The Sting of a Man’s Tears
“Off somewhere smart, are we?” asked the neighbour, eyeing Cyril in his crisp suit and tie.
“To my son’s graduation,” he replied.
“Blimey! How quickly other people’s children grow up…”
“One’s own do as well,” Cyril smiled.
“Aye, they do… So, no more child support soon, eh?”
Cyril fixed him with a look that made the man shrink back.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, you must be sick of handing money to your ex by now.”
“Not in the least,” Cyril snapped, leaving the neighbour baffled as he strode away.
Gradually, his good spirits returned. Memories washed over him…
***
The day his life had changed forever, Cyril had been numb.
By all accounts, he had it all—freedom, a thriving business, a fine London flat, no shortage of admirers. So why did he feel so hollow? Nothing stirred him. Nothing mattered.
Leaving the office, he sensed the coming rain. Dark clouds rolled in, the wind whipped up. He hailed a cab—no sense getting drenched. His car was in the shop, and he’d never owned an umbrella.
Slumping into the backseat, he drowned in emptiness.
The driver prattled, eager to impress his well-off fare, while the radio droned some maudlin tune—music Cyril despised.
Then, a verse snapped him back to reality.
*I lived my days in reckless, careless pride,*
*Young blood aflame like wine so bold.*
*Her love seemed endless, flowing like the tide,*
*And I, too blind to see it grow cold.*
*But day by day, I let it slip away,*
*Each careless act a deeper wound.*
*And lost the love so pure, so true,*
*In days when she was mine…*
A pang gripped him. The pain spread, and suddenly, he knew its source.
Molly…
His Molly…
Margaret…
Names from different chapters of their life.
Their schoolyard romance had ended in marriage. No one believed beautiful Margaret Whitmore would ever wed the school’s notorious troublemaker, Cyril Blackwood.
But he’d known. Without her, he couldn’t breathe.
For her, he’d studied, clawed his way up, become the man he was.
And she…
She’d been his anchor. Loving, patient, always there.
She’d borne him two sons.
Never a complaint, never a harsh word.
He’d taken it all for granted—believed she’d never leave, no matter what.
Then came the money, the parties, the late nights…
Margaret never questioned him.
Raised their boys alone.
He never apologised, never helped.
Provided.
Thought it enough.
He was wrong.
One evening, she spoke the words that shattered everything.
“Cyril, I don ‘t love you anymore.”
“Don’t be daft,” he stammered. “You’re just tired. Let’s have supper…”
She set the plates down. “You don’t understand. We need to divorce. I can’t—won’t—stay.”
“And the boys?” he blurted, instantly cringing at the cliché.
“Precisely why I’m leaving. They deserve love… not just a marriage.”
“Then sod off!” He grabbed his coat and stormed out.
Three days he stayed away, hoping she’d call, beg him back.
Silence.
Returning home, he found suitcases in the hall—hers, the boys’.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“Packing,” she said calmly.
“Why?”
She stared, bewildered.
“Stop this,” he grimaced. “Don’t… I’ll go.”
And he did.
Left her everything.
In his world, there was no other way.
After the divorce, Margaret stayed single for years. He knew—visited when he pleased, spoiled the boys, demanded respect. Felt entitled to it.
Then, she remarried.
Fury engulfed him. How dare she? His sons’ mother! She ought to kiss his feet for what he’d given her—generous support, extra help!
So, he poisoned her peace.
Especially when drunk—a growing habit.
Called, texted vile things…
Even threatened…
Margaret never reacted. Just blocked him one day.
Then he lurked outside her home…
Sober, he’d loathe himself—yet never apologised. Couldn’t face her.
Bit by bit, his life became hatred—for himself, for her, for the world.
He forgot how to feel, how to laugh.
***
Now, this song…
“Who’s singing?” Cyril rasped.
“Blimey, mate! That’s Travers! Never heard of him?”
Cyril didn’t answer. A minute later, he barked, “Turn around. Now. Fast.”
Passing a market, he spotted an old woman selling peonies—Margaret’s favourite.
He leapt out, bought every last stem, thrust money at the startled seller.
Now he stood at her door, heart pounding.
Forgotten emotions surged.
For the first time in years, he felt alive.
He rang the bell.
Margaret opened the door. Shock, then fear—then, seeing the boyish unease in the man she’d once loved, she smiled. Knew he wasn’t here to fight.
“Come in,” she stepped aside.
He handed her the flowers. “For you.”
“Thank you,” she buried her face in the blooms.
“Molly, who’s there?” Her husband emerged from the kitchen, wearing a silly cartoon apron.
Seeing Cyril, the man tensed—past encounters had always ended poorly.
“Molly,” Cyril met her eyes, voice low but steady. “I understand now. I was wrong. I wrecked my own life. My happiness. Because without you and the boys… I’ve got nothing.”
She studied him, speechless. Her husband held her hand, watchful.
“And you—Nathan, is it? Thank you. For being there for them. When I wasn’t.”
Cyril extended a hand.
Nathan hesitated—then shook it.
“Where are the lads?” Cyril asked. “Can I see them?”
“Of course,” Margaret smiled. “They’ve missed you.”
Dinner followed—long talks, a pact to stay close.
***
Years passed.
Cyril lived alone, worked hard—but never missed time with his sons.
He became a fixture in Margaret and Nathan’s home. Holidays, weekends…
He and Nathan bonded over fishing, even got the boys hooked.
No one saw Cyril as an outsider anymore. More like family.
He cherished it—and never gave them cause to doubt his decency.
***
Lost in thought, Cyril reached the school.
“Dad!” His eldest waved through the crowd.
“Am I late?” He hugged his son, shook Nathan’s hand, smiled at Margaret. “Walked here.”
“Right on time,” she said. “It’s only just beginning.”
*How late we learn life’s hardest truths,*
*Through loss and pain and wasted years.*
*Who holds her now, who shares her youth,*
*Who dries at night her happy tears?*
*May fortune bless her every day,*
*God keep her children safe from harms,*
*For I knew heaven in my way…*
*In days when she was mine.*
Cyril never became a fan of Travers. But whenever that song played, silent tears traced the lines of his weathered face.
