The Proper Gentleman
Emily and Jack had been together for two years. Her mother had begun to fret, worried her daughter was wasting her time with him—would they ever marry? Jack insisted there was no rush; they would get there when they were ready.
Summer faded, leaves tumbled from the trees, painting the pavements gold. Autumn rains came, and on one damp October day, Jack clumsily proposed, presenting Emily with a modest little ring. She flung her arms around his neck, whispering “Yes” in his ear before slipping the ring on her finger and shouting it again, arms raised, jumping for joy.
The next day, they went to the registry office, blushing as they filed their notice. The wedding was set for mid-December. Emily would have preferred summer, showing off her white dress in full bloom—but she didn’t argue. What if he postponed again? Or worse, changed his mind? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard raged. The wind tore at her carefully styled hair, billowing her dress like a bell, threatening to carry her off altogether. Jack swept his new bride into his arms and carried her to the car, unshaken by the storm or her dishevelled curls. Nothing could tarnish their happiness.
At first, Emily basked in love. It felt eternal. Of course, they bickered sometimes, but by nightfall they’d reconcile, loving each other more fiercely still.
A year later, their son, Thomas, was born. A quiet, clever boy—his parents adored him. Jack, like most men, was little help, nervous to hold the baby. Whenever he did, Thomas would wail until Emily took him back.
“You’re better with him. I’ll play football with him when he’s older,” Jack said. “I’ll provide for us instead.” But his salary barely stretched far enough.
Thomas grew, started nursery, and Emily returned to work. Still, money was tight. Saving for a mortgage deposit felt impossible. Blame crept in—arguments flared over frivolous spending. Making up wasn’t as easy as before.
“Enough. I work my fingers to the bone, and it’s never enough for you. Do you eat the bloody money?” Jack snapped one evening.
“You do,” Emily shot back. “Look at that gut you’ve grown.”
“Don’t like it? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly, and now here’s a caterpillar.”
One harsh word led to another. Emily wiped her tears, fetching Thomas from nursery. Walking home, listening to his chatter, she realised she couldn’t lose Jack. She’d go home, hug him, kiss him, apologise—he’d kiss her back, and things would be right again. Lovers’ quarrels were just sport, weren’t they? Heart lighter, she hurried Thomas along.
But the flat greeted her with silence and darkness. His coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off and return,” she thought, frying potatoes with bacon—his favourite.
Jack never came home. He ignored calls. The next morning, exhausted and uneasy, Emily dropped Thomas at nursery and went to work. At lunch, she feigned illness and left—not for home, but Jack’s office.
She rehearsed her words, opened his office door—and froze. Jack was kissing another woman, her manicured hands splayed across his back like skeletal leaves. The woman glimpsed Emily but only clung tighter.
Emily fled, blind with tears, stumbling until she reached her mother’s doorstep.
“Mum, why would he do this? Are all men like this?” she sobbed.
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on for ages—how could I miss it?”
“I don’t know, love. When you love one man, he becomes your world. So when he betrays you, it feels like betrayal from all men,” her mother sighed. “He’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Time numbs pain. You’ve got Thomas. Focus on him. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re young—you’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How would you know? I was just afraid—that it’d happen again. And with you grown, I worried for you. But you’ve a son—he needs his father…”
Calmer, Emily fetched Thomas.
“Mum, play with me,” he begged at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
His voice wavered. “Don’t talk like that.” He left her be.
Jack returned as she tucked Thomas in. He hauled a suitcase from the wardrobe.
“Where are you going?” she asked, already knowing.
“Leaving. Sick of this—the fights, this shoebox flat, your face.” He avoided her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage, a kid? Here they are. Live with them.” He zipped the case, glanced at Thomas’s wide eyes, and marched out. The door slammed.
Emily crumpled onto the sofa, weeping. A touch on her shoulder—she jerked up, hoping it was Jack. Thomas stood there in pyjamas.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you,” he said, patting her shoulder.
She hugged him, sobbing harder.
Jack never returned. Filed for divorce.
Once, Thomas asked about him—Emily’s sharp reply silenced further questions. Life settled, pain dulling. When Thomas started school, Emily met William. Younger than her, he quickly bonded with Thomas. He often proposed; she always deferred. He’d want his own child—Thomas might resent it. Their age gap loomed too large. Eventually, he’d leave her—another abandonment.
One day, cleaning while William took Thomas to the park, the door burst open—William carried in a bloodied Thomas, who’d split his brow on the slide. Stitches at hospital.
Logically, she knew it wasn’t William’s fault—Thomas had tumbled before. Still, she wondered: if he were his own, would it have happened? Their relationship fizzled soon after.
“Mum, don’t worry. I won’t leave you,” Thomas repeated.
She brought no one home after that.
Thomas grew handsome—a teen, a man, before she noticed. She swelled with pride but feared the girls trailing him. Once he married, she’d be alone.
“That’s a mother’s lot. Raise them, let go. You’ll adjust. Grandchildren will keep you busy,” her mother soothed.
“Selfish, worrying about myself. Mum’s ageing—needs help too.” She resolved to move in, letting Thomas keep her flat for his future wife.
But her mother fell ill and died within the year, leaving the flat to Thomas.
Then Jack reappeared—haggard, unkempt. Whining that women flocked to him in health, but illness made him worthless. Casually asked after his ex-mother-in-law. Learning she’d died, he cursed fate for robbing him of wife, son—hinted he hadn’t long left. Only ever loved Emily. Pitiful, really.
“Mum, who’s here?” Thomas asked, spotting a duffel bag in the hall. He kicked off trainers, strode into the kitchen—where a man rose from the table.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown,” the man said respectfully.
Thomas’s smile vanished.
“Your son? Since when?”
“Thomas—” Emily wrung a tea towel by the window.
“Sorry, Mum. I don’t know him. First, I waited—for you to fetch me from nursery. Then for birthdays, presents. You never asked how school was, how I’d grown… I waited, just hid it from Mum.” His father’s head drooped lower.
“Where were you? With some mistress? Made her abort your kid, then moved to the next—”
“Thomas, how—”
“I found him. Wanted to know why he left. Fell out of love with Mum—fine. But what did I do? Why’d you abandon me?” Thomas glared at Jack. “Or did you hear about Gran’s flat? Faking illness for pity? I was ill too—you never cared.”
“Thomas, stop! He’s your father,” Emily scolded.
“No. He helped make me. You raised me.”
Jack turned on Emily. “So this is your doing? Poisoned him against me? I paid child support!” His voice rose, furious.
“Why didn’t you raise him, then?” She faced the window.
“Right. I’m not wanted here.” Jack slapped his knees, stood. No one stopped him.
Thomas stepped aside. Jack dressed slowly, loudly sighing.
“Mum, don’t.” Thomas blocked her path as she moved to see him out. “Let him go.”
The door slammed.
After university, Thomas moved to London for work. Emily refused to follow, mourning yet another separation.
“You’ll marry soon—I’ll just be in the way. Don’t argue, I’ll manage.”
A mother’s fate: to let go, stay behind. Thomas visited most weekends.
“Mum, we need to talk,” he said once.
“If it’s about moving toAnd as the years passed, Emily found peace in the quiet rhythm of her new life, watching Thomas thrive and realizing that some loves endure long after others have faded away.
