**A Real Man**
Emma and Jack had been together for two years. Emma’s mum had started worrying her daughter was wasting her time with him—no talk of marriage in sight. Jack always said there was no rush; they had plenty of time, and they were happy as they were.
Autumn came, leaves scattered across the pavements like a golden carpet, and the rains began. Then, one chilly October afternoon, Jack clumsily proposed, presenting Emma with a modest little ring. She threw her arms around his neck, whispering, “Yes,” before sliding the ring on her finger and leaping with joy, shouting it to the world: “Yes!”
The next day, they filed for a marriage licence at the registry office, blushing like embarrassed schoolchildren. The wedding was set for mid-December. Emma had wanted a summer wedding—she dreamed of showing off in a white dress beneath the sun—but she didn’t argue. What if Jack delayed until next summer? Worse, what if he changed his mind? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On their wedding day, a blizzard blew in. The wind tangled her carefully styled hair, and her bridal gown billowed like a bell, as if the next gust might carry her away. Jack swept his bride into his arms at the church steps, carrying her to the car. Neither the storm nor her ruined hairstyle could dampen their happiness.
For a while, Emma basked in love. It felt endless. Of course, they had their squabbles, but by nightfall, they’d make up, falling asleep closer than ever.
A year later, their son, Thomas, was born. He was a calm, bright little boy, the pride of his parents. Like many men, Jack was hesitant with the baby—afraid to hold him, and when he did, Thomas would cry until Emma took him back.
“You’re better with him,” Jack would say. “When he’s older, we’ll play football. I’ll focus on providing.” But his salary barely covered their expenses.
Thomas grew, started nursery, and Emma went back to work. Still, money was tight. Saving for a mortgage deposit seemed impossible. Arguments grew sharper—accusations of unnecessary spending, bitterness replacing their easy reconciliations.
“Enough! I’m sick of this. I work my fingers to the bone, and it’s never enough. Do you eat the damn money?” Jack snapped one evening.
“You’re the one eating—look at that gut,” Emma shot back.
“Don’t like it? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly, and now you’re just a moth.”
The row exploded. Emma wiped her tears, fetching Thomas from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the walk home, she suddenly knew she couldn’t lose Jack. She’d hug him, kiss him, apologise, and he’d kiss her back. Just like before. After all, lovers’ quarrels only deepen affection. Her mood lifted, and she hurried Thomas along.
But the flat was dark and silent. Jack’s coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off and come back,” she told herself, frying potatoes—his favourite—for dinner.
He never returned. Calls went unanswered. The next morning, hollow-eyed from sleepless dread, Emma dropped Thomas at nursery and went to work. At lunch, she feigned illness and headed not home, but to Jack’s office.
Pushing open his door, she froze. Jack stood with his back to her, locked in a kiss with another woman. Her manicured hands splayed across his shoulders like maple leaves.
The woman spotted Emma—but instead of pulling away, she clung tighter.
Emma fled, stumbling through streets she didn’t see, tears blinding her. Her feet carried her to her mum’s house.
“Mum, why would he do this?” she sobbed. “Are all men like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on for ages. How didn’t I see it?”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, they’re your whole world. So if they betray you, it feels like the whole world’s betrayed you,” her mum sighed. “He’ll come back.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Time heals. You’ve got Thomas. Focus on him. If Jack doesn’t return… maybe it’s for the best. You’re young. You’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How do you know? I was scared—of history repeating. And you were older; I worried for you. But you’ve got Thomas. He needs a father…”
Calmer, Emma collected Thomas.
“Mum, play with me?” he asked at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“I don’t like it when you talk like that,” he whispered, retreating.
Jack returned as she tucked Thomas in. He pulled out a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” she asked, though she knew.
“Leaving. Had enough. The arguments, this shoebox flat, the sight of you.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage and a baby? Now live with it.” He zipped the case, glanced at Thomas’s wide eyes, and left. The door slammed.
Emma wept on the sofa. A small hand touched her shoulder—Thomas, in his pyjamas.
“Don’t cry, Mum. I’ll never leave you like Dad did,” he said, stroking her arm.
She held him, crying harder.
Jack never came back. Filed for divorce.
Thomas once asked about his father. Emma’s sharp reply silenced further questions. Life, though painful, moved on. When Thomas started school, Emma met Liam. He was younger, which helped him bond quickly with Thomas.
He often proposed. She hesitated—fearing jealousy if they had another child, or that he’d leave her for someone younger. One day, cleaning the flat while Liam played outside with Thomas, the door burst open—Liam carried Thomas inside, blood streaking his face from a fall off the slide.
Emma knew it wasn’t Liam’s fault. But the thought lingered: *If Thomas were his own, this wouldn’t have happened.* Their relationship faded.
“Don’t worry, Mum. I won’t leave you,” Thomas repeated.
Emma stopped introducing him to anyone.
Thomas grew into a handsome young man. Emma swelled with pride—and dread. Girls flocked to him; once he married, she’d be alone.
“That’s motherhood. You raise them, you let them go. You’ll manage—grandchildren will keep you busy,” her mum reassured.
*Selfish of me to think only of myself. Mum’s getting older—she needs help too. I’ll move in with her; Thomas can have this flat when he marries,* Emma decided.
But her mum fell ill and passed within the year, leaving Thomas her flat in her will.
Then, out of nowhere, Jack reappeared. Gaunt, unkempt. He lamented how women had abandoned him in sickness, how fate had robbed him of his family. He hinted at not having long—”Only ever loved you, Emma.”
“Mum, who’s here?” Thomas asked, spotting a duffel bag in the hall. He stepped into the kitchen. A man rose from the table.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown,” Jack said, almost reverent.
Thomas’s smile vanished.
“Your *son*? Since when?”
“Thomas,” Emma warned from the window.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—for you to pick me up from nursery, to come to my birthdays, to ask how school was. You never did. But I kept waiting, just hid it from Mum.” His voice cracked. “Where were you? Off with some mistress? Made her get an abortion, then moved to the next?”
“Thomas, how—”
“I found you. Wanted to see the man who abandoned us. Fell out of love with Mum—fine. But what did I do? Why’d you leave *me*? Or did you hear about Gran’s flat?”
“Stop it! He’s your father,” Emma snapped.
“No. He helped make me. *You* raised me.”
Jack rounded on Emma. “This how you poisoned him against me? I paid child support!”
“Could’ve raised him yourself,” she muttered.
“Right. I see how it is.” Jack stood, feigning injury, but neither stopped him.
Thomas blocked Emma from following. “Let him go.”
The door slammed.
After university, Thomas moved to London for work. Emma refused to join him, mourning the distance.
“You’ll marry soon. I’d just be in the way. Don’t argue—I’ll manage.”
Such was a mother’s lot: to let go and be left behind.
But Thomas visited every weekend.
“Mum, we need to talk,” he said once.
“If it’s about moving, don’t bother.”
“I’m getting married.”
“Really?” Her voice trembled. “Who’s the girl? From work?”
“A good woman. She’ll love you. The wedding’s next month. But there’s more.”
“She’s pregnant?”
“No, but we’re planning a family—though not yet,” Thomas replied, taking her hands, “and I’m selling Gran’s flat to buy you a place near mine, so you’ll never be alone.”
