Uncle’s Journey: Life Moves On…

**Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…**

Simon sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall. There was nothing interesting there—no answers to his questions. He sighed and glanced at the half-drunk tea in his mug, so watered-down it was barely tea anymore. There was no more tea leaves left, and no money to buy any. Simon stood, dumped the tea in the sink, rinsed the mug, filled it with lukewarm water from the kettle, and drank.

How had he ended up here? Once, he had everything—a job, a flat, a wife, a daughter. Now there was nothing.

***

Simon was fifteen when his mother brought a man home. She clung to his arm, beaming.

“This is Uncle Paul. He’s going to live with us now. We got married,” she said, fiddling with the collar of her floral dress.

Uncle Paul was much older than Simon’s mother, shorter than her, and painfully thin. He studied the scowling teenager with quiet amusement.

Simon wasn’t a child—he’d guessed his mother was seeing someone. She’d often go out in the evenings, claiming she was with a friend, then return with a dazed smile and smudged lipstick. He hadn’t minded having the flat to himself.

Everyone said his mother was beautiful and young. It was nice to hear, though Simon never thought much about it. She was just *mum*—no better or worse than anyone else’s. But young? To him, anyone over thirty was ancient.

He’d never known his father. His mother rarely spoke of him. And now she’d brought Uncle Paul into their lives. Hadn’t they been fine, just the two of them? Simon turned and walked to his room.

“Simon!” his mother called after him, her voice shaky. He slammed the door.

Later, she came in, her eyes pleading. “Sweetheart, he’s a good man. Reliable. Things will be easier with him. Don’t be jealous—you’ll always be the most important person in my life.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll fry some potatoes for dinner. Try to be civil, alright?”

Simon burned with jealousy as his mother fluttered around Uncle Paul, cheeks flushed, gazing at him like he hung the moon. Feeling guilty, she started giving him more pocket money—as if that could make up for it.

“Don’t be angry at your mum,” Uncle Paul said once. “She’s a good woman. You’re nearly grown—in a few years, you’ll have your own family. You think she should be alone forever? I won’t hurt her.”

Simon stayed silent, though he knew Uncle Paul was right. To his credit, Uncle Paul never pried about school or asked what he wanted to be.

After finishing school, Simon announced he wouldn’t go to university—he’d join the army instead. He felt like an outsider now.

“Good choice. The army’ll teach you discipline. You can study later, get a degree. Education matters,” Uncle Paul said firmly, cutting off his mother’s protests.

A year later, Simon came back taller and broader. His mother hugged him endlessly, set the table with a feast. For the first time, Simon let Uncle Paul embrace him too. They drank together—Simon got tipsy embarrassingly fast.

“What next?” Uncle Paul asked. “Too late for uni this year. Any skills?”

“Give him time to breathe,” his mother chided.

Simon mentioned he’d gotten his driving license in the army—could handle anything from lorries to cars, knew a bit about repairs.

“Good. I’ve a mate with a garage. I’ll talk to him—he’ll take you on. Decent pay, but hard work.”

Simon nodded.

A month later, with his first paycheck in hand, he announced he wanted to rent his own place.

“I won’t allow it!” his mother protested. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll just drink and chase girls—”

“Leave him be, Lucy,” Uncle Paul interrupted. “Weren’t you young once? He’s right—can’t bring girls home to us. But no need to rent.” He went to the hall, returning with keys. “Live in my old flat. It’s small, on the outskirts, but enough for you. Got it in the divorce. Tenants are there, but I’ll sort it.”

He gave Simon advice too—”Be careful with women. Don’t rush. And lay off the booze.”

Simon moved out. At first, his mother came by with soup and cutlets while he worked—”A boy needs hot meals!” But once he got a girlfriend, she stopped.

He and Sarah stayed together two years. Simon even enrolled in university part-time, studying engineering. He didn’t remember why they fought—only that they split amicably, as if she’d wanted an out. Other girlfriends came and went until he met Emma, a stunning redhead who turned heads everywhere. Simon burned with jealousy; she just laughed and teased him.

