**Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…**
I sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall. There was nothing interesting there—no answers to my questions. I sighed and glanced at the half-drunk cup of tea, watered down to its last drop. No more teabags, no money to buy any. I stood, dumped the tea in the sink, rinsed the mug, and filled it with tepid water from the kettle. Drank it in one go.
How had I ended up here? There had been everything—a job, a flat, a wife, a daughter… Now, nothing remained.
***
I was fifteen when Mum brought a man home. She leaned into him, holding his arm tightly.
“This is Uncle Paul. He’s going to live with us. We’re married now.” She fidgeted with the collar of her floral dress, embarrassed.
Uncle Paul looked much older than Mum, shorter and painfully thin. He studied me with calm indifference while I scowled.
I wasn’t a child—I’d suspected Mum was seeing someone. She often slipped out in the evenings, lying about meeting a friend. She’d return with a dazed, guilty little smile and smudged lipstick. I didn’t mind having the flat to myself.
Everyone said Mum was beautiful and young for her age. It was nice hearing that, though I never saw it. She was just Mum—no better or worse than anyone else’s. And *young*? Anyone over thirty seemed ancient to me.
I never knew my father. Mum never spoke about him. And now here was Uncle Paul, invading our space. Hadn’t we been fine on our own? I turned and walked to my room.
“James!” Mum called out, her voice breaking.
I slammed the door.
Later, she crept in. “He’s kind, reliable. Life will be easier with him. You’re still the most important person to me.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll fry some potatoes for dinner. Try to behave around him.”
Mum fluttered around Uncle Paul, cheeks flushed. I burned with jealousy. Guilt made her generous—she gave me more pocket money, as if that could make up for it.
“Don’t be angry with your mum,” Uncle Paul said once. “She’s a good woman. You’re nearly grown—soon you’ll have your own family. Think how hard it’ll be for her alone.”
I stayed silent, though I knew he was right. At least he never pestered me about school or my future.
After my A-levels, I announced I wouldn’t go to uni—I’d join the army instead. I felt like an intruder in my own home.
“Good choice,” Uncle Paul cut in before Mum could protest. “The army builds character. You can study later if you want. Education matters. Serve first, figure out your path after.”
A year later, I returned home, taller, broader. Mum smothered me in hugs, cooked a feast. For the first time, I let Uncle Paul embrace me too. We drank together, and I got tipsy fast.
“What’s next?” he asked. “Too late for uni this year. Any skills?”
“Let him rest,” Mum chided.
I told them I’d gotten my driver’s license in the army—could operate most vehicles, even fix them.
“Perfect. A mate owns a garage. I’ll talk to him—decent pay, but you’ll work hard.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
A month later, with my first paycheck, I announced I wanted my own place.
“Absolutely not!” Mum cried. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll bring women—”
“Leave him be, Linda,” Uncle Paul interrupted. “He’s young. Needs his space.” Then he handed me keys. “Live in my old flat. It’s small, on the outskirts, but it’s yours. Tenants are leaving soon.”
He gave advice—don’t rush into marriage, watch your drinking, protect your assets—before I left to start my life.
Mum visited at first, bringing soup, worried I wasn’t eating. Then I met Emily, and Mum stopped coming. We lived together nearly two years while I studied engineering part-time.
I don’t even remember why we split. It was easy—almost like she *wanted* the fight. There were others after, until fiery-haired Sophie. Men turned to stare when we walked together. I burned with jealousy; she teased me for it.
With a year left of uni, terrified of losing her, I proposed. She said yes. Right after the wedding, Sophie announced she was pregnant. My stomach dropped—she’d been on the pill, or so I’d thought.
Mum hinted doubts—was it even mine? I ignored her. My worry was space—a one-bed flat was fine for two, but not a child. I spoke to Uncle Paul. He sold me his place, added some savings, and I bought a two-bed.
When Lily was born, Mum pointed out her dark hair—mine was blond, Sophie’s red. “Born early, but looks full-term,” she said, pushing for a paternity test.
I refused. All babies looked the same to me.
Then, coming home from work, I saw Sophie in the courtyard with a dark-haired man. They spoke like old friends. She stammered an excuse when she saw me.
I remembered Mum’s warnings but said nothing.
Days later, I confronted him.
“Stay away from my wife and daughter,” I growled. The man hurried off.
Sophie was frying cutlets when I walked in; Lily played on the floor. Normal. Maybe I’d imagined it.
Then Sophie confessed—she’d never gotten over Lily’s real father. He’d left suddenly; she hadn’t told him about the pregnancy. Then I’d proposed. Now he was back, demanding she leave me.
“Go,” I said.
I watched from the window as Sophie, Lily, and their bags disappeared into his BMW.
I waited. Drank. Lost my job.
An old schoolmate offered work at his auto parts shop. Months later, cash vanished from the safe. He accused me, knowing I’d seen him stash it. No proof, but suspicion stuck. He dropped charges when I sold my flat to repay him.
I rented a shabby one-bed on the outskirts. Wife gone, flat gone, job gone. Life in ruins. The landlady threatened eviction if I didn’t pay. Where would I get the money? Mum had died of cancer. And I’d forgotten Uncle Paul entirely.
***
A pigeon landed on the windowsill, tilting its head at me.
“Sorry, mate. Not even a crumb,” I muttered.
Outside, kids played on a plastic slide. Mums chatted. A teen hung upside-down from monkey bars. How long since I’d stepped out?
I yanked the window open. The pigeon startled, wings scraping metal. I leaned out, staring at the concrete below. Four floors up—maybe not fatal. Just broken.
The medicine box held aspirin, cough syrup. Not enough. The noose? Too gruesome.
In the bathroom mirror, a gaunt stranger stared back.
The phone rang—a shock. No one called anymore.
“Jamie?” A frail voice.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Paul. Remember me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m in hospital. Come see me. Got things to say.”
He named the place.
“Alright,” I said, numbly.
Only after hanging up did I realize I hadn’t asked what was wrong.
***
Uncle Paul was skeletal, frail. “Take the flat keys,” he whispered. “It’s yours now. Savings book’s there too. Not much, but something. No one else to leave it to.”
He died the next morning.
At his funeral, neighbors praised him. I burned with shame—I’d abandoned him.
Nadia, a neighbor who’d helped him, came often. One night, she stayed.
Months later, she tearfully said, “I’m pregnant.”
I flinched—then told her about Sophie. We married soon after.
Sophie called once, asking how I was. “Great,” I said. “Married. A dad soon.” She hung up quietly.
Life had flipped—properly this time.
Funny how hitting rock bottom forces you to push back up.
Life goes on.
