Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…
Oliver sat at the kitchen table, blankly staring at the wall in front of him. There was nothing interesting there—no answers to his questions. He sighed and grimaced at the half-finished tea in his mug, diluted to the point of being tasteless. There was no more tea left, nor money to buy any. Oliver stood up, poured the tea down the sink, rinsed the mug, and refilled it with lukewarm water from the kettle. He drank it in one go.
How had he ended up here? There had been everything—a job, a flat, a wife, a daughter… Now there was nothing.
***
Oliver was fifteen when his mother brought a man home. She clung to him, her arm looped through his.
“This is Uncle Paul. He’ll be living with us now. We got married,” she said awkwardly, fiddling with the collar of her floral dress.
Uncle Paul looked much older than Oliver’s mother, shorter and painfully thin. He studied the sulky teenager with calm detachment.
Oliver wasn’t a child—he’d known his mother was seeing someone. She often went out in the evenings, lying about meeting friends. She’d return with a distant, guilty smile and smudged lipstick. He hadn’t really minded having the flat to himself.
Everyone said his mother was young and beautiful. It was nice to hear, though he didn’t see it himself. She was just his mum—no better or worse than anyone else’s. But young? Anyone over thirty seemed ancient to him.
His father was a mystery. His mother never spoke about him. And now she’d brought Uncle Paul home. Hadn’t the two of them been fine on their own? Oliver turned and walked to his room.
“Oliver!” His mother’s voice cracked as she called after him.
He slammed the door.
Later, she came in, hesitating before speaking. “He’s a good man, reliable. Life will be easier with him. Don’t feel jealous—you’ll always be the most important person in my life.” She sighed. “I’ll make some dinner. Try to behave when you see him.”
His mother fluttered around Uncle Paul, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Oliver burned with jealousy. Guilt made her generous—she gave him more pocket money, as if paying him off.
“Don’t be angry with your mother. She’s a good woman,” Uncle Paul said one evening. “You’re nearly grown. In a few years, you’ll have your own family—do you think it’s easy for her alone? I won’t hurt her.”
Oliver scowled but knew he was right. At least Uncle Paul never asked about school or his future ambitions.
When he finished school, Oliver announced he wouldn’t go to university. He’d join the army instead, feeling like an outsider in his own home.
“Good decision,” Uncle Paul said, cutting off his mother’s protests. “The army builds character. You can study later if you want. Education matters, but you’ll figure yourself out there.”
A year later, Oliver returned, stronger and more confident. His mother hugged him endlessly, laid out a feast, like tradition demanded. For the first time, he let Uncle Paul hug him too. They drank together—Oliver got drunk quickly, unused to it.
“What now?” Uncle Paul asked. “Too late for university this term. What can you do?”
“Let him rest!” his mother cut in, patting Oliver’s shoulder.
Oliver mentioned he’d earned his driver’s license in the army and could fix most vehicles.
“Perfect. A mate of mine runs a garage. I’ll talk to him—he’ll take you on. Hard work, but decent pay.”
“I’ll take it,” Oliver said.
A month later, with his first paycheck, he announced he wanted to move out.
“No!” His mother erupted. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll just drink and chase girls—”
“Leave him be, Lydia. Were you never young?” Uncle Paul silenced her. “He’s right. Can’t bring girls home to us. But don’t rent.” He went to the hall, returning with keys. “Live in my old flat. It’s small, on the outskirts. Good enough for one. Got it in the divorce. Tenants are there, but I’ll call—they’ll move out.”
“Be careful with women. Think before you settle. And don’t drink too much,” Uncle Paul advised.
Oliver moved out, starting his own life. His mother visited at first, bringing soup and meatballs. But when he met a girl named Emma, she stopped coming. He and Emma lived together for two years while Oliver studied engineering part-time.
He couldn’t remember why they argued, but they split easily. Later, there were others, until he met fiery-haired Jessica. Men turned their heads when they walked together. He’d seethe; she’d laugh and tease him.
