The Most Important Man
At the start of November, the weather turned bitterly cold. A sharp, icy drizzle fell from the sky, while the wind snatched hats and whipped open coat flaps. Emma was glad her coat zipped up snugly. Still, the wind cut right through her, especially with her short boots and thin tights. She hunched her shoulders at the bus stop, looking like a ruffled sparrow. But the bus was nowhere in sight.
A sleek car pulled up beside the pavement, and the driver tapped the horn. The other passengers glanced around, their eyes eventually landing on Emma. She hesitated, then approached the car. The window rolled down, and she recognised the man from work.
“Quick, get in before you freeze. That bus won’t be here for ages,” he said with a smile.
Without overthinking it, Emma slid into the passenger seat. The warmth inside was a relief after the howling wind.
“Thank you,” she said, settling in.
“Don’t mention it. I drive this route every day, but I’ve never seen you before.”
“I usually leave earlier, but today I was delayed,” Emma explained.
James had noticed the quiet, composed woman months ago. Whenever he stopped by the accounts office, she greeted him politely before returning to her paperwork. Unlike the others, she never gossiped or flirted. Seeing her at the bus stop had been a stroke of luck—fifteen uninterrupted minutes with her in the car.
Lydia had been just as reserved and gentle when they first met. But marriage had changed her. She became demanding, snapping over every little thing. At first, James assumed pregnancy had affected her. Then their daughter was born, and things worsened. Nothing pleased her—she complained he didn’t earn enough, that other women had better husbands, that her friend Claire had a new fur coat while Jane had holidayed in the Maldives.
“We’ll pay off the mortgage, and then things will be easier,” James assured her.
“Wait until retirement? Is that your solution?” she’d shriek, and the cycle would begin again.
One evening, walking home in the dark, James saw a car pull up outside their building. A woman stepped out, waving cheerfully to the driver, her laughter ringing across the pavement.
He recognised that laugh instantly—Lydia. His stomach turned. Now he understood why she’d picked fights—she’d found someone wealthier. The click of her heels faded up the stairwell, the scent of expensive perfume lingering behind.
He didn’t argue. He simply packed his bags.
“Go, then! Don’t come back!” Lydia yelled from the bedroom.
Their daughter, Sophie, ran to him, clinging tight.
“Daddy, don’t leave!”
“I’m not leaving you, sweetheart. I’ll always be your dad.”
He adored Sophie.
Lydia appeared in the hallway, arms crossed.
“Don’t think you’re getting any part of this flat,” she snapped.
James turned sharply.
“I’ve paid the mortgage all these years. I need somewhere to live too.”
“Real men leave everything to their wives and kids,” she sneered.
“Guess I’m not a real man, then.” He walked out.
In court, he listened silently, burning with shame, as Lydia accused him of neglect, of leaving her in rags while she worked herself to the bone. Even the judge remarked on her designer dress and Italian boots. The divorce was swift.
Splitting the flat took longer. Lydia rejected every option the estate agent suggested. Eventually, she settled on a spacious kitchen in the same area, while James got a cramped one-bedroom flat on the outskirts. He spent evenings renovating, distraction from the bitterness gnawing at him.
One day, he waited outside Sophie’s school. She hugged him, crying. His heart ached. He called Lydia, asking if Sophie could visit on weekends. Expecting a fight, he was surprised when she agreed—it freed her up for her own pursuits.
After that, he took Sophie out on weekends, or to the cinema if the weather was nice.
Glancing at Emma now, he noticed her lost in thought. At the office, she thanked him politely, no fuss, no flirtation.
The next evening, he waited at her bus stop.
“What time do you leave in the mornings?” he asked as she got out.
“You’ll spoil me like this. Good things are hard to give up,” she smiled.
He waited for her the next day. Then the next. Soon, he was driving her daily, then inviting her to the cinema.
“He’s a decent man. Why hesitate? Someone else will snatch him up,” her friend warned.
“It’s not like that. My son’s at a difficult age—I’ve got enough on my plate,” Emma deflected.
“All the more reason to introduce them. A man in the house would help.”
Emma considered it. She liked James—he was respectful, never pushy. But she worried about her son’s reaction. One weekend, she invited James over, baking pies all morning.
“Mum, are we having guests?” Tom asked, eyeing the kitchen.
“Yes, for lunch. You’re staying, right?”
“Do I have to?” he muttered.
“Of course. And wash your hands first,” she said, swatting his fingers away from the salad.
She dressed up, curling her hair, dusting on a little makeup. Tom stared but didn’t comment. When James arrived with roses and chocolates, Tom stiffened. He barely spoke at lunch, his resentment obvious, then retreated to his room.
“He hates me,” James sighed.
“It’s not that. We’ve always been just us two. He’s jealous—both as a boy and a man. He needs time,” Emma soothed.
Later, she found Tom at his computer, headphones on.
“Tom, he’s just visiting. One day, you’ll marry, and I’ll be alone. What if your future wife doesn’t like me? How would you feel if I made that obvious?”
Tom didn’t look up.
“You’re the most important man in my life. If you don’t want him here, he won’t come back,” she said softly, then left.
On Monday, James waited at the bus stop.
“How’s Tom? Still against me?”
“He needs time. He’s a good boy, just not ready to share me. Maybe I rushed it.”
She left work early to avoid him. For days, she dodged conversations.
James decided to fix it himself. He waited outside Tom’s school, spotting him with friends.
“What?” Tom scowled as James called him over.
“Have a minute? I’d like to talk.”
Tom hesitated, then got in.
“Why’s your car so old? Can’t afford better?”
“You’re right. I had a wife and daughter. The mortgage ate most of my pay. But my wife wanted furs, jewels, holidays. She found someone richer.”
“So you’re after my mum because you’ve got nothing?”
“I’ve got my own flat—small, but mine. Your mum caught my eye long ago. But after the divorce, I was scared. Then I drove her home and couldn’t sleep after. I respect her—and you. Your call. But ask yourself: will you really be happy making her unhappy? She does everything for you. Why should you get to choose for her?”
They sat in silence.
“You want to marry her?” Tom finally asked.
“Very much. But your opinion matters.”
“Don’t get roses. She thinks they’re too pretty to cut. She likes gerberas. And no big jewellery—get something small if you want her to wear a ring,” Tom said, getting out.
Two days later, James rang Emma’s doorbell, holding gerberas.
“You’ve been avoiding me. I can’t take it,” he said, offering the flowers.
Tom appeared behind her.
“Hello, Tom. I came to ask for your mother’s hand,” James said, opening a velvet box.
Inside lay a delicate ring, its tiny stone catching the light. Emma stared between them, hope and fear in her eyes.
“I’m fine with it. Mum?” Tom grinned.
They exhaled in unison.
Over tea, Emma glanced at her ring, amazed it fit. James and Tom exchanged knowing looks. They’d marry in May, outdoors.
Some say adults shouldn’t let children decide their fate. But if they expect to shape their children’s lives, they must first learn to listen.
Happy families share the same joys, but every parent-child bond is unique.
Had Emma acted differently, James might never have spoken to Tom, or Tom might have clung to teenage stubbornness—and their story wouldn’t have unfolded this way.
But love and understanding found a way.
