“Victor — the Provider Who Was Consumed by His Own Kindness”
Victor came home exhausted, same as always. He pushed open the kitchen door and froze—his mum was in tears.
“Mum, what’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, alarmed.
No answer. Just silence and downcast eyes.
His grandmother stepped around the corner.
“I warned you, Susan, I told you this would happen!” she snapped at her daughter.
Victor was fourteen that night. That was when he grew up. His dad had left—for someone else, someone “fun and carefree.” Left behind were three: Susan, Victor, and little Lily. No money, no child support. Just a shadow on the doorstep.
Gran moved in the next day and started orchestrating their lives. Mum cried, Gran nagged, and Victor tried to stay out of the way. He learned early—childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
First, he worked at a bakery—Aunt Margaret took pity on the skinny boy with the eyes of a grown man. Gave him warm tea, pastries, a bit of cash. That’s how Victor’s path began—from childhood straight into survival.
He studied, worked, side-hustled. The army didn’t take him—Margaret’s connections helped. She became family: no babying, no pity, just respect. For his strength, his honesty, his quiet endurance.
By twenty-four, Victor was a man. A proper one. Lily grew up—Victor was her brother and father rolled into one. Gran, once sharp-tongued, now saved him the best cuts at dinner.
He fell in love. Got married. Took out a mortgage. Bought his wife a car. Helped his sister. Moved Mum and Gran in—how could he not? He was “the man of the house.”
Kids came. One, then another. Wife stayed home. Victor worked. No weekends, no breaks. Money ran short—he took extra jobs. Summer—family to Cornwall. Mum—to a spa. Sister—wedding money. Nieces and nephews—new clothes. Victor—pushed to the edge.
When Gran passed, he didn’t even have time to cry. Had to take Mum to the doctor. Wife was tired, resentful. But Victor carried them all. Without a word.
Then one day… he bought himself a guitar. A childhood dream. Came home. Wife scoffed:
“A waste. What’s the point?”
His son demanded money. For a trip. Victor asked:
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Maybe it’s time you earned it?”
“I’m in uni—”
“So was I. I worked since I was fourteen!”
The door slammed. Victor left. Rented a flat for a night. Put in a holiday request. Lay down and… slept properly for the first time in years.
He decided—now, he’d live. For himself. Even just a little. Just to try.
Called his wife:
“Fancy a holiday? Your pick. The Alps, Scotland—wherever.”
“Why?”
“Just to live. Together. Like normal people.”
“No. I’ve got things to do.”
“Then goodbye.”
And at home, the storm hit. “Victor’s a monster,” “he walked out,” “I gave him everything.” Friends shook their heads. “How could you, Victor…”
And Victor? He stood at the top of Ben Nevis, breathing. Really breathing. Maybe he was a monster. Or maybe… just a man who finally dared to live for himself.
