Alright, here’s the story all adapted for English culture – names, places, everything switched up.
“Alright, Becky, what were you even doing in there?” Mick grumbled as she finally dashed out of the house. They were in the same class, so they walked to school together. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Mum poured me a boiling cuppa,” Becky laughed, shrugging. “Nearly burned my tongue, had to wait for it to cool. Relax, we won’t be late. It’s not far.”
They were next-door neighbours, just a fence between their houses. Their parents got along well—so well, in fact, they sometimes joked about how nice it’d be if the kids ended up married someday, seeing as they’d been close since they were little.
Mick was the only son of Mary and Nigel. His mum adored him—thought he was the cleverest, kindest, most handsome lad in town, and to be fair, he’d turned out all right. Becky was quiet, modest, but handy with her hands—already sewing, knitting, even cooking meals while her mum was at work by the time they hit sixth form. Learned it all from her mum.
“Becky’s the one our Mick should marry,” Mary would say firmly to her husband.
“Yeah, and if they do, we can just knock down the fence and live like one big happy house,” Nigel would joke.
The whole village sort of assumed it would happen—Mick and Becky getting married one day. Always together. Mick liked Becky well enough, but it wasn’t some grand love, y’know? Just proper good mates. Becky, though—she’d glance at him sometimes with hope.
Then, during their GCSE year, a new girl showed up—Melanie. Mick fell for her the second he saw her. Dark-haired, pretty, with a dimple on her chin and these sad, sad eyes.
She and her mum, Theresa, had moved to the village from London after Melanie’s dad drowned saving some neighbour’s kid. Pushed the boy to safety, then his heart gave out. After the funeral, Melanie couldn’t even look at that boy anymore. The thought of him made her sick.
“Mum, I miss Dad so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And I can’t even stand seeing that—” She never said his name.
Theresa couldn’t take London anymore—too many memories. She rented out their flat, bought a little house in the village, and left it all behind.
Becky and Melanie became friends fast, especially when Becky heard the story. Felt sorry for her, honestly. And yeah, she noticed Mick was smitten, but she didn’t mind. No hard feelings.
Then Mick and Melanie started dating, and Mary *hated* it.
“Michael. You can’t just mess Becky about like this. You two have been thick as thieves since you were kids. And now some city girl comes in and—what, you think she even knows how to cook? Becky’s already a proper little homemaker.”
“Mum, you don’t even *know* Melanie. And I never promised Becky anything—that was just you deciding for me!”
Nigel kept quiet, but if Mary nagged Mick too much, he’d step in eventually.
“Love, leave the lad alone. He’ll marry who he wants—it’s his life.”
“*His life*? He’ll ruin it with that girl, and you’re sitting there like he’s not even yours! Your *mother’s* putting ideas in your head again.”
Yeah, Nigel’s mum and Mary never got on. Never liked Theresa either. Grudge held for years, neither backing down.
After school, Mick and Melanie decided to get married. His dad told him to slow down, but Mick wouldn’t hear it.
“Dad, just leave it. I’ve thought about this a thousand times. Melanie makes me happy.”
He knew better than to bring this up with his mum around, though. So him and Melanie just went to the registry office, signed the papers, and—boom. Married. Came home and dropped the news.
Mary *lost* it.
“That girl’s not setting foot in *my* house—” And a lot more.
Mick packed his things and moved in with Theresa. Surprisingly, he and his mother-in-law got on great. But with his own parents? Radio silence. Didn’t even tell them when he enlisted in the army.
“Mel, I’ll come see your swearing-in,” he told his wife, grinning. He *adored* her.
She kept her word, turned up for the ceremony—wasn’t far, just the next county over.
Then she whispered, “Mick… I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
He was over the moon. Even wrote his parents. No reply. Later, when the baby—a boy—was born, Melanie told them. Still nothing. Hurt like hell, but what could she do? Her mother-in-law wouldn’t even *look* at her.
Time passed. Mick came home from the army, stopped by his parents’ first—Theresa’s place was across the village, and yeah, he *had* missed them.
“Oh, *love*,” Mary cooed the second she saw him. “You’re back! Come in, sit down—your dad’s at work, but let’s have a drink, eh?”
She poured him a whiskey. Then another. Mick *never* drank, but he couldn’t say no, not after so long. And once he was tipsy—*that’s* when Mary struck.
“Mick… that boy. He’s not yours. She lied. Soon as you left, some lad came round Theresa’s place—cousin or something, they *said*, but I don’t buy it. Stayed days. And that baby? Doesn’t look a *thing* like you.”
“Mum, what the *hell*—”
“Just telling you the *truth*, son. Everyone’s saying it.”
Sober, Mick would’ve laughed. But between the drink and his mum’s acting? He *snapped*. Grabbed his dad’s shotgun, stormed out.
Mary ran after him—realised *too late* she’d pushed him too far. By the time she burst into Theresa’s house, Mick had the gun pointed at Melanie and the baby, Theresa shielding them.
Mary shoved Mick—gun went off, but *thank God* it wasn’t loaded.
“Michael, *stop*—” Mary clung to his arm, wailing. “Don’t ruin your life over *her*!”
Theresa *yanked* them outside, slammed the door, bolted it. Mick pounded on the wood, raging, until his mum dragged him home.
“Why’d she *do* this, Mum?” he kept muttering.
Back inside, Theresa held Melanie, who was sobbing.
“*Don’t cry, love*. We’re leaving. Tonight. Pack your things—we’ll go far away. Mary won’t let us live in peace here. Mick’s a good lad, but his mum’s a *snake*.”
Mick, drunk and shattered, passed out on a bench near the shop. Mary tried throwing a party—*”My boy’s home!”*—but barely anyone came. Even Becky refused.
“Becky,” Mary hissed when they bumped into town. “Don’t waste this. Mick’s *vulnerable* right now. Comfort him, show him what he’s missing—he’ll come crawling back.”
Becky just stared.
“You actually think I *want* him like that? After what you did? You hurt Melanie, Mick, even your own *grandson*. You’ll regret it.”
Mary paled—she *hadn’t* thought that far ahead.
Mick spent weeks drinking himself stupid. Until his mate Paul shook him awake outside the pub.
“*Enough*, mate. You’ve made a right mess of things, you and that *witch* of a mother. Melanie *loved* you. That ‘cousin’ was Theresa’s nephew—fixed their fence, *that’s all*. And your mum? Tried getting *me* to lie to you, say Melanie cheated.”
Mick went home cold sober, faced his dad.
“You *knew* she made it up.”
“…Yeah.”
“Never forgiving you.”
He moved back to Theresa’s. His mum knocked. He *ignored* her. Worked himself ragged driving a van—anything to keep busy.
Months later, he bumped into Becky.
“Hey, Mick. I’m getting married. To Paul.”
“Good for you. He’s a top bloke—I’ll be there.”
“Mick… go to Maplewood.”
“What’s there?”
“Melanie. She lives there. *Apologise*. She didn’t deserve any of this… Maybe she’ll forgive you.”Mick drove straight to Maplewood, heart pounding, and when Melanie opened the door, tears in her eyes, he whispered, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you both,” and pulled her into his arms.
