“I don’t think your mum likes me. Why? I’ve never done anything to upset her,” asked Emily.
“Oliver, where are you rushing off to? Sit down and eat properly,” Veronica Winthrop said sharply.
“Mum, I’m late.” Oliver stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth, gulped down his coffee, and dashed out of the kitchen.
“You’ll give yourself indigestion,” Veronica muttered, shuffling after him on her short legs. “Running off to see that Emily of yours? I don’t know what you see in her. Lucy’s lovely—striking, even—and she’s mad about you. She’d be perfect for you. You’d make such a handsome pair.”
Oliver silently tied his trainers, still chewing.
“Like a little boy.” His mother shook her head. “Your Emily could wait five minutes—it wouldn’t kill her.”
“Mum, enough.” Oliver straightened up, adjusting his T-shirt. “It’s my life. I’ll decide who’s right for me.”
“Oh, you’ll decide, will you? And by the time you come to your senses, it’ll be too late. A girl like Lucy won’t stay single forever…” The last of Veronica’s words were swallowed by the slam of the front door.
Pursing her lips, she shuffled back to the kitchen, polishing off the half-eaten sandwich while staring blankly at the wall. Then, with grim determination, she attacked the stove with a scouring pad. Scrubbing was her default response to irritation—whether fury, frustration, or plain old annoyance, it all got channelled into domestic warfare against grime.
When the doorbell rang, she assumed Oliver had forgotten something. She hurried to answer—only to find Emily standing there. The slender girl smiled up at her with wide, hopeful grey eyes, like a child waiting for a promised treat.
“Mrs. Winthrop, hello. Is Oliver…?”
“He left five minutes ago. You just missed him,” Veronica replied, forcing a smile. It was hard to tell whether she was pleased to see Emily or pleased to have spoiled her mood.
“Oh. Could you let him know I stopped by? Mum and I are going to visit Gran—she’s been admitted to hospital.”
“Of course, dear. Wouldn’t dream of forgetting.” Veronica tilted her head. “Though you could always call him yourself.”
“I tried. His phone’s switched off.”
Veronica always insisted on phones being silenced at home—claimed the constant ringing gave her migraines.
When Oliver trudged back inside twenty minutes later, she couldn’t resist a smug, “Back so soon, darling?”
“She didn’t show. She’s not at home either. Mum, did Emily come by?”
“Should she have?” Veronica feigned innocence. “Could be anything, really. Your Emily isn’t going anywhere—she’ll turn up.”
Later, Oliver left for training, and Veronica, having scrubbed the stove to a mirror shine, headed to the shops—where she bumped into Lucy, his old schoolmate.
Veronica firmly believed beauty mattered, and Lucy *was* beautiful—unlike that wide-eyed waif Emily. But even better? Lucy’s father worked in city administration. Connections like that could secure Oliver a prestigious job, a nice flat… He couldn’t stay an athlete forever. Veronica wasn’t mercenary, but she wasn’t about to let her only son’s future drift haphazardly. Life had to be played smart.
“Lucy dear! How lovely to see you,” she cooed. “You’ve been neglecting us lately!”
“Hello, Mrs. Winthrop. I’d love to visit, but Oliver’s taken.” Lucy pouted. “He barely glances my way.”
“Oh, nonsense! A girl like you just needs to be persistent. Ask him to the cinema, for a walk.”
“I’ve tried! He’s always busy.”
“Busy with *her*, more like,” Veronica scoffed. “Between you and me—Emily’s gone away for a week. So don’t dawdle. Drop by tonight. We’ll have tea.”
Lucy did. Veronica ‘went to put the kettle on’, nodding meaningfully toward Oliver’s room. Lucy knocked and entered. Oliver was sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“Hi! Ran into your mum earlier—she invited me over. Why so glum? Fancy the cinema? Gorgeous evening.”
“Lucy, I’ve just got back from training—knackered. Rain check?” Oliver sat up reluctantly.
“Fine. But I’m holding you to that.” Lucy perched beside him, chatting about training, matches—anything but Emily. Later, over tea, Veronica hinted Oliver should walk Lucy home—”A pretty girl shouldn’t wander alone at night!”
