Katherine always had a knack for choosing well. Wealthy, influential, successful men flocked around her. Yet, against the expectations of her family and friends, she picked an ordinary bloke from Manchester—Oliver. No Adonis, no high-flyer, no businessman. Just a bloke who was genuine, kind, and attentive. The sort who looked you in the eye and held your hand when things got tough. They’d only been together a few months when they married, and within another two, little Emily was born. That’s when the real test began.
Katherine refused to let her career slip. Her department dangled a promotion in front of her—she shone in meetings, dashed off on business trips, and typed reports late into the night. Meanwhile, Oliver got the boot—his company downsized, his name scribbled on the redundancy list without explanation. That was when Katherine suggested, “You take paternity leave. You’d handle it better.” And he agreed—without complaint. First for her sake, then for Emily’s.
They lived far from family, with no one to lean on. Oliver, the eldest in a big brood, knew how to care for little ones. He plunged headfirst into nappies, bottles, porridge, sleepless nights, and trips to the GP. Before long, he became a fixture among the mums at the playground—debating teething, jabs, and lullabies like a veteran.
Katherine lived out her suitcase—conferences, reports, work dos, dinners with clients. She’d breeze in for two days, then vanish again. Oliver bore it. But one evening, he asked, “I want to work too. Let’s get a nanny.” She brushed him off.
“Emily’s attached to you. No nanny could manage like you do. Just hold on a bit longer, alright?”
He agreed again. Then she came back from another trip, still in her coat, and dropped the bombshell.
“I’ve fallen for someone else. He doesn’t like kids. So Emily stays with you. I’m just here for my things.”
“What?! You’re just—leaving?”
“I don’t love you anymore, Ollie. Sorry. But you’ll manage.”
And she left. No tears, no explanations. As if she’d wiped them from her life. Oliver was alone—with a toddler, no job, no support. But he didn’t crumble. He took odd jobs, got a council flat, got Emily into nursery—juggled whatever he could. Katherine only appeared on birthdays—bearing a gift and a smile for fifteen minutes.
Emily grew up clever, striking, and painfully sensitive. At school, she pushed herself hard; at home, she clung to the father who’d been both parents to her. She met her mother’s rare visits with ice.
“You don’t need to come in. Dad and I weren’t expecting you. We’re fine without you.”
Emily went to uni, introduced Oliver to her boyfriend. They married quickly and moved out. Alone again, Oliver didn’t despair—his kind neighbour, Margaret, kept him company, brought over shepherd’s pies, and lent an ear.
But happiness never stuck around long. Emily’s husband walked out, leaving her with their baby. Broken and exhausted, she came back.
“Dad… can we stay with you? I need to figure things out…”
Oliver didn’t refuse. He burped the baby, rocked her to sleep, sang lullabies. And Emily—she dived into another fling. Then she left her daughter behind. Just like Katherine had.
History repeated itself. But Oliver wasn’t surprised. He just cradled his granddaughter, stirred her porridge, and sat beside her. And Margaret—faithful Margaret—filled the kettle and said,
“Right then, Grandad. Ready to start all over?”
He smiled. Because despite the betrayal of the two women he’d loved most, this house still had love.
