“Dimitri, what’s wrong with you? Look at this—English, a fail; maths, barely scraping by, and you’ve skipped literature altogether! Why won’t you study? What am I supposed to do with you, you hopeless boy?” Laura sighed, flipping through her son’s school diary for the hundredth time.
“Dunno,” muttered the teenager, turning away.
“Leave the lad be, Laura!” slurred her husband, Simon, sprawled on the sofa in the next room. “Literature, biology—I skipped classes too, and I turned out fine!”
“Did you now?” Laura snapped. “Too busy boozing to talk to your own son, are you?”
“What’s the big deal? I’ve got a right to a drink! Besides, it was old Mike’s birthday—his fiftieth, mind you!” Simon’s head hit the pillow, and he was out like a light.
Laura had grown up in a well-to-do family. Her parents had given her more than just good manners—they’d instilled discipline and ambition. She’d excelled in school, earned a place at a prestigious university, only for cruel fate to pair her with Simon.
They’d met at a student party. Laura was in her final year; Simon had left college early and taken a job at the factory. She’d been drawn to his rugged charm, his easy smile. Back then, she hadn’t guessed how he’d unravel her carefully ordered life.
They married the summer she graduated. At first, things were manageable, but Simon never missed a chance to drink—birthdays, bank holidays, even a Tuesday night could turn into a raucous bash.
Eventually, Laura realised her mistake. They were mismatched. She considered leaving, but then she discovered she was pregnant.
She couldn’t bring herself to end the pregnancy, nor raise a child alone. Hoping fatherhood would change Simon, she stayed. But when he stumbled into the maternity ward drunk, she knew—he’d never change.
True to form, Simon drank relentlessly. He barely lifted a finger at home, always hungover or out with mates. Laura soldiered on—working long hours, keeping the flat tidy, trying to give their son, Dimitri, the attention he needed. But as the boy grew, he mirrored his father more each day. Schoolwork bored him; clubs were a chore.
By Year 7, he was out of control.
“Mrs. Whitmore, your son is disrespectful, disruptive, and his grades are abysmal. It’s heartbreaking,” his form tutor said—words Laura heard too often.
She’d return home from parents’ evenings, blaming herself. Dimitri would promise to do better—empty words.
He scraped through GCSEs but refused to stay for sixth form. College was the only option. Laura dreaded it—history repeating itself. Simon, now a full-blown alcoholic, was barely employable. She begged his foreman not to sack him.
College fared no better. Dimitri skipped lectures, mouthed off to tutors, fought with classmates.
“Mum, maybe I should just drop out and work at the factory with Dad. Earn some proper cash,” he said one evening.
“Don’t talk like that! You need qualifications. Do you want to end up like your father?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Exactly! Let the lad work if he wants!” Simon chimed in.
Somehow, Laura persuaded Dimitri to finish college. She pleaded with tutors to overlook his behaviour. He graduated—then announced he’d join Simon at the factory.
She begged him to reconsider, seeing the future too clearly. Dimitri was Simon in every way—looks, temper, habits. There was nothing of her in him.
But hope flickered. Maybe he’d wake up before it was too late.
Fate had other plans.
One evening, Laura tripped over something in the hallway. Flicking on the light, she found Dimitri sprawled on the floor, barely conscious.
“Dimitri! What’s wrong? Should I call an ambulance?”
“Piss off, Mum… just tired,” he mumbled, reeking of booze.
In the kitchen, Simon was slumped over the table. Laura opened her mouth to shout but stopped herself.
Grabbing her coat, she left.
She wandered the streets, nowhere to go. No close friends to lean on. She sat on a park bench, watching happy families pass by, wondering where she’d gone wrong.
A dog bounded up, dropping a red ball at her feet.
“Sorry—did he startle you? Baxter, here!” called a man.
Laura wiped her eyes. “It’s fine.”
“You alright?”
“I’m… fine.”
“Anthony,” he introduced himself. “And you?”
“Laura.”
“Lovely name. Fancy a coffee? There’s a café nearby.”
To her surprise, she said yes.
They talked for hours. For the first time in years, Laura felt warmth. They exchanged numbers, then more. Anthony offered her a way out. She took it.
“Look at her—found herself a new bloke! Abandoning us, eh?” Simon jeered when she moved out.
“Mum, seriously? What about us?” Dimitri asked.
“You’ll manage.”
“Yeah… suppose so.”
“Right, son—let’s drink to that!” Simon grinned.
Laura walked out. Anthony waited below, loading her suitcase into the car. She glanced up at their flat—the kitchen light on. She could picture them already, cracking open another bottle.
“Ready?” Anthony asked.
“Yes. Quickly.”
His world was everything Simon’s wasn’t—clean, calm, stable. She filed for divorce, cut ties. Dimitri only called to borrow money. She gave it but never invited him over.
“Laura, how’d you feel about moving to London?” Anthony asked one evening.
“I… hadn’t thought about it.”
“My firm’s offered me a transfer. Better pay, better role. I wanted your thoughts.”
She paused. “Let’s go. There’s nothing left for me here.”
Before leaving, she met Dimitri one last time. He staggered into the café already drunk.
“What d’you want?”
“Hello to you too. You’re drunk again.”
“Here to lecture me?”
“No. I’m leaving. London. For good.”
“With that bloke?”
“Dimitri, look at yourself. It’s not too late to change. Anthony could help—find you a proper job—”
“Piss off! I’ve got a job!”
“Fine. Do what you want.”
Two weeks later, she boarded the plane. Anthony held her hand.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Just remembering… my parents are buried here.”
“Regrets?”
“None.”
And she meant it. For the first time in years, she was free.
**Sometimes, the hardest choice is the one that saves you.**
