, his blood boiling. He scrunched up the card from his family.

This was the one problem with moving into the English mansion his grandparents had left for him and his sister in their will; his parents in Dublin knew where to track him down.

But he would not let them win, he was sure about that.

“CORDELL!” Patrick shouted.

“Coming, sir.” Cordell said before rushing up to Patrick.

“I’m going to check on my abattoir in Rugby. I don’t want to see the Wendy House here when I get back.” Patrick said.

“Ok, sir.” Cordell said.

Patrick then walked quickly back to his mansion, hoping that he could leave before the nostalgic and sentimental side of his mind revealed itself.

But it was no use. He hadn’t even got past the croquet lawn before starting to feel teary eyed. He turned round to face Cordell.

“Actually, I do.” Patrick said.

“Very well, sir.” Cordell said.

With that, Patrick walked back to the mansion. Cordell followed suit.

Patrick was fuming; he’d let the nostalgic and sentimental side of his mind take him over yet again. Soon he will learn to repress it.

His parents may have won the battle, as they had won all the battles before, but they’ll never win the war, Patrick thought to himself as he rode in his jet black Aston Martin DB11 on the way to his abattoir in Rugby.

He was sure of that much.