Alright, so here’s the story, adapted for English culture—names, places, all of it.
Life isn’t just unkind to women when it comes to family—men struggle too. Victor’s one of them. At thirty-eight, he’s still asking himself: what’s wrong with me?
“Two marriages, and still no happiness. Well, one was official, the other wasn’t. Neither worked out. Where’s my luck? Why does it skip me? Am I meeting the wrong women, or looking in the wrong places?”
Victor’s the kindest bloke you’ll meet—always helping, always shielding others from harm. His mates even joke: “Vic, you should’ve been a saint. You can’t save everyone, mate.” But that’s just him. He lives with his parents in a village, in a big house with land. Handy with his hands—welding, driving, fixing washing machines, even electrics. The whole village relies on him. When he’s not working shifts up north, earning good money, he’s home getting swamped with odd jobs.
“Mum, people need help,” he’d say when she scolded him.
“People are clever, son. You do it for free, so why would they pay someone else?”
“Doesn’t hurt me, Mum,” he’d shrug.
At twenty-two, he married Valerie. She was two years younger, pretty, and full of life. His mum never liked her. “You should’ve married someone quiet, not this Valerie. She’s seen too much for twenty. You rushed into it.”
“Mum, nothing I do is right for you. I like her energy—I’m not exactly the lively type myself.”
They lived in his parents’ house, though Vic had his own entrance. While he was away working, Valerie’s “fun” began. She’d wait for his parents’ lights to go out, slip out the back gate (never the front—his mum might see), and head to the pub for dances. Sometimes blokes from the village—or the next one over—walked her home.
One night, his mum fell ill. His dad went to Valerie’s side of the house—Vic was away—but she wasn’t there. Panicked, he fetched the neighbour, Martha, who brought medicine.
Next morning, Valerie acted innocent. “I was home all night.”
“Don’t lie. I came at one—your mum was poorly!”
“I was at *my* mum’s till three!”
They didn’t tell Vic. But once, he came home early, hitching a ride with a mate, Mike, from the station. Walking three miles in the dark, torch in hand, Vic knocked on the bedroom window—his usual signal. No answer. Then rustling. The kitchen window creaked open. A bloke climbed out.
Valerie let him slip past Vic, head down. “Who was that?” Vic demanded.
“None of your business.”
“So this is what you do when I’m gone?”
Next day, Valerie left. They divorced soon after.
“Told you about her,” his mum said.
“Drop it, Mum.”
Then Valerie returned. “I’m pregnant. Yours. Keep it?”
“If it’s mine, have it. I’ll help.”
Nine years on, Vic pays child support for Johnny, buys his clothes—whatever Valerie asks. His mum grumbles: “You dunce, he doesn’t even look like you!”
“She says he’s mine. That’s enough.”
After Valerie, he met Anna from the next village—a single mum with a little girl, Daisy. They never married, but lived together at his place. His mum approved: “Anna’s a hard worker—milks the cow, everything.”
Then Anna said, “Mum’s ill. Going back to look after her.”
“Need me?” Vic offered.
“No. I’ll call if I do.”
He visited, helped out, gave money. A year later, a mate asked, “Vic, did you kick Anna out?”
“No? Her mum’s sick.”
“Her mum’s fit as a fiddle. Anna’s got some bloke round—hides when you visit.”
Vic checked. Same story—another man in her house.
“Too trusting,” his mum sighed.
Finally, she nudged him toward Eleanor, their quiet neighbour. “Not a beauty, but homely. Never married.”
Eleanor baked pies, brought them over. Vic loved them. She’d always fancied him—since school, she admitted after they wed.
“We could’ve had years, kids!” he groaned.
She smiled. “Plenty of time, Vic. I’m only thirty-two.”
His mum and Eleanor’s mum, Martha, got on even better now. Both chuffed. And Vic? He’s got his family at last.
