“You’re mean. I’ll go live with Dad.”
Every day, young people pass each other without a second glance—no spark, no reaction, nothing. Then, one day, she catches sight of him by chance, and suddenly, her heart races, butterflies flutter in her stomach. He feels it too. And just like that, life apart becomes unthinkable. The idea of existing without one another loses all meaning. There’s nothing left but to surrender to fate and walk through life together.
That’s how Lucy fell in love with Oliver. One frosty Sunday afternoon, she went ice skating with her friends. Lucy was terrible at it—cautious, slow, stopping often. Her friends grew frustrated, racing ahead and leaving her behind. She was in the way, forcing confident skaters to swerve around her.
Exhausted, Lucy wobbled toward the rink’s barrier to wait. Just steps from the edge, someone crashed into her.
The impact sent her sprawling across the ice, her hip and knee throbbing.
“Sorry! Are you hurt? Can you get up? Let me help,” a voice said above her. Strong hands lifted her effortlessly back onto her skates.
Her knee flared with pain, and she gasped, nearly collapsing again if not for his quick grip. He steadied her, pulling her close—so close she could see herself reflected in his eyes. For a heartbeat, the world disappeared.
“You alright?” he asked.
The moment shattered. Sound rushed back—skates scraping, laughter, voices. Yet Lucy still clung to his coat sleeves.
“Think you can stand if I let go?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, unable to look away.
He released her, and she stayed upright.
“Good. Now, let’s get you to the barrier. I’ve got you.”
With his help, she didn’t just stumble—she glided.
“Maybe we should leave. There are benches by the exit.”
Lucy nodded. Leaning on him, she reached the bench and slumped down.
“Are you hurt bad?” He sat beside her. “You alone? Need me to walk you home?”
“I’m with friends.”
“Call them, let them know. Give me your ticket—I’ll grab your shoes.”
“No, I’ll wait.” Lucy resisted weakly.
“You’ll freeze.”
She already felt the chill seeping through her coat. Handing over her ticket and phone, she called her friends while he fetched her boots.
The walk home felt steady after the slippery ice, yet Lucy still gripped his arm, dizzy with something deeper than imbalance. His name was Oliver. Four years older, already working. She told him about her final year at uni, living with her mum. The connection was instant. When he invited her back to the rink next weekend, Lucy shook her head.
“Take me to the cinema instead.”
“Deal. I’ll call.”
But Oliver didn’t wait—he rang the next day and took her to a café. Winter wasn’t for long strolls. Some force had literally collided them together, and now they were inseparable.
Lucy fell hard. Life without Oliver? Unthinkable. It felt like they’d known each other forever. Spring arrived, and his parents started spending weekends at their countryside cottage, leaving the flat to them.
Summer raced by unnoticed. Autumn brought rain and frost. His parents’ trips grew rare, leaving the couple with nowhere to meet.
“What now?” Lucy pressed against him.
“I’ll think of something,” he promised.
Then, Oliver visited Lucy’s flat, and her mum confronted him outright: “How long do you plan to string my daughter along?”
“I wanted to propose at New Year’s. Haven’t even got the ring yet. But to put your mind at ease, I’ll ask for her hand right now,” Oliver said.
Lucy flushed with joy and mortification.
“Well, that’s different. Give her the ring at New Year’s, then. You two might as well be married already—I don’t know what to think!” Her mum relented, satisfied.
They wed in spring as snow melted and birdsong grew louder. Oliver had dreams of their own place, saving diligently. Wedding gifts covered the mortgage deposit. Happy newlyweds, they agreed to wait before starting a family.
Time passed. Lucy graduated, found a job. But soon, she broached the topic of children.
“We’re still paying the mortgage. No rush. Imagine the stress—why create problems just to solve them? Once we’re debt-free, we’ll talk. Makes sense, right?” Oliver reasoned.
Logically, yes. But nine months of pregnancy would buy time. Surely, they’d clear the mortgage by then…
“Let’s not argue,” Oliver cut her off.
