A Cure for Sorrow
Lucy and William met at university, both living in student halls. They knew right away they’d be together, but decided to wait until graduation. Life, as ever, had other plans. In her final year, Lucy fell pregnant.
“Will, what do we do?” Lucy’s desperate eyes searched his face. “You know how strict my mum is. She barely let me come to uni. I promised her I wouldn’t end up like her—no baby without a husband. And now this? How do I go home? She’ll kill me.” Lucy bit her lip, holding back tears.
William was terrified too, but he stepped up like a man. His parents had set no conditions when they sent him off to study in Manchester. He loved Lucy, heartbroken and tearful as she was, so he proposed they marry. Exams loomed—no time for a wedding.
He phoned his parents, confessed everything, and told them he’d return with a degree and a wife. They scolded him, of course, but what was done was done. Let them come home together.
Lucy hid behind William, her swollen belly pressed against his back as they stood in his parents’ cramped hallway. His father frowned, his mother shook her head, lecturing them about rushing into parenthood, marrying without blessing. No good would come of it. Was this any way to start a life? They sighed, scolded, but decided to help the young couple stand on their own feet. They sold their holiday cottage, scraped together savings, and bought them a one-bed flat in Coventry.
“We’ve done what we can. The rest is up to you,” his father said.
Two months later, Lucy gave birth to a daughter.
William worked, but money was always tight. His parents had given all they could. It was shameful to keep leaning on them—time to earn properly. Then an old schoolmate suggested selling computers.
“It’s solid. Demand’s sky-high right now. I’ve got supplier contacts; I’ll sort it. Perfect timing—you know tech, I’m still learning. Together, we’ll make a killing!” his mate urged.
The rough ’90s were behind them. Risks remained, but it was legit—worth a shot. William agreed. He borrowed heavily to start as an equal partner.
They bought cheap, outdated stock. William refurbished, installed software, fixed faults, then sold at markup. Business boomed. He repaid the loan and upgraded to a two-bed house.
Their daughter grew; nursery loomed. Lucy ached to work.
“Stay home. We’ve enough,” William grumbled. “Time for a son, anyway.”
“Just a breather. I’m still reeling from nappies. I’ve never worked since uni. And Alice needs friends—how’s she to cope at school?” Lucy reasoned.
But nurseries had no spaces. They offered Lucy a job as a teaching assistant—Alice could then be enrolled. She agreed at once.
“With a degree, scrubbing tables? Embarrassing,” William ranted.
“Just a year, till Alice is in. Then I’ll find proper work. She’ll be right there—isn’t that good?” Lucy soothed.
Remote work barely existed then; dial-up crawled. William huffed but yielded.
Their business soared, drawing envy. Then disaster struck. A fresh shipment of laptops vanished overnight, the theft masked by arson. Not only was the stock gone—debts remained.
His mate hit rock bottom. William couldn’t—he had a family. But the debt loomed. Selling the house was an option, but where would they live? Crawl back to his parents?
He job-hunted, swore off business. Then luck struck. A stranded motorist’s car caught his eye—a processor on the back seat. Chat revealed the driver needed an IT guy. William got the job, configuring systems, minor repairs, simple coding—right up his street.
Debts cleared. Life steadied. Alice grew; A-levels neared. The worst seemed past.
That evening, William worked late. Lucy cooked while Alice and a friend played music upstairs. The friend left.
“Mum, I’ll walk her out!” Alice called.
“Quickly!” Lucy barely got the words out before the door slammed.
She turned off the hob, sank into the sofa. Some film played. Time slipped; she didn’t notice William arrive.
“Quiet. Alice in?” He rubbed chilled hands. “Bit nippy out.”
Lucy jolted—how long had Alice been gone? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Just next street. She rushed to Alice’s room. Empty. Phoned the friend.
“Alice isn’t back? We parted ages ago,” the friend said.
Panic hit. Lucy cursed herself—why hadn’t she gone too? She paced, itching to run outside. The friend’s parents called, offered search help. William barred her from leaving, sat her by the phone. Useless—every query about hospitals dissolved into sobs.
“Yes, an unidentified girl arrived an hour ago,” one hospital said.
Lucy wailed.
“She’s alive. Stop it. Let’s go,” William snapped.
Alice lived, but coma held her. No prognosis. Lucy stayed, pleading for a miracle. None came. On day three, head injuries took her.
Early November; sleet, wind, damp cold. That cursed night, black ice formed. Alice was nearly home when a summer-tyred car skidded on the bend. Brakes screeched over her cry. The driver lost control. A cruel, senseless twist of fate.
William held strong, though grief gutted him. Lucy… He feared she’d break, lose her mind, or follow Alice. Post-funeral, she visited the grave daily, mute, shut down. At home, blank stares gave way to fits—blaming William.
“If not for your failed business, your debts, I’d have had another…” she screamed, forgetting he’d begged for a son.
He knew: act now, save her, or lose her entirely.
Colleagues sympathised. One suggested a pet—something to care for, a distraction.
“She needs purpose. What did she love? Music? Art? That’s the best balm,” the cleaner said.
*True. Lucy drew well as a girl. No art school—Mum penny-pinched. She dragged me to galleries, though I’m clueless.*
At home, Lucy sat blank before the dead TV. William sat close, shared his childhood dream—lion tamer.
“I wanted to paint. I was good, you know? And music—I sang well,” she said emptily.
He rang art schools. None would take her; too late. He scoured online, desperate to divert her before her mind cracked.
A reply came—a young artist, steep fees. No haggling. Health over money. They met at a café.
Late twenties, sharp-featured, ponytail, restless eyes, all black. Listed supplies needed.
“Just buy it; I’ll pay,” William said, warning of Lucy’s state—no talk of children.
“I don’t need her to excel. Just distract her,” he stressed. *I’ll pay.*
Next day, the artist arrived with easel, paints. Lucy hesitated, then lost herself in strokes. William praised her clumsy efforts after work.
“He says I’ve a great eye, steady hand, elegant strokes. What do you think?”
“Absolutely. You’ve got talent.”
Lucy glowed. Her smile, her light—worth every white lie. She was alive again, not fading in grief.
One evening, the easel stood shoved aside. A torn sketch lay crumpled. Lucy sat extinguished.
“What’s wrong? Given up? You were doing well. Did he not come?”
“Gone home. His mum’s ill—needs costly surgery.” Her voice was hollow.
“Don’t fret. He’ll return.” Unease prickled.
“The poor boy—he wept for her.”
“Wait. For her, or her bills?” William sharpened.
“For *her*. He loves her. But no money.” She scowled at his denseness.
“You gave him our savings.”
They’d set aside funds for Alice’s uni. Forgotten after her death. Lucy remembered. The trinket box was empty.
*I brought him here. Told him about her, her grief, her fragile mind…*
White-hot rage: a conman, preying on her pity, fear for a dying mother. Played her till *she* offered cash. William dialled. Number dead.
“Lucy, you gave him *everything*?” Calm, barely.
“Forgive me.” She wept.
“Not your fault.” He seethed at himself. *Why trust a stranger alone with her?*
“Where’s his mum?”
“Edinburgh, I think.”
*Convenient.*
At the station, the sergeant dithered over a “dead-end case.” William bribed with free IT help.
Phone records traced the “artist.” No Edinburgh—he’d rented a flat locally with a pregnant girlfriend. Landlords booted them; needed new digs fast. No cash. Lucy was easy prey—played the mum act, took the money (afterThe police recovered most of the stolen money, and with time, Lucy’s heart began to heal—not because the pain faded, but because little Toshka’s purring filled the silence their daughter left behind.
