Elizabeth had grown up hearing that the women in her family were cursed with misfortune. Her great-grandmother lost her husband in the war, her grandmother ruined her health in a factory accident, and her own mother’s father walked out when she was just three. Lizzie often imagined her marriage would end in some tragic way too. She didn’t want to believe it, but the shadow of the family curse loomed over her.
She met her future husband, Michael, in a small workshop on the outskirts of Manchester, where they both worked. He repaired machinery while she sorted parts. They bonded over lunch in the shared canteen, chatting during their breaks. The decision to marry came quickly. They had a modest wedding and moved into her small two-bedroom flat on Hillside Road. Her grandmother had passed by then, so the place became their home.
Life carried on. First came their eldest son, Oliver, then the younger one, Jacob. Not long after, Lizzie’s mother died, leaving her to manage the household and raise the boys alone. She never complained—Michael earned the money, and her job was to care for the home and their sons.
But after a few years, things changed. Michael started staying late at work, mentioning a younger colleague who “helped him with paperwork.” Lizzie noticed him drifting away—coming home only to change clothes, sometimes not even staying the night. She understood what was happening, but the fear of being left alone with the boys paralyzed her.
“Leave her. Think about the children,” she finally worked up the courage to say one day.
Michael said nothing. No excuses, no shouting—just icy silence.
Lizzie kept taking care of him—cooking his meals, washing his shirts.
“All you’re good for is serving others,” he spat at her disdainfully after another attempt to talk.
She waited, hoping he’d come to his senses. Then one evening, Michael packed his things.
“Don’t leave us, please! Don’t abandon your sons!” Lizzie sobbed.
“You’re nothing but a pathetic servant,” he snapped, looking at her with contempt.
The boys heard those words. Oliver and Jacob huddled together on the sofa, watching their father walk out. They didn’t understand why. Had they misbehaved? Had their mum done something wrong?
They saw everything—their mother’s tears, her struggle to hold herself together, her endless care for them. They tried to help—washing dishes, tidying the flat. Lizzie devoted herself entirely to the boys and her job. The thought of new love never crossed her mind—her sons were her world.
But fate had other plans. One day, while shopping at the local Tesco, Lizzie dropped a bag of rice. A man quickly picked it up.
“Need a hand with your shopping?” he asked with a smile.
Lizzie hesitated, but before she could answer, he took her bags.
“Right, I’ll decide for myself then,” he said, and they chatted on the walk home.
His name was Thomas. He had a gentle voice and a slight limp but was kind-hearted. Lizzie thanked him and said goodbye, not expecting to see him again. But Thomas kept showing up at the same Tesco, almost as if planning it. That was how their friendship began.
Lizzie took on extra work cleaning the stairwells in her building. Usually, the boys helped, but that day she tried to manage alone.
“Mind if I lend a hand?” came a familiar voice.
Thomas was there again. He helped her finish, and that evening, Lizzie invited him over. Thomas arrived in a smart suit, carrying daisies and a box of custard tarts.
“Evening,” he said, handing the sweets to the boys.
Oliver, ever the curious one, sniffed the tarts, making everyone laugh. The tension melted. At dinner, Lizzie dropped her fork, and Thomas caught it mid-air.
“You play cricket?” Jacob asked.
“Did in school, ages ago,” Thomas chuckled.
“We’ll show you our pitch!” Oliver offered. “We play with our mates.”
The next day, they met again. Thomas admitted,
“You’ve probably noticed I move slow and talk a bit off. Had a bad accident. My ex-wife didn’t stick around. Suppose you won’t want to see me now either.”
Lizzie stayed quiet, not wanting to push.
“If my lads aren’t a bother, you’re welcome anytime,” she finally said with a smile.
Thomas became part of their lives. He was attentive, played with the boys, helped around the house. At first, the children were unsure, but soon they grew fond of him. Thomas became the father Michael never was. They played cricket together, had friends over, and the house filled with laughter.
Years passed. Oliver got a girlfriend; Jacob took up guitar. One day, Oliver even went to Thomas for advice—he trusted him that much. Then, one evening, the doorbell rang. Lizzie opened it and froze.
Michael stood on the doorstep.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “I want to fix things.”
“Get lost!” Oliver shouted, fists clenched.
“How dare you speak to me like that, you little brat?” Michael snarled.
“Don’t you talk to my son like that!” Thomas barked, stepping forward.
He was ready to defend his family.
“We don’t need you!” Jacob yelled, rushing to the door.
He shoved his father outside and slammed it shut.
“Let him try coming back,” he muttered.
Lizzie looked at her men—Oliver, Jacob, and Thomas. Her strength, her foundation. Against all odds, she’d built a real family. And in that moment, she was happier than ever.