It was useless to push. But Lucy’s friends pushed prams. One already had a second baby, though Lucy had married first. Eventually, she brought it up again.
“Fine, if you’re so set on it, have a baby,” Oliver conceded. “But don’t ask me to help. I earn the money—you handle the kid. No complaints about being tired. Agreed?”
Lucy bristled but held her tongue.
“You’re scared I’ll love the baby more than you, aren’t you?”
“Drop it. Have the kid if you must.”
Lucy stopped taking birth control. Two months later, the test showed two lines.
Oliver didn’t share her excitement. Then came relentless morning sickness. Housebound, Lucy wilted while he went out with mates. A wall rose between them. He never touched her bump, barely acknowledged it. “Once the baby’s here, he’ll change,” she told herself.
He didn’t. He recoiled from the crying newborn. When Lucy asked for nappies or clothes, he’d transfer money without a word.
“Spare me the details.”
One day, he eyed a stain on her dressing gown.
“You used to look so different,” he said, almost wistful.
Next evening, Lucy swapped her pyjamas for jeans, dabbed on makeup. Oliver didn’t notice.
Their daughter grew—walking, talking, racing to greet him. “Go to Mum. Let me change,” he’d deflect, shooing her away. Lucy’s heart cracked.
“At least hug her. She’s your child,” she pleaded.
“I never asked for this. Don’t force me to love her.”
She bit her tongue, honouring his ultimatum: no involvement. His only concern? Her birth control.
Friends envied Lucy. A sober, hardworking husband, their own home—so what if he ignored the kid? Men rarely helped raise children anyway.
When their daughter started nursery, Lucy planned to return to work.
“Stay home. I earn enough,” Oliver said. “I want a clean house, dinner ready.”
Arguing was futile. Besides, their daughter caught every nursery bug.
One afternoon, shopping between drop-offs, Lucy spotted Oliver leaving a café with another woman. That evening, she confronted him.
No denials. He provided for them, didn’t he? A man had his needs. Lucy snapped. She wouldn’t tolerate cheating—she’d leave for her mum’s.
“How will you live? You’re used to comfort. Think carefully,” he said, turning up the TV news.
“I have.”
Silence.
Next day, she packed their bags, called a taxi.
“I want Daddy!” her daughter wailed in the unfamiliar flat.
Even Lucy’s mum urged reconciliation. Oliver sent money faithfully. But he refused to see his child.
“Why doesn’t he love her? Is she not his? Did you cheat?” her mum probed.
“Don’t be absurd! He never wanted kids. Turns out I had Alice for myself. He’s the one who strayed!” Lucy sobbed.
Years passed at her mum’s. Alice switched schools, grew more like Oliver—stubborn, demanding. When refused toys, she’d threaten to run to Dad.
“You baby me! Dad never forced me,” she’d pout.
Odd, since he’d never read to her, taken her sledging, or bought gifts.
“What’s so great about him? If I’m so awful, go live with your dad!” Lucy shouted, instantly regretting it.
“I will!”
Pleas fell on deaf ears. Warnings about his new girlfriend, Jane, who’d never love her like a mother, went ignored.
“Leave her be,” Lucy’s mum advised.
But next day, Alice didn’t come home from school. A friend said her dad had picked her up.
Lucy called Oliver.
“She asked me to take her. What kind of mother drives her child away?”
“I’m coming for her.”
“She refuses. She’s staying. Jane will drop her at school—no need to fret.”
Overnight, Lucy unravelled. Should she storm over? If Alice refused, she’d seem hysterical. Oliver hadn’t kidnapped her—she’d chosen him.
Her mum was right: patience. Alice was ten now. She’d learn who truly cared.
Three weeks passed. Then, her mum called: “She’s back. Crying. Hurry home.”
Lucy dashed back.
“Did they hurt you?”
“MumAlice clung to her, sobbing, “Jane said they’re having their own baby—they’re leaving for Spain and don’t want me anymore,” and Lucy held her tight, whispering, “But I do, always,” as she finally understood that love couldn’t be forced or bought, only given freely.
