A Real Man
Emma and George had been together for two years. Her mother had begun to fret that her daughter was wasting her time with him—that marriage would never come. George always insisted there was no rush, they had time, and they were happy as they were.
Summer passed, the trees shed their leaves, carpeting the pavements in gold, and the rains began. On one damp, chilly October afternoon, George awkwardly proposed, slipping a modest little ring onto Emma’s finger.
She threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes,” then slipped the ring on properly and laughed, “Yes!” stretching her hands to the sky, bouncing with joy.
The next day, they went to the registry office, shy and nervous, to file their notice. They set the wedding for mid-December.
Emma had wanted a summer wedding, to show off in her white dress beneath the sun. But she didn’t argue. What if George postponed it? What if he changed his mind? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard raged. The wind tangled her carefully styled hair, and gusts billowed her dress like a bell, threatening to lift her clear off her feet. George swept her up in his arms, carrying her to the car. Neither the storm nor her ruined curls could dull the lovers’ joy.
At first, Emma basked in happiness. It seemed it would last forever. Of course, there were small quarrels, but by nightfall, they always made up, loving each other all the more.
A year later, their son, James, was born.
The boy grew quiet and clever, a delight to them both. Like many men, George rarely helped with the child—too afraid to hold him, and when he did, James would wail until Emma took him back.
“You’re better at it,” George would say. “When he’s older, we’ll play football. For now, I’ll make sure we’re provided for.” Yet his wages barely stretched for three.
James started nursery, and Emma returned to work. But money was still tight, and saving for a mortgage deposit proved impossible. Resentment grew—they argued over every unnecessary expense, and their quick reconciliations became a thing of the past.
“Enough. I work my fingers to the bone, and still it’s never enough. Where does it all go?” George snapped one evening.
“You tell me,” Emma retorted. “Look at that gut—you’re the one eating it all.”
“You don’t like my gut? You’ve changed too, you know. I married a butterfly, and now I’ve got a moth.”
The argument exploded. Emma wiped her tears and fetched James from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way home, she suddenly knew she couldn’t lose George. She’d go back, kiss him, apologise, and things would be as they were. Lovers’ quarrels never last, after all. Heart lighter, she hurried James along.
But the flat was dark and silent. His coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off and come back,” she told herself, frying potatoes with bacon—George’s favourite.
He never returned. His phone rang unanswered. The next morning, hollow-eyed and sick with worry, Emma took James to nursery and dragged herself to work. By lunch, she begged off, claiming illness, but instead of going home, she went to George’s office.
Outside his door, she steadied herself, rehearsing her words, then walked in. He stood with his back to her, kissing a woman. Her manicured hands splayed across his jacket, stark against the dark fabric like autumn leaves.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open—she saw Emma—but didn’t pull away. Instead, she clung tighter.
Emma fled, blind with tears, stumbling through the streets until she reached her mother’s door. “Mum, why would he do this? Are all men like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on for ages—how didn’t I see?”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, they’re your whole world. So when they betray you, it feels like the whole world’s betrayed you,” her mother sighed. “He’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Time heals. You’ve got James. Think of him. And if George doesn’t return… maybe it’s for the best. You’re young—you’ll find happiness again.”
“You didn’t.”
“How would you know? Maybe I was just afraid it’d happen again. And I worried for you—you were grown, but I still feared for you. But you’ve got a son—he’ll need a father…”
Soothed somewhat, Emma fetched James from nursery.
“Mum, play with me,” he begged at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“I hate when you talk like that,” he whispered, retreating.
George came home while she was putting James to bed. He pulled out a suitcase and started packing.
“Where are you going?” she asked, though she knew.
“Leaving. Had enough. The arguing, this cramped flat, the sight of you—enough.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage and a child. Now you’ve got him.” Zipping the suitcase, he glanced at James’s wide eyes, then left. The front door slammed.
Emma wept on the sofa. A touch on her shoulder—she jerked up, hoping it was George—but it was James in his pyjamas.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you like Dad did,” he said, patting her shoulder.
She hugged him, crying harder, then tucked him in and lay beside him.
George never returned. He filed for divorce.
James asked about him once, only to be sharply shut down—he never asked again. Slowly, life settled. When James started school, Emma met William. He was younger, which might have been why he and James got on so well.
He proposed more than once, but Emma hesitated. What if he wanted his own child? Would James resent it? And the age gap—sooner or later, he’d leave her for someone younger.
One day, while cleaning, she sent William to the park with James. The door burst open—William carried James in, blood streaking his face. He’d fallen from the slide, needing stitches.
Logically, Emma knew it wasn’t William’s fault—James had fallen countless times before. But a nagging voice whispered, *If he were your flesh and blood, this wouldn’t have happened.* Their relationship fizzled.
“Mum, don’t worry. I won’t leave you,” James promised again.
She never brought anyone home after that.
James grew into a handsome lad, then a man before she knew it. Emma swelled with pride—yet feared the day he married, leaving her alone.
“That’s a mother’s fate. Raise them, let them go. I live alone—you’ll get used to it. Wait till grandchildren come—you’ll be too busy to mind,” her mother soothed.
*Maybe I’m selfish,* Emma thought. *Mum’s getting frail—she needs me too. I’ll move in with her, let James have this flat with his wife.*
But her mother fell ill and died within a year, leaving her flat to James.
Then, out of the blue, George reappeared—unshaven, worn. He whined about women who’d adored him in his prime, abandoning him in sickness. He asked after his ex-mother-in-law and, learning she’d died, cursed fate for robbing him of his family—hinting at illness, pressing for pity.
“Mum, who’s here?” James called, spotting a sports bag in the hall. He kicked off his boots and strode to the kitchen, where a man stood up.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown,” George said, almost respectful.
James’s smile vanished. “I’m no son of yours.”
“James,” Emma murmured from the window, twisting a towel in her hands.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—for you to fetch me from nursery, to come to my birthdays, to ask how I was. But you never did. I hid it from Mum, but I waited.” George’s head bowed lower. “Where were you? Off with your mistress? Did you make her get rid of your child? Then moved on to the next?”
“James, how—”
“I found you. Wanted to see the man who threw us away. Fine, you stopped loving Mum. But what did I do? Why abandon me? Why come back now? Did another woman toss you out? Or is it Gran’s flat you’re after?”
“James, stop! He’s your father!”
“No. He helped make me. *You* raised me.”
“Is this what you taught him? Poisoned him against me?” George glared at Emma. “I paid maintenance!”
“Why didn’t *you* raise him, then?” She turned to the window.
“Right. I see how it is.” George slapped his knees and stood. “Sorry to trouble you.” He lingered, but neither spokeWith a quiet click of the door, George was gone for good, and Emma finally knew true peace was never in a man’s promises, but in the love she’d built with her son.
