Good morning, love.
Good morning, love.
As always, he woke a minute before the alarm. A habit left over from his army days. Rolling off the bed without opening his eyes, he pushed himself up from the floor a few times. Blood rushed pleasantly through him, shaking off the last traces of sleep.
Ill go wake the lads, Helen.
The “lads” were his ten-year-old twin boys, asleep in the next room. Two smaller versions of himself, mouths slightly open as if sharing the same dream.
The heating had been dodgy all night, so he decided against the usual morning run. No need to wake them early. He lingered, admiring how sturdy theyd grownalready stronger than hed been at their age.
Back then, hed been the opposite: scrawny, awkward, hunched. Timidmistaken for cowardice by his classmates. Schoolwork came easy; the taunts didnt. He never fought backknew hed lose. Gym class was a nightmare, the coachs sneers killing any motivation. As for sports clubs, his mother had been firm:
I didnt raise a bookish boy to go around breaking noses.
Timidity held him back there too. The dream of being strong lost that round. His mother rarely showed such steelusually, she smothered him in care, softness, affection. So much so that he fled straight to the army after school. Two years later, he returned a trained athlete. The delicate, timid boy had become a solid contender for boxing titles. To his mothers dismay and his sports colleges delight, he pursued it further.
University opened a new life: competitions, dormitories, friends. Then came the problemgirls. Boxing trophies didnt erase his shyness. Asking one out at twenty felt no easier than at ten. Until her.
Helen was the colleges rising star. A diving champion, slender, fair-haired, with green eyes. Clever, smiling, but quietas if not entirely of this world. They called her “The Alien.” They became friends instantly.
They could walk for hours without speaking. Cheered each other at matches. After their first kiss, he proposed immediately.
“The Martian Wedding” was celebrated by their whole year. People loved them for their kindness, their openness.
A year later, Helen took a breakpregnancy. He started evening shifts at Kings Cross, hauling cargo. Oddly, it was then he first felt truly strong. Not from the weight of sacks, but the certainty he could provide, raise a family. He was strong, and he had her.
Helen worried, but the doctor reassured her. Even joked:
Only one thing might upset you: if you dont like children, its twice as badyoure having twins.
At night, they dreamed together. Imagined their children grown, the seaside house theyd buy But night is for dreams.
On the eve of birth, she took his hand, looked into his eyes, and whispered:
Promise me, no matter what, you wont leave them.
He was stunned. Almost offended, but seeing her eyes, he just nodded.
The next day, labour began. It was long, hard. She was unconscious for nearly a day, the doctors baffled by the bleeding. By the time they understood, it was too late.
He doesnt remember that night. It passed in a haze. He woke at dawn at Kings Cross, lying in a puddle. Sick, head pounding. Alcohol still in his veins, but one thought sobered him instantly: two were waiting.
He finished university well but quit competitions. The sports committee gave him a flat, where he moved with the “lads.” His mother helped at first. Then the boys grew, and it was just the three of them. He coached at local clubs, but once they started school, he joined as their P.E. teacher. Still worked Kings Crosswhat kind of wage does a P.E. teacher earn? Though hed stopped hauling sacks; now he supervised.
Life settled, but his heart stayed heavy. As if he had things to say but had gone mute without Helen.
Friends tried setting him up. He never lasted an hour. One would glance like her; another would tuck her hair the same way
Then he began talking to her at night. Angry at firstshe wasnt there. Then it became habit. Sharing, asking advice.
Like last nightthe boys bragged about acing their tests:
I told them men dont boast. That its a shame not to aim for top marks. But I was proud. Theyre growing up rightclever, strong, decent My old army coach said, “Courage is the art of hiding fear.” So I hide it. Never praised them too much, never said I love them But they know, dont they, Helen?
For a moment, he nearly wept. Almost got up to hug them, tell them But it was night. Didnt want to wake them.
The kitchen was chilly. He checked the thermometer: minus five. A dry winter. Shame about the missing snow. Outside, an elderly woman from the second floor swept the yard. Was she muttering to herself?
The “lads” burst in. The elderborn five minutes earlierstarted the tea. The younger heated the panhis turn to cook breakfast.
Suddenly, one nudged the other. They shuffled over, hugged him, and said:
Dad We know you talk to Mum sometimes. Tell her we dont remember her much, but we love her loads. And you too, Dad
