The Secret We Share Alone
Years passed before I could think of it without a mixture of shame and gratitude that I couldn’t fully understand at nineteen. Now in my thirties, with a husband and a daughter, life has settled down. But the story, the secret we still keep between us, remains a reminder of my mistakes… and of the importance of having someone there to save you — from others, the world, and most importantly, from yourself.
When I was eighteen, I had a crush on Andrew, my father’s best friend. He was nearly twenty years my senior, clever, calm, and refined. A classic man with a history: long divorced, with a job at the county council in York, always smelling of fine cologne and coffee.
To me, he was like someone from a movie: courteous, attentive, with a soft voice and eyes you could get lost in. I dreamed about him, scribbled his surname next to mine in my journal, and thought it was the kind of love books are written about.
As for him… he saw what was happening. And thankfully, he never returned my feelings with flirtation or the slightest hint. He was as tactful as one could be. Never overstepping even when my teenage hormones pushed me to try and provoke him.
When he distanced himself, I felt slighted. I planned a kind of revenge, in my youthful eyes. I got involved with Colin, a boy everyone warned about: with family troubles, a wanderer, and a sweet talker. My parents begged me to leave him; my mother cried, my father shouted. Even Andrew tried to intervene, telling me I was heading towards ruin. But I was resentful. I thought Andrew was jealous, trying to control me, that everyone wanted to turn me into a “good girl.”
Ignoring them all, I soon found myself pregnant.
Colin disappeared the moment he found out. Suddenly, I was alone, scared, angry, and humiliated. I couldn’t tell my mother; she was already on edge, and my father, suffering from heart disease, might not survive the shock. I spent nights crying into my pillow, lost about what to do.
One day, mustering courage, I knocked on Andrew’s door. As soon as he opened, I broke down in tears on his doorstep.
He asked no questions, simply saying, “Come on, we’ll sort this out.”
And so we did. His ex-wife, whom I had once judged harshly, turned out to be a wonderful woman — a midwife with golden hands. She was with me from the first ultrasound to the end, which, unfortunately for me, meant an abortion.
Andrew took care of everything: sorted the appointments, paid for it, stood by me throughout. He didn’t judge, lecture, or reproach me. He was just there. Every day.
I know he never said a word to my parents. He saved me and my family from terror, pain, disgrace, and sorrow. He acted with honor. Like a true gentleman.
A few months later, he took me to a café. We sat in silence before he gently said, “Your father is very ill. The doctors have little hope. Even finding a donor wouldn’t help him survive the operation.”
I felt something inside me die. My father passed away within a week. During that time, Andrew stayed with us, holding my hand, comforting my mother, helping with the funeral. He wasn’t afraid of my pain. He cried with me.
Years have gone by. Andrew moved away, to Brighton, remarried. We don’t keep in touch much; just the occasional brief letter. But I’ll forever remember his silence. His protection. That he didn’t give in to my teenage infatuation and ruin my life.
I’m not sure what I thought then. Maybe I was looking for a father figure or a hero. Yet, he wouldn’t let me fall. He preserved both his honor and my dignity.
We still keep this secret. No one knows. Not my mother, not my husband, not even my closest friends. Only him and me.
Sometimes, I believe the world still holds together thanks to people like Andrew. People who can remain silent, understand, forgive, and stand by you. Not out of pity — but from love. Real love. Not the kind from novels, but the kind that saves lives.
This story could have broken me. Instead, it made me stronger. All because of one person who simply remained human.
