You’re bad. I’ll go to Dad.
Every day, young people pass each other by, nothing ever happens between them—no spark, no attraction. Then one day, she catches sight of him by chance, and suddenly her heart races, butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach. He feels it too. Just like that, they can’t be apart anymore—life without each other loses all meaning. There’s nothing left but to surrender to fate and walk through life side by side.
That’s how Lucy fell in love with Edward. One snowy Sunday, she went skating with her friends. Lucy wasn’t great on the ice—she moved cautiously, never built up speed, kept stopping. Her friends grew tired of crawling like tortoises and sped ahead, leaving her behind. She was in the way, forcing confident skaters to swerve around her.
Exhausted, her legs aching, she decided to shuffle toward the barrier and wait there. Just two metres away, someone crashed into her.
The impact sent her sprawling onto the ice, her hip and knee throbbing from the hard landing.
“Sorry! Are you hurt badly? Can you stand? Let me help,” she heard a voice above her. The next moment, strong hands lifted her effortlessly back onto her skates.
Her knee flared with pain, and she gasped—if not for the stranger’s quick reflexes, she’d have fallen again. He pulled her close, their eyes locking so near she could see herself reflected in his. For a heartbeat, the world vanished.
“All right?” he asked.
Lucy blinked. The world snapped back into motion—the scrape of blades, laughter, voices. But she stayed frozen, fingers gripping his jacket sleeves.
“You won’t fall if I let go?” he murmured.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, unable to look away.
He released her. She didn’t fall.
“Good. Now let’s get you to the barrier. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
With him, she actually glided instead of stumbling.
“Maybe we should leave the rink. There are benches by the exit.”
Lucy nodded. Leaning on him, she reached the bench and collapsed onto it.
“Did you hurt yourself badly?” He sat beside her. “Are you here alone? Should I take you home?”
“I came with friends.”
“Call them, let them know. Give me your ticket—I’ll fetch your shoes.”
“No, I’ll wait.” She resisted weakly.
“You’ll freeze.”
She already was. Relenting, she handed him the ticket and pulled out her phone. While he went for her boots, she called her friends.
They walked home together, chatting. After the slippery ice, solid pavement felt comforting—but Lucy kept grabbing Edward’s arm, dizzy, like the ground might vanish. He was four years older, already working. She told him about university, living with her mum. The connection was instant. When he invited her skating the following weekend, she shook her head.
“Let’s go to the cinema instead.”
“Deal. I’ll call.”
But Edward didn’t wait. He phoned the next day and took her to a café. You couldn’t linger long in the cold. Some force had collided them—literally—and they never parted again.
Lucy fell hard. She couldn’t imagine life without Edward. Had she even lived before him? It felt like they’d known each other forever. Spring arrived, and his parents began escaping to their country cottage every weekend, leaving him the flat to himself.
Summer flashed by unnoticed. Autumn returned with rain and frost, and his parents stayed put. Nowhere left to meet.
“What now?” Lucy asked, pressing against him.
“I’ll think of something,” he promised.
One evening, when Edward visited, Lucy’s mother confronted him. “How much longer will you string my daughter along?”
“I was planning to propose at New Year’s,” he admitted. “I don’t have the ring on me, but if it’ll put your mind at ease—I’ll ask for her hand right now.”
Lucy flushed, equal parts mortified and elated.
“That’s more like it,” her mother said, satisfied. “Give her the ring at New Year’s. I was starting to wonder.”
They married in spring, as snow melted and birds sang louder each day. Edward had saved for a flat; wedding gifts covered the deposit. Happy newlyweds, they moved in, agreeing to wait for children.
Time passed. Lucy graduated, found work. She brought up kids more often.
“We’ve still got a mortgage,” Edward said. “Why rush? We’ll manage later. Do you even know the hassle? We’ll cope, but why make life hard now? Once we’re debt-free, then we’ll talk. I’m right, aren’t I?”
True—but pregnancy took nine months. By then, the mortgage could be paid—
“Enough. No more arguing,” Edward cut in.
Arguing was pointless. Yet Lucy’s friends pushed prams; one just had a second baby. She, the first to marry, was the last to become a mother. She broached the subject again.
“Fine, have a baby if you’re so desperate,” Edward sighed. “But don’t ask for help—nappies, night feeds, that’s your job. I earn the money; you handle the kid. No complaints later. Agreed?”
Lucy bit back her anger.
“You’re scared I’ll love the baby more than you, aren’t you?” she guessed.
“Drop it. Have your baby.”
Lucy stopped her pills. Two months later, the test showed two lines.
Edward didn’t share her joy. Then came the nausea. She barely left bed; he went out with mates. A wall rose between them. He never touched her bump, barely glanced at it. “He’ll change when the baby’s here,” Lucy told herself.
He didn’t. He recoiled from his newborn daughter’s cries, refused to hold her. If Lucy mentioned nappies or shoes, he’d transfer money without a word.
“Spare me the details,” he’d say.
Once, he frowned at a stain on her dressing gown.
“You were different when we met,” he remarked.
Next evening, Lucy dressed up—light makeup, jeans, a nice top. Edward didn’t notice.
Their daughter grew—walking, talking. She’d run to greet him, babbling.
“Go to Mum,” he’d mutter, nudging her away. Lucy’s heart shattered.
“At least show her affection. She’s your child,” she pleaded.
“I never asked for her. Don’t expect love.”
Lucy hated his detachment but kept quiet, honouring his rule: no involvement. He only asked if she was back on the pill.
Friends envied her. Sober, good job, owned property—and what if he ignored the kid? Few men helped with children anyway.
When their daughter started nursery, Lucy planned to work.
“Stay home,” Edward said. “I earn enough. I want a clean house, dinner ready.”
Arguing was useless. Plus, the kid was always ill.
One day, Lucy spotted Edward leaving a café with another woman. That evening, she confronted him.
He didn’t deny it. “I provide for you both. I’m entitled to harmless fun.” Lucy snapped—she wouldn’t tolerate cheating. She’d leave, take their daughter to her mum’s.
“How will you live? Spoilt on my money. Think carefully,” he said, turning to the TV news.
“I have,” Lucy replied. He ignored her.
Next day, she packed, called a taxi, and left.
“Want Daddy!” her daughter wailed in the unfamiliar flat.
Lucy’s mum urged reconciliation. Edward sent money but refused visits.
“Why doesn’t he love her? Is she even his?” her mother probed.
“Don’t be stupid. He never wanted kids. I had Veronica for myself—while he slept around,” Lucy sobbed.
They stayed with her mum. Veronica switched schools. Over time, she grew more like Edward—stubborn, demanding. If refused, she’d snap, threaten to run to Dad.
“You baby me. Dad never forces me,” she’d sulk.
Lucy was baffled—he’d never even taken her sledging.
“If I’m so awful, go to him!” Lucy finally shouted, horrified at herself.
“I will!” Veronica shot back.
Pleading changed nothing.
Next day, Veronica didn’t come home. Her friend said Dad had collected her.
Lucy called Edward.
“Yes, she asked me to take her. What kind of mother drives her own child away?” he said coolly.
“I’m coming for her.”
“She refuses. She’s staying. We’ll take care of her.”
“What about school?” Lucy tried.
“Yvonne will drive her. Don’t worry.”
Lucy was crushed. “Mum, why? I raised her—he did nothing! Now I’m the villain?”
Her mother soothed her. “Wait. She’ll return.”
Three weeks passed. Then her mum called—Veronica was back. Silent, crying.
Lucy rushed home.
“MummyVeronica clung to her, whispering, “I just wanted him to love me like you do,” and Lucy finally understood that some wounds only time could heal.
