Lucy’s father was a stern man, the kind even her mother feared, tiptoeing around his moods, afraid to utter a word out of turn. Yet with other people’s children, he was different—warm, smiling, gentle. But with Lucy and her mother, he only ever raised his voice. For years, Lucy couldn’t understand why her father didn’t love her. The answer came much later, in secondary school.
She studied relentlessly, desperate for good grades, hoping to please him, to avoid his scolding. Since Year 7, she’d dreamed of high marks in her A-levels, of leaving their small town behind for the bright lights of Edinburgh.
When relatives visited, they’d always praise Lucy—pretty, clever, destined for greatness—and ask what she wanted to be, where she’d study.
Lucy would glance at her father before murmuring that she hadn’t decided. She kept her dreams locked away.
“Eleven years of school’s enough. I’m not keeping her till retirement. She’s grown now, time to work. Everyone wants to be some high-flyer—who’ll do the real jobs?” her father declared.
“Don’t listen to him, Lucy’s bright, top marks in everything. You really think a girl like her should stack shelves?” her mother pleaded. “These days, you need qualifications. A good job means meeting the right sort of husband.”
But her father wouldn’t budge.
“Enough nonsense,” he scoffed, shooting his wife a withering look. “What’s a girl need education for? Cooking and cleaning don’t require a degree. She can pop out babies without one. Education just causes trouble. Look at you—what good did it do?”
Her mother shrank under his glare while guests shifted awkwardly, too polite to disagree. So Lucy stayed silent, hiding her hopes like a shameful secret.
But when her A-level results arrived—stellar marks, just as she’d hoped—she marched home, clutching her certificates, defiance burning in her chest. She was an adult now. No one could stop her. She’d prove her worth.
Then she saw his face. Her courage faltered. Still, she forced the words out: she was leaving for Edinburgh.
“Over my dead body,” he snapped. “I fed you, clothed you. Now it’s your turn to support us. No daughter of mine’s swanning off to waste time.” His fist slammed the table; cutlery jumped, soup sloshed.
“And don’t you defend her,” he snarled at his wife. “You of all people should know the cost of ‘education.’ Be grateful I married you at all, saved your reputation, raised this ungrateful brat.”
“Pete, not in front of her—”
“Why not? Let her learn from your mistakes.” He gestured dismissively. “The apple doesn’t fall far.”
“Dad—” Lucy’s voice cracked.
“She’ll work. End of,” he said, slurping his soup.
Lucy fled. Later, her mother slipped into her room, eyes haunted.
“Why does he hate me?” Lucy whispered.
The truth spilled out—her real father, the man who’d left, the marriage of convenience.
“I’m glad,” Lucy said, wiping tears. “Glad he’s not my real dad.”
Her mother pressed a roll of banknotes into her palm. “It’s not much, but hide it well. I can’t promise more—he checks every penny.”
“Thank you. But he’ll hurt you—”
“He’ll shout, maybe slap me. He’s entitled. You go. Make me proud.”
Three days later, while her father was at work, Lucy left.
At university, she shared a dorm with Martha, a glamorous girl who’d rather party than study. Martha had a wealthy older boyfriend, Charles, who paid for everything—her flat, her clothes.
“Why him? He’s married, isn’t he?” Lucy once asked.
“What do you know? He’s rich. What’s a broke student got to offer?”
When Martha moved into Charles’ rented flat, Lucy visited often. Missing her mother, she called daily, hiding the trips home. Then Martha invited her on holiday—a seaside escape.
“I can’t afford it.”
“Charles is paying. He’s paranoid I’ll meet someone younger.”
They lounged under foreign sun, golden and carefree. Men noticed them. One evening, two approached—James and Daniel—inviting them for drinks.
Martha flirted shamelessly. “Relax,” she hissed. “Charles won’t know. You won’t tell, will you?”
Lucy walked the promenade with Daniel, his easy smile disarming. He was kind, nothing like the men back home.
Martha slipped back at dawn. “What’s the fuss? Charles is with his wife. You two didn’t—?”
“No,” Lucy muttered.
“God, you’re hopeless.”
Daniel called often after, vowed to visit at Christmas. Then—silence.
Martha dropped out by New Year. “Pregnant,” she confessed. “Charles’ baby. He’s thrilled—his wife couldn’t conceive.”
Lucy graduated alone, landed a translator job at a prestigious firm, travelled abroad. By thirty, she owned a flat, a car. Then, after a decade, she returned home.
Her mother wept. Her father scowled.
“Back for good?” he grunted.
“I missed you.”
“Bought a car, eh? How? Translating—or something else?”
“I earned it,” she said, voice steady.
“Funny way to earn it.”
Her composure broke. “If I were really yours, you’d be proud, wouldn’t you?”
For once, he had no retort.
At a London investor event, a familiar voice cut through the crowd. Daniel.
“You’re lovelier than ever.”
“You married?” she asked.
“Divorced. Why didn’t we work? I thought you liked me.”
“You thought wrong.”
They wandered the city, secrets spilling under streetlamps. She told him everything—her mother, her fear of repeating history.
“I wish you’d told me. I’d have understood. I waited years, afraid you’d moved on.”
“So did I,” she admitted.
“Let’s try properly this time. No vanishing.”
She studied his face. “You’d wait?”
“I already have.”
She smiled faintly. “Don’t disappoint me.”
Some loves aren’t fleeting. Real love isn’t swift; it deepens, like wine, unfolding its richness over time.
