**A Conversation with My Son**
New Year’s break was nearly over, and my friends had decided to spend the last day ice skating. The biting cold had eased slightly, though the sun hung low in the sky, sharp and bright, promising warmth in weeks to come. The days were slowly growing longer.
James and Tom weren’t the only ones hoping to shed the extra holiday weight. The rink was crowded, the frosty air fresh, the music from the speakers lifting everyone’s spirits.
Once on the ice, James and Tom picked up speed, weaving around slower skaters. Their newly sharpened blades glided smoothly over the rough surface. It was their first visit this year—first the snow had been too heavy, then a thaw had turned the rink into a slushy mess. Only after Christmas had the ice hardened enough for a proper skate.
After a couple of warm-up laps, the boys began fooling around. Tom noticed a girl in a white coat and a matching knitted hat with a pom-pom. She clung to the barrier, wobbling unsteadily—clearly a novice, likely her first time on skates.
Her stiff legs refused to cooperate, her ankles twisting awkwardly. Without the barrier, she’d have fallen long ago. Tom felt both amused and sorry for her.
Spotting James chatting with some girls, Tom skated over to the struggling figure. “Need help? It’s not so hard once you know the basics.”
Before she could answer, her right foot slipped, and she nearly toppled backward. Tom caught her just in time.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
Her voice sent a shiver through him, and his pulse quickened.
“Let go of the barrier,” he urged. “You’ll never learn if you don’t try. Hold onto me instead.” He held out his hand.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“Ice is slippery—falls happen. But I won’t let you.” With a nervous grip, she finally released the barrier.
“Good! Now push off with one foot and glide on the other. Don’t point your toes—that’s how you fall. There, perfect.”
She took a few tentative steps, no longer clinging to the rail. It wasn’t graceful, but Tom showered her with praise.
“Brilliant! Bend your knees slightly. Now try to glide instead of stepping.”
Her eyes sparkled with joy, her laughter ringing out. The sound sent another pleasant shiver through Tom.
She pushed off boldly, forgetting to lift her toe—but Tom caught her again.
“Not so fast. Easy does it.”
Slowly, they moved along the rink’s edge until she sighed, exhausted. “I can’t go on. My legs feel like lead.”
“First-timers always ache tomorrow,” Tom reassured her. “You did great. I’m Tom, by the way.” He stole glances at her profile—rosy cheeks, thick lashes, parted lips. A warm, unfamiliar sensation spread through his chest.
“Charlotte,” she replied.
The sound of her name, sweet as summer, made his head spin.
She leaned heavily on his arm as they left the rink. He wanted the moment to last forever—her weight against him, her breath forming little clouds in the cold.
At the changing area, she collapsed onto a bench. “My boots are in a bag—could you fetch them?”
He returned with her things. “Need help with the skates?”
Her blue eyes met his, sending another jolt through him.
“I’ve got it.” She bent to unlace them.
Tom stood frozen, unable to look away.
“There you are!” James appeared behind him. “Lost you. How’s the lesson going?”
“Brilliant for a first try,” Tom grinned. “This is James. Charlotte.”
“Lovely,” James whispered with a wink. “Skating more?”
“You go ahead. I’ll walk Charlotte out.”
“You don’t have to,” she insisted, tugging on her boots.
“Oh, he doesn’t *want* to leave you,” James teased.
“I don’t,” Tom admitted. “Fancy a coffee? Warm up a bit?”
Off the ice, she seemed tiny and delicate. When she smiled, his heart leapt.
“Alright,” she agreed.
James smirked. “You’re not going in skates, are you?”
Flushing, Tom hurried to change.
They left the park, heading to a cosy café with soft lighting and sprigs of holly on the tables. As Charlotte sat, she winced.
“Hurt yourself?” Tom asked.
“My leg. Took a spill earlier.”
He guessed *where* but said nothing. “Ice helps.”
“Think I’ve had enough ice for today,” she joked. They laughed together.
“Give it three days,” he said. “But practice makes perfect. Fancy another go next weekend?”
In the dim light, she looked even prettier.
“I was supposed to come with a friend, but she’s ill…”
Warmed by coffee and each other’s glances, they left hand in hand.
From then on, evenings and weekends were theirs—especially skating dates.
“Bring your girl round,” Mum said one day. “I’d like to meet her.”
“Saturday, then. Nothing fancy—just lunch.”
Charlotte was nervous at the doorstep. “What if they don’t like me?”
“Don’t worry. They’ll love you.”
Mum welcomed her warmly. Over tea, Charlotte kept her eyes down—until Dad’s intense stare met hers.
“Where do you live? Study?” he asked.
“English Literature at uni. My mum’s a teacher—she got me into books.”
Dad’s expression flickered. “Journalism, then?”
“Mum teaches in York. I want to write.”
The rest of the evening, Dad was silent.
“I think he dislikes me,” Charlotte fretted afterward.
“Quite the opposite. Couldn’t take his eyes off you. I almost got jealous.”
At home, Dad waited in the kitchen.
“We need to talk, son.”
Tom’s stomach knotted.
“She looks just like her mother. When I was your age, I was sent to York for work.” He hesitated. “You’re a man—you’ll understand. Her mum was lovely, just like Charlotte. We… met. I was already married—your mum, you just three. I swore I’d forget her.”
“Don’t say she’s my *sister*,” Tom cut in sharply. “I love her. That changes nothing.”
“Listen. She’s twenty—you’re twenty-five. The maths doesn’t add up. I was there in August.” Relief filled his voice. “Her mum’s name?”
“Margaret. But Dad—what if she recognises you at the wedding?”
“After twenty-two years? Doubtful. And if she does—so what? She won’t dredge up the past.”
Tom exhaled. “You nearly broke me with this.”
“Life’s long, son. I’ve always loved your mother. But youth… it blinds you. Don’t repeat my mistakes.”
Tom nodded. “Let’s keep this between us.”
Later, alone in bed, he thought of Charlotte—how close they’d come to disaster.
They married that summer, a week after her birthday. If Margaret recognised Dad at the wedding, she gave no sign.
Youth never considers the shadows cast by reckless love. But those shadows stretch far—and you never know when the past will rise up to shake the present.