***
Emily adored her grandmother. She’d even studied medicine because of her—Gran was always ill but hated doctors.
“I’ll grow up and treat you myself,” little Emily had vowed. Now, she was in her fourth year at med school.
The doctor said it was just high blood pressure—a week’s observation, then discharge. Relieved, Emily packed to leave.
“Where are you off to? It’s your break! Oliver can wait,” her mother grumbled.
“Mum, Gran’s better. Stay with her—once Oliver’s away at his tournament, I’ll come back and swap.”
“Fine, go.” Her mother sighed. *Oliver’s a good lad. But she’s besotted—just like I was with her father.* She remembered that all-consuming love—until he’d left when Emily was eight. *Maybe she’ll have better luck.*
Emily went straight to Oliver’s from the station.
Veronica opened the door, disapproval radiating like a forcefield.
*Ugh. Back again. Persistent little thing.* But she pasted on a smile. “Oliver’s out. No idea when he’ll be back.”
“I’ll let him know you called,” she said, shutting the door. *Tenacious, isn’t she?*
Emily dialled Oliver again. Nothing. She’d wanted to surprise him. She waited on the landing, watching the street. An old man passing by shot her a disapproving look.
She was about to leave when Oliver appeared—with Lucy. Emily recognised her immediately. Lucy flung her arms around Oliver, kissing his cheek—not a peck, a lingering press of lips.
Oliver didn’t push her away. Emily turned, numb, descending the stairs—then froze when the front door slammed. Lucy’s laughter floated up, followed by Veronica’s chirpy, “There you are! Dinner’s ready…”
The door clicked shut.
*She never greets me like that.* Emily lingered outside Oliver’s flat, then fled, tears choking her. *Three days apart, and he’s kissing Lucy? Mum’s right—words mean nothing.*
At home, she wept, regretting leaving Gran, regretting coming back. In the morning, she returned to the hospital.
Two weeks later, Oliver was away at his tournament. Veronica delivered the news when they returned.
He called, but Emily ignored it. She’d seen him with Lucy—no excuses would change that. They finally met after his tournament. He moved to hug her; she stepped back.
“Emily? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong with *me*. But you—I saw you with Lucy. Kissing.”
“When?” Oliver looked genuinely baffled.
“I came back early. Didn’t your mum tell you I stopped by?” Emily shrugged. “I saw you both. I was on the stairs. She doesn’t like me. Why? I’ve never been anything but kind.”
“Lucy just congratulated me on making the team—it was a *friendly* peck! Should I have shoved her? I’ve known her since we were kids! I love *you*. But Mum…” He reached for her.
“Don’t. Just go. She’ll never let us be happy.”
At home, Veronica and Lucy were giggling over tea like old friends.
“Ollie! Join us. Lucy made biscuits!” Veronica beamed.
“Did you plan this?” Oliver glared at Lucy. “Kissing me outside? So Emily would see?” He turned to his mother. “You put her up to it?”
“Oliver! What nonsense!” Veronica huffed.
“It was just a friendly kiss,” Lucy said smoothly. “Honestly, if she’s this jealous now, imagine later.” She stood. “Thanks for tea, Mrs. Winthrop.”
Emily avoided Oliver, ignored his calls. Veronica needled him about Lucy—“Such a *capable* girl.” Their worlds barely overlapped—his tournaments, her exams, Gran’s relapses. Misunderstandings piled up like unread letters.
***
Fifteen years later
Oliver coached at a youth sports club. A career-ending injury had forced him out of competitive athletics. Now, he taught self-defence to teenagers—some rowdy, some bullied, some just needing direction.
One day, a scrawny thirteen-year-old appeared.
“Getting roughed up?” Oliver asked habitually.
“Nah. Mum said I need ‘male influence’—no dad, see.”
“Smart woman. Where’s your dad? No pressure.”
“Years later, watching Emily cradle their newborn while Denny—now towering over him—grinned proudly, Oliver realised life had a funny way of circling back to where you were always meant to be.”
