In his second year at university, Edward fell for a sweet blonde girl named Beatrice, who studied in a parallel group. Her soft rosy cheeks and warm grey eyes troubled him. At a student party, they finally met properly, and he asked her to dance.
“You dance wonderfully,” he complimented Beatrice, and she laughed brightly.
“Is it so hard? Just move a bit quicker, that’s all,” she said with a smile, swaying gracefully.
From that evening on, they were inseparable. Their whirlwind romance ended in marriage. Both lived in university halls, both students, yet somehow managed to make it work—by then, they’d been given a shared room. Soon, a cot appeared in that room. Beatrice was expecting a child.
“Ed, how will we keep studying when the baby comes? Just this one room—maybe I should take a year off. It’s a shame, you’ll finish before me.”
“Bea, why worry ahead of time? When our son arrives, we’ll figure it out. We’re not the first students to raise a child. Thomas in my group has twins, and he hasn’t dropped out,” Edward reassured her.
In time, Beatrice gave birth to a beautiful boy, George. Edward and she were overjoyed—a new little person in their lives. The first months were hard, but they were lucky. Whether George was a thoughtful baby or simply born calm, he let his young parents sleep and rarely fussed, a picture of serenity.
They took turns attending lectures and studying for exams. Somehow, Beatrice managed without a break, though when George fell ill, her mother came from the nearby village to help, sitting with him and giving medicine.
“Bea, perhaps we should take George back to the village with us,” her mother suggested, but they refused.
“No, Mum, we’ll manage. If we need you, we’ll call.”
So Edward and Beatrice graduated, and it seemed their struggles should have strengthened their marriage—but it was not to be. Beatrice inherited a flat from her grandmother. They both worked and lived there now; George attended nursery.
When the troubles began, Edward couldn’t understand it. Beatrice grew cold, distant. They struggled to communicate. Edward wondered:
“Did we truly love each other when we married young, or was it just infatuation? Or are we staying together only for George? I want to keep our family, if only for our son. Now, the only thing binding us is love for him and a sense of duty.”
What Beatrice thought, he didn’t know. She had fallen for another man—so deeply she was ready to leave Edward. But she couldn’t take George away; this was her flat, and her new love, Arthur, had no home of his own. One evening, she told him:
“Ed, we must divorce. I love someone else. To me, you’re just George’s father now. This can’t go on.”
“I’m not ready for this,” he replied. “What about George? Have you thought of him?” The news stunned him.
“I think of him constantly. This is better for him.”
“Better? For another man to raise my son instead of me? What are you saying?” Edward snapped.
“Our boy is growing up. Soon he’ll understand everything. How long can we pretend to be a happy family?” Beatrice said calmly.
“But we are a happy family. We both love him.”
“We love him, but not each other. That isn’t normal,” she said regretfully.
Edward knew she was right—in his head, if not his heart. She wanted George to stay with her after the divorce. The thought was unbearable. He loved his son dearly, though he knew Beatrice was a good mother. He refused to agree:
“I won’t let George call another man ‘father.’”
“Ed, why ‘another’? You’ll always be his father. We’re divorcing each other, not him. Parents don’t divorce their children,” she argued.
Edward flared up:
“Of course they don’t. But I won’t read him bedtime stories, help with puzzles, check his schoolwork. What kind of father is that—just at a distance? If you want a new life, know this: I won’t give you our son.” He stormed out to clear his head.
Walking the streets, he tried to gather his thoughts.
“What can I do? I threatened her, but any court will side with the mother. Beatrice has a good job, a home. Do I have the right to take a six-year-old from his mother?”
He wandered late into the night but found no solution. The only way was to refuse the divorce—convince her they must stay together for George’s sake. He’d even accept personal freedom for them both, just to keep the illusion of family for the boy. When George grew up, he’d understand. He resolved to speak to Beatrice again.
“Ed, how do you imagine this? Me living with you but loving Arthur, meeting him, pretending we’re perfect?”
“But you can’t take George from me. He needs us both.”
“Our not living together doesn’t mean either of us will love him less,” Beatrice said firmly.
She had made up her mind. She knew George would stay with her—Edward just needed to leave. But he stood his ground. He didn’t understand the legalities but wouldn’t surrender his son or agree to divorce. Beatrice grew frustrated. No argument swayed him. Finally, he consulted a solicitor, who laid it out plainly:
“You can refuse the divorce, but think—how will life look if she lives with another man? It won’t end well. George will grow up seeing this. What example does that set?”
“Yes. However you twist it, George suffers most,” Edward admitted. “But I can’t back down.”
He tried once more to persuade Beatrice, but the conversation turned as always.
“Beatrice, I’ll agree only if George stays with me.”
She shouted:
“So you’re blackmailing me—with our son? You don’t care about him, just ruining my life!”
They yelled until exhausted, then fell into silence. After that, they avoided speaking directly, using George as a messenger.
“Son, ask Mum where my jumper is.”
“George, tell Dad to collect you after school. I’ll be late.”
Edward tried to ignore the tension, but it worsened. George didn’t understand—Beatrice told him they’d quarrelled.
“How do I explain to a seven-year-old that we’ve fallen out of love but can’t separate because we both love him? This isn’t living. In fighting for him, we’ve gone too far. Soon, he’ll be nervous, withdrawn.”
One evening, Edward visited his mother.
“Hello, Mum.”
“Goodness, you look terrible—so thin, so pale.”
“I know. I need advice. Changing things is urgent, but the thought of divorce—another man raising George—is unbearable.”
“Son, listen. You’re thinking of yourself, not George. You don’t want to lose him, but you’re causing him stress. It will only hurt him.”
“But it’s Beatrice ruining our family!”
“If you truly love him, you must go. You’ve no choice. She won’t love you again. She’s a good mother—no court will take George from her. Your fighting only harms him.”
“But I must fight for my son!”
“First, you must love him—not fight.”
The talk lifted a weight. His mother was right. He saw clearly now: he’d agree to divorce but see George whenever he wished. He rushed home, resolved.
“Beatrice,” he said at once, “I’ll agree—but I’ll see George anytime, and you won’t stop me.”
“I won’t object,” she said calmly.
They divorced. Edward rented a flat. He tried to explain to George:
“Son, Mum and I are parting. But I love you—we’ll still meet. You’ll visit, we’ll go to Granny’s, the park, the cinema. Never forget—I love you.”
“Dad, I understand. I won’t leave Mum alone, but I’ll see you.”
“That’s my boy.”
So now Edward lives alone; Beatrice, Arthur, and George together.