With a year left of studies, afraid of losing her, Oliver proposed. To his joy, she said yes. After the wedding, Jessica announced she was pregnant. They’d used protection before—Oliver was stunned.
His mother hinted doubts about the baby being his. He ignored her. The flat was too small for three, so he asked Uncle Paul to sell it. With extra savings, he bought a two-bedroom place.
When little Amelia was born, his mother gently noted the baby didn’t look like him—dark hair when his was fair, Jessica’s auburn. She suggested a paternity test. Oliver brushed it off—babies all looked the same.
Then, returning from work, he saw Jessica talking to a dark-haired man in the street. She panicked when she noticed him, mumbling excuses. Oliver remembered his mother’s doubts but said nothing.
Later, he confronted the man. “Stay away from my wife and daughter. If I see you near them again, you’ll regret it.” The man hurried off.
At home, Jessica was cooking, Amelia playing on the floor. Everything seemed normal. Maybe he’d imagined it. But eventually, Jessica confessed—she couldn’t forget the baby’s real father, who’d returned.
“Leave,” Oliver said.
He watched from the window as Jessica and Amelia climbed into the man’s car. He waited, hoped, then drank. Lost his job.
At an interview, he bumped into an old schoolmate who ran an auto parts shop. Offered him work. Months later, cash went missing from the safe. The friend accused Oliver, demanding repayment to drop charges.
Oliver sold the flat. They parted bitterly.
He rented a dingy flat on the outskirts. No wife, no home, no job, no money. His life was crumbling. The landlady threatened eviction if he didn’t pay.
His mother had died of cancer. He’d forgotten about Uncle Paul.
***
A pigeon perched on the windowsill, tilting its head to peer inside.
“Sorry, mate, no crumbs,” Oliver muttered, approaching the window.
Sunlight flooded the courtyard, green shoots pushing through the earth. Children played on a plastic slide while their mothers chatted nearby. A teenager hung upside-down from a metal bar. Oliver stared, amazed. How long had he been shut inside?
He wanted to feel fresh air one last time. He tugged the window open. The startled pigeon flapped away, claws scratching metal. Oliver leaned out over the sill. Below, bushes and grass. He thought of jumping—four stories might not kill him, just leave him broken.
His mind suggested alternatives. He dug through a shoebox of old medicines—paracetamol, aspirin, cough syrup. Not enough. A noose? The bathroom mirror showed a gaunt, bearded stranger—death warmed up.
He grabbed a razor, then the phone rang—a sound he hadn’t heard in months.
“Oliver?” A frail voice.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Paul here. Remember me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m in hospital. Come see me. Got something to say.”
Oliver took the address, hung up, then noticed he’d left the razor on the table. He bathed shakily, dressed, found a crumpled tenner in his pocket. Enough for the bus there; he’d walk back.
At the hospital, he hesitated in the doorway until Uncle Paul called him over. The man was skeletal, his face like a dried apricot.
“Didn’t recognize me? You don’t look much better. Sit.”
Oliver obeyed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Old age. Second heart attack. First one was after Lydia died.” He spoke weakly, like rustling leaves. “Doubt I’ll leave here. Keys in the drawer—flat’s yours now. Papers are there, savings book too. Not much, but something. Got no one else.”
Oliver swallowed.
“Car’s in the neighbor’s garage. An old Rover—still runs. Neighbor’ll show you.”
“Uncle Paul, I—”
“Don’t. No hard feelings. Bury me next to Lydia, eh? Put up a stone. That’ll do.” He closed his eyes. “Go on. Tired.”
Oliver squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I’ll come tomorrow.”
He went straight to his childhood home. The fridge held vodka,The next morning, as sunlight spilled through the curtains, Oliver sat at the kitchen table with a cup of strong, fresh tea—his first in months—and realised that sometimes, the kindness of others is the anchor that pulls us back from the edge.
