“Good morning, love.”
“Good morning, love.”
As always, he woke a minute before the alarm. A habit left from the army. He rolled off the bed onto the floor, eyes still closed, and pushed himself up a few times. The rush of blood chased away the last traces of sleep.
“Ill go wake the lads, Ellen.”
The “lads” his ten-year-old twin sons slept in the next room. Two smaller versions of him, mouths slightly open as if sharing the same dream.
The heating had been unreliable all night, so hed decided against their usual morning run, letting them sleep in. He lingered, admiring their sturdy frames, already taking after him.
At their age, hed been the oppositescrawny, awkward, hunched. Shy, which his classmates mistook for cowardice. Schoolwork came easily; the taunts didnt. He never fought backhe knew he was weaker. In PE, he gave his all, but the coachs sneers crushed his spirit. As for sports clubs, his mother was firm:
“I didnt raise a clever Jewish boy just so he could go around breaking noses.”
Timidity held him back. The dream of strength lost that round. His mother rarely stood her groundmostly, she smothered him in care and affection. Too much of it. The moment he finished school, he fled to the army. Two years later, he returned a trained athlete. The gentle, fragile boy had become a solid amateur boxer, much to his mothers dismay and his colleges delight.
University opened a new world: competitions, dorm life, friends. Then came the problemgirls. Boxing trophies didnt erase his shyness. Asking one out at twenty felt no easier than at ten. Until Ellen.
She was the colleges rising stara diving champion, slender, fair-haired, with sharp green eyes. Clever, smiling, but quiet, as if her mind lived elsewhere. They called her the Spacegirl. They became friends instantly.
With her, silence felt easy. They walked for hours without speaking. Cheered for each other at meets. After their first kiss, he proposed on the spot.
Their “Martian Wedding” was celebrated by the whole class. Everyone loved them for their kindness, their openness.
A year later, Ellen took a leavepregnancy. He started evening shifts at Kings Cross, hauling cargo. Strangely, it was then he first felt strongnot from lifting sacks, but from knowing he *could*. Hed provide. Hed raise his sons. He was strong, and he had her.
Ellen was nervous, but the doctor reassured herit was a smooth pregnancy, even joked:
“Only one thing might upset youif you dont like children, its twice as bad. Youre having twins.”
At night, they dreamed togetherwhat their boys would be like, the house by the sea theyd buy. But thats what nights are fordreaming.
The day before the birth, she took his hand, looked him in the eye, and whispered,
“Promise me, no matter what, you wont leave them.”
He almost bristled, but her eyes stopped him. He nodded.
The next day, the labour began. It dragged onhours bleeding into a day. She lost consciousness, the doctors scrambling to stop the bleeding. When they found the cause, it was too late.
That night was a blur. He woke at dawn at Kings Cross, sprawled in a puddle, head pounding, stomach churning. The alcohol still burned in his veins, but one thought sobered him instantlyhe had two boys waiting.
He graduated 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 a local gym, but once they started school, he joined as their PE teacher. He still worked at Kings Crosswhat kind of wage does a PE instructor make? Though he wasnt hauling sacks anymorehed been promoted to shift supervisor.
Life settled, but the weight never lifted. He ached to talk, but without Ellen, the words stuck.
Once, friends tried setting him up. He never lasted an hour. One woman would glance like Ellen; another would tuck her hair behind her ear the same way.
Then he started talking to her at night. At first, it infuriated himspeaking to air, not feeling her. Then he grew used to it. Sharing, asking advice. Just last nightthe boys had bragged about acing a test.
“I told them boasting isnt manly. And that settling for less than top marks is shameful. But God, Ellen, I was proud. Theyre clever. Strong. Good-hearted. My old army trainer used to say, Courage is the art of being scared stiffand not showing it. But Im scared to praise them too much, to seem soft. Ive never even told them I love them. But they know, dont they?”
For a moment, the ache was too much. He nearly got up, went to hug them, to say it. But he didntit was night. He let them sleep.
The kitchen was chilly. He checked the thermometer outside: minus five. A dry winter. Pity there was no snow. An elderly woman from the floor below swept the courtyard. Was she muttering to herself?
The “lads” burst in. The older twinby five minutesstarted the kettle. The younger grabbed the panhis turn to cook breakfast.
Then one nudged the other. Awkwardly, they approached their father, hugged him, and the older whispered,
“Dad we know you talk to Mum sometimes. Tell her we dont remember her much, but we love her. A lot. And we love you too.”