With a year left of studies, terrified of losing her, Simon proposed. To his delight, she said yes. Right after the wedding, she announced she was pregnant. Sarah had been careful; Simon assumed Emma was too. The news stunned him.

His mother doubted the baby was his, hinting as much. Simon brushed it off. His concern was space—the one-bedroom was fine for two, but not with a child. He talked to Uncle Paul, who agreed to sell the flat. With his help, Simon bought a two-bedroom.

When Lily was born, his mother pointed out quietly—no resemblance. Simon’s hair was light brown, Emma’s red, yet the baby had jet-black curls. “Born early, but looks full-term,” she murmured, suggesting a paternity test.

Simon ignored it. Babies all looked the same to him.

But a year later, returning from work, he saw Emma in the courtyard with a dark-haired man. They spoke like old friends. Spotting Simon, Emma flustered, babbling about the man asking for directions. Simon remembered his mother’s doubts but said nothing.

Then he saw the bloke again.

“Oi,” Simon called.

The man turned. “What?” A faint accent.

“Stay away from Emma and Lily. Next time I see you near them, you’ll regret it.” Simon had filled out in the army—broad-shouldered, intimidating. The man left quickly.

At home, Emma fried cutlets; Lily played on the floor. Normal. Maybe he’d imagined it.

But weeks later, Emma confessed. She’d never stopped loving Lily’s real father—he’d left suddenly, and she hadn’t told him about the baby. Then Simon proposed. Now the man was back, knew about Lily, wanted her to leave Simon.

“Go,” Simon said.

He watched from the window as Emma and Lily climbed into the man’s BMW, suitcases in tow. He waited, hoping she’d return. Then he started drinking. Lost his job.

At an interview, he ran into an old schoolmate who owned an auto parts shop. He offered work. Months later, a large sum vanished from the safe. The mate told police Simon had seen him stash the cash.

No money was found on Simon, but the evidence was damning. His “friend” agreed to drop charges—if Simon paid him back. He sold the flat. They parted bitterly.

Simon rented a dingy one-bedroom on the outskirts. No wife, no home, no job, no money. His life was in ruins. The landlady threatened eviction if he didn’t pay soon. Where would he get the money? His mother had died of cancer years ago. And he’d forgotten all about Uncle Paul.

***

A pigeon perched on the windowsill, cocking its head at him.

“Sorry, mate. Not even crumbs left,” Simon said, approaching the window.

Sunlight flooded the yard—green grass, budding trees. Kids slid down a plastic slide; mothers chatted nearby. A teen hung upside-down from monkey bars. Simon stared, startled. How long had it been since he’d stepped outside?

He wanted one last breath of spring air. He yanked the window open. The pigeon startled, wings scraping the metal ledge. Simon leaned out chest-first, gazing down at the lawn and lilac bushes. Would he even die jumping from the fourth floor? More likely end up a cripple.

His foggy brain supplied other options. He dug through a shoebox of old meds—paracetamol, cough syrup, nasal drops. Not enough to kill him, just make him suffer. He eyed the ceiling light, imagining a noose.

In the bathroom, he ran water, catching his reflection—a gaunt, bearded wreck. “Look like death warmed up,” he muttered.

A safety razor lay on the shelf. He fetched a knife from the kitchen.

Then his phone rang—a shock. No one called him anymore. The cheerful ringtone grated. He answered.

“Simon?” A frail, elderly voice.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Uncle Paul. Remember me?”

“Yeah.”

“Been poorly. In hospital. Come see me. Need to talk.”

Simon stared at the knife’s dull edge. “Where?”

Uncle Paul named the hospital.

Simon hung up, took a deep breath, and put the knife away, realizing there was still someone who cared – and perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t too late to start again.

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Uncle’s Journey: Life Moves On…