Every Four Years

Age Twenty Four

“I can’t believe Haven is four years old today!”

Grace beams at me from across the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand and her hair still wild from sleep.

“I know,” she says, eyes crinkling. “Feels like yesterday we were sitting in that tiny office, drinking cheap champagne and waiting for our first customer. Remember how nervous you were?”

“Nervous?” I raise a brow. “I was strategically cautious.”

Grace snorts. “You were pacing holes into the floor and checking the website traffic every two minutes.”

She’s not wrong.

Since that first day, Haven has become everything I dreamed of — and more. Three locations now, spread across London. Dozens of staff and volunteers. Partnerships with local businesses to create jobs for the people who come through our doors.

Every time I walk into one of our shelters — seeing families safe, young people smiling, people rebuilding their lives — I feel something loosen in my chest. This is what all the fighting was for. This is what freedom looks like.

Grace takes a long sip of her coffee, then grins. “You know what else today is, right?”

“What?”

“The fifth anniversary of our bestie-ship!” she declares, throwing her arms out dramatically. “And the fifth anniversary of us living together. Not that you gave me a choice.”

We both laugh.

Five years ago, after that night in the café, I helped Grace pack what little she owned. I went back to Mickey’s flat with her — stood in the doorway while he stammered excuses and threats — and calmly reminded him what would happen if he ever touched her again.

To Grace’s surprise, but not mine, he signed the divorce papers the moment they arrived. She’s lived with me ever since.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say honestly.

“Me neither,” Grace says, smiling warmly. Then her eyes light up with mischief. “Oh! I forgot to tell you — I met the new guy yesterday.”

I glance up from my laptop. “New guy?”

“Yeah, our new neighbour. He’s moving in tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“I told him we’d help.”

“Grace…” I groan. “I was going to the Camden office tomorrow. The new pinball machines are being delivered, and I promised the kids I’d destroy them all at pinball supremacy. Plus, I’ve got the self-defence class at three.”

The Camden branch is my favourite — half shelter, half youth centre. Weekends are loud, chaotic, and full of life. Watching the kids learn to stand their ground, to find pride and power in themselves, that’s what keeps me going.

Grace waves a dismissive hand. “You can crush their tiny dreams next weekend. I already promised our services to Mr. Hunky New Neighbour.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Hunky?”

“Did I say that?” she says, too innocently. “I mean… I may have accidentally checked him out while he was signing his lease. The man’s got a mighty fine ass, Al.”

I stare at her, deadpan. “My god, Grace. Have you no shame?”

“None,” she says proudly. “Besides, he’s too young for me anyway. More your age, come to think of it.”

I point a warning finger at her. “Oh no, we’re not doing this.”

“What? I’m just saying, it’s been forever since you’ve gone on a date.”

I roll my eyes. “And yet I’ve survived.”

“You’re impossible,” she says with mock exasperation, following me into the hallway as I grab my keys. “One of these days, some poor soul is going to fall head over heels for you, and I’m going to laugh when you don’t know what to do with it.”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I’m running from it,” I mutter. She gasps dramatically. “The sass! Miss Alley Kase, you wound me.”

“Oh damn,” I say with a grin. “Full-name serious, huh?”

Grace points a finger right back at me. “Yes, because I am serious. You’re still young, and you work too damn hard. If you don’t let yourself have some fun, you’re going to burn out.”

I pause by the door and look at her — really look at her. Five years, and she’s still the only person who can make me laugh before I’ve had my coffee.

“Fine,” I say, pretending to sigh. “We’ll help the neighbour tomorrow. But I’m picking the playlist.”

Grace grins triumphantly. “Deal.”

As we head out the door, we’re still bickering like teenagers — her teasing, me pretending not to smile.

But under the laughter, I feel it — that quiet pulse of gratitude.

Four years of Haven. Five years of freedom.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against me… I’m happy.