“Following in His Footsteps”
“Mick, what’s wrong with you? Look at this—English, a D, maths, an F, and you skipped literature altogether! Why won’t you study? What am I supposed to do with you, you little rascal?” Laura sighed, flipping through her son’s year 9 school report.
“Dunno,” the boy grumbled, turning away.
“Leave him be, love! Literature, biology… I bunked off too, and I turned out fine!” slurred her husband Steve from the sofa in the next room, where he’d been sprawled out all afternoon.
“Fine? Really? Couldn’t even talk to your son like a proper father—too busy drowning yourself in beer for three days straight!” Laura snapped.
“What’s the fuss? I’ve got a right to unwind! It was Dave’s birthday, his fiftieth! Big deal!” Steve groaned, face buried in a cushion as he drifted back to sleep.
…Laura had grown up in a proper, well-to-do family. Her parents had raised her right—good manners, good education. She aced school, got into a top uni. But fate had a cruel twist: she met Steve.
They’d crossed paths at a student party. Laura was in her final year, while Steve had already left his vocational college and started working at the factory. He was handsome, with these striking eyes, but older-looking than his age. She had no idea then how he’d turn her tidy, orderly life upside down.
They got together that summer after Laura graduated. At first, things were alright—but she quickly noticed Steve never missed a chance to drink. Any excuse—a birthday, a promotion, even just a Friday—turned into a full-blown pub crawl.
Eventually, Laura realised her mistake. They were all wrong for each other. She nearly left—until she found out she was pregnant.
She couldn’t bring herself to end it, nor raise a child alone. An optimist at heart, she hoped fatherhood would steady Steve. But when he stumbled into the maternity ward drunk, she knew—nothing would ever change.
And it didn’t. Steve drank constantly. Half-hearted help around the house, always either out with mates or sleeping off the night before.
Laura never complained. She worked hard, earned decent money, kept the flat spotless, doted on Mick. But the older he got, the more he took after his dad. She barely recognised herself in him: school bored him, clubs and activities were a hard no.
By year 8, he was out of control.
“Mrs. Thompson, please talk to your son. He’s rude, disruptive, and his grades—well, don’t get me started…” The same old lectures from his form tutor. Every parents’ evening, she’d walk home hating herself, wondering where she’d gone wrong.
At first, Mick made excuses—promised he’d do better. Empty words.
He scraped through his GCSEs. Sixth form? Not a chance. It was vocational college or nothing. Laura felt sick—her son was following Steve’s path. And Steve? A full-blown alcoholic now. She’d drag him out of benders, beg his boss not to sack him.
Mick flopped through college too—skipping classes, mouthing off, picking fights.
“Mum, maybe I should just drop out and work at Dad’s factory? Start earning proper cash,” he said once.
“Cash? What’s this slang? You need qualifications, Mick! Do you *want* to end up like your dad?”
“What’s wrong with Dad? He’s alright.”
“Exactly! Let the lad work if he wants! We’ve got connections,” Steve butted in.
Somehow, Laura convinced Mick to stick it out. She begged his tutors to overlook his behaviour, give him one last chance. He barely passed—then insisted on working at the factory. Laura pleaded, knowing exactly how this would go. Mick was Steve’s double—looks, attitude, everything. None of her in him.
But like any mum, she hoped he’d wise up. Fate wasn’t kind. Her worst fear came true—Mick joined his dad’s shift, and they started drinking together.
One evening, Laura tripped over something in the hallway—Mick, sprawled out, dead to the world.
“Mick? Love, are you ill?” She shook him, ready to dial 999.
“Piss off, Mum… just tired,” he slurred, swatting her away.
The stench of alcohol hit her. He was wasted—couldn’t even make it to bed. Just like Steve used to.
In the kitchen, Steve was slumped over the table, snoring. She almost screamed at him—but didn’t.
Grabbing her bag, she walked out. Where to go? No close friends to vent to, nowhere to crash. She wandered to the park, sat on a bench. Autumn was mild, people laughing everywhere. Laura watched them, wondering what she’d done to deserve this.
Suddenly, a dog—a golden retriever—bounded up, a red ball in its mouth. Laura startled.
“Sorry about that! Max, here!” A man whistled, and the dog trotted back.
“It’s fine. Just… wasn’t expecting it,” Laura mumbled, wiping her eyes.
“You alright?”
“Mm. Just tired.”
“Name’s Anthony. And you?”
“Laura.”
“Lovely name. Rare these days. Fancy a coffee?”
She blinked. “Yeah… alright.”
“Café’s just round the corner. We’ll grab takeaway—Max isn’t allowed inside.”
They talked for hours. For the first time in years, Laura felt lighter. They swapped numbers, kept talking. Eventually, she told him everything. Anthony offered her a way out—she took it.
“Look at this! Found yourself a new bloke, eh? Mick, your mum’s ditching us!” Steve jeered as she packed.
“Mum, seriously? What about us?”
“You’ll manage,” Laura said flatly.
“Yeah, reckon we will.”
“Come on, son—let’s celebrate! Special occasion and all,” Steve sneered.
Anthony waited downstairs. As he loaded her suitcase, Laura glanced up at the flat. The kitchen light was on. She could picture them already—cracking open beers, toasting her absence.
“Ready?” Anthony asked.
“Yes. Quickly,” she said, sliding into the car.
Anthony was everything Steve wasn’t. At first, his tidy, well-furnished flat felt alien—no yelling, no stench of booze. She’d forgotten life could be this calm.
She filed for divorce, cut contact with Steve. Mick only called to borrow money. She gave it, but never invited him over.
“Laura… how’d you feel about moving? Maybe London?” Anthony asked one evening.
“I… hadn’t thought about it.”
“Head office offered me a transfer. Better pay, better role. Wanted to ask you first.”
She paused. “Let’s do it. I’ll find work there. Nothing’s keeping me here.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned.
Before leaving, she met Mick one last time. He showed up tipsy.
“What d’you want?”
“Hello to you too. You’re drunk.”
“Here to lecture me?”
“No. I’m leaving. London. For good.”
“With that bloke?”
“Mick, *look* at yourself. You’re young—you could change! Anthony knows people—he could help you find—”
“Piss off! Got a job, don’t I? Sod off to London then. Me and Dad’ll sell the flat—too big anyway. We’ll move to the factory digs.”
“Do what you want,” she said, walking away.
Two weeks later, she boarded the plane. Anthony squeezed her hand.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Just… remembering. Grew up here. My parents are buried here.”
“Regrets?”
“None,” Laura said firmly. And she meant it.
