A Decent Bloke Caught in Complications

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Mom, you dont get it! Theres nothing left between themshe got pregnant on purpose just to keep him on a short leash, Emma burst out, her voice shaking with anger. She wont let him go!

Margaret rolled her eyes and sighed. She seems like a good daughterpretty, smart, with a degree. But shes blind; she cant see whats right in front of her.

Emma, are you even hearing yourself? How can you plan to get pregnant with a man youve already finished with? Was he unconscious? Either some miracle happened, or someones pulling your leg. Which sounds more likely?

Emma huffed as if Margaret were spouting nonsense.

Mom, maybe she just gave him a drink. Or shes seeing someone else on the side. Who knows what tricks we girls come up with?

Margaret lifted an eyebrow, blinking slowly. Tricks? You cant fool nature, love. Itll be a nightmare trying to explain that to my daughter.

Sweetheart, open your eyes. Theyre not splitting up because hes some noble father. He never intended to. Hes happy the way things are.

Thats not true! Emma snapped. You dont understand! I know him better. Hes a good bloke, just circumstances

By now Margaret had had enough. Emma was defending James, and James was simply using her. Margaret had seen this play out before, always holding back, but today her patience snapped. Three years of lies, two families, endless hurt and tears from her girlher cup finally overflowed.

Listen, Margaret cut in. Ive got no strength left. Im sick of watching you waste your life on that scoundrel. Ill track down that scheming Claire and write to her. Ill tell her that, according to James, he and his wife are on the brink of divorce. Lets see what she says. I bet she doesnt even know her husbands almost free.

Mom! Emma lunged forward. Dont! This is between us! Ill never forgive you for this!

Margarets anger cooled a little. She knew she couldnt be that ruthless; it would risk losing her daughter altogether. She needed a different approach.

Then you check him yourself, she suggested. If hes so fond of his kids and such an honest man, tell him youre pregnantby him. Lets see how this knight in shining armour reacts.

Emma froze, then winced in disgust.

Ugh! Manipulating like that is low! she spat.

Low? Feeding a girl fairy tales while you bask in the perks? Thats the real test of character.

Emmas lips pressed into a thin line as she grabbed her bag, her fingers trembling.

Thats it, Im done talking about this. I opened up to you, hoped for support, and you If you try to mess with his wife, I Ill never speak to you again.

Margaret was left alone in the kitchen, exhaling slowly. Her daughter wanted supportwhat kind? A pat on the head and a everythings fine mantra? Maybe at the start, but not now.

Three years ago they all lived together, even though Emma already had her own flat. They thought it would be convenient. Emma rented out her place, and Margaret simply liked having her daughter around.

Then Emma started to change. She smiled more for no reason, revamped her wardrobe, spent hours primping before walks. Margaret asked nothing, just watched quietly, hoping Emmas love life was finally clicking.

Mom, I think Ill move back into my own flat, Emma announced one day. Ive met someone.

But as Christmas approached, all Margarets hopeful fantasies crumbled.

Emma, why dont you bring him over? It sounds serious, right? Maybe you could both spend New Years Eve at my place, have a proper celebration, Margaret suggested.

Emma hesitated at firstshe wanted a quiet night just the two of them. Then she mentioned that James didnt have a set work schedule and might be on night shift on 31December.

Emma, stop dodging. I see the way your eyes flicker. You just dont want me to meet him, do you? Margaret asked straight.

Um, he cant. Hes married, Emma said, noticing Margarets eyebrows rise. But his wife and he theyre not really together. Its just for the kids. Hell be there for New Years.

Margaret felt a chill. She sat down to keep herself from collapsing. Emotions roiled, but she forced herself to stay steady.

Emma why a married man? Margaret pressed.

He promised to divorce. Not now, thoughbad timing, Emma replied. When? A promise isnt a marriage, love.

Right now his mum just had a stroke. He cant upset her. Once shes a bit better, then the divorce.

Margaret tried to reason, giving examples of how life works, but Emma was already living in a reality spun from Jamess sweet words.

James kept finding new excuses. One day it was Emmas depression; the next his wife got fired. Each time Margarets heart ached as she heard another flimsy alibi.

It became clear Emma was suffering, perhaps even seeing bits of the truth but refusing to admit it.

The first time Emma showed up at Margarets house in tears was after International Womens Day.

James had asked Emma to make a handmade soap set for his kids. She didnt think anything was oddshed dabbled in craft soaps as a side gig. Later that evening Jamess wife posted photos of the soap set, a bouquet, and other gifts from her husband.

I put my heart into it, thought the kids would love it, and he just this way, Emma sniffed. I cant do this anymore. Ill send him packing tomorrow.

But the next day Emmas tone shifted.

Mom I guess he couldnt have meant it just for the kids. Everyone will use it, she tried to justify.

It repeated itself: James would whisk his wife off to the seaside, give her a ring for Christmas, while Emma got a cheap lamp. Emma would cry on her mothers shoulder, then the next day find another excuse for his behaviour.

The final straw came when Jamess wife announced she was pregnant. Emma clung to the belief that James had nothing to do with itonly Claire was to blame.

Margaret felt a pang watching her daughter slowly hand over everything she hadyouth, hope, loveinto someone elses family fire. She thought about writing to Claire, but she couldnt be that cruel. All she could do was wait and hope time would set things straight.

The month after their fight stretched on, each day a heavy wait. Margaret checked her phone ten times an hour, hoping for a call or a messagenothing.

Then, deep into a sleepless night, her phone finally rang. Emmas name flashed, and Margarets heart jumped to her throat.

Mom Emma sobbed before Margaret could say anything.

Darling, whats happened? Where are you? Margaret asked, fumbling for a jacket.

What followed was a jumble of thoughts. Emma had actually taken Margarets advice and decided to test James, hoping to prove to herself and her mother that everything was fine. She wanted to see if James would step up as a true partner.

When she told James about the pregnancy, his reaction was nothing like shed hoped.

Emma, youre clever, but this is badly timed. Ive got work problems and everything, he said. Well sort it out quietly. I can lend you money if needed.

But this is our baby what about Claire? Emma pressed.

Dont make a fuss. Ive got to run. Think about it, he snapped, hanging up.

From then on James stopped answering.

Emmas nightmare began. She called and texted every hour. He read them, never replied.

A week later she saw a photo on a mutual friends feed: a bustling café, a group laughing, James hugging a woman who wasnt his wife. The timestamp read last night.

Her world tipped. She tried to reach James through the friend.

He said he doesnt want to fund another mouth. He already supports two, now theres a third on the way. Hes fed up with the drama, the friend relayed. He told me to sort it out ourselves, so Im stepping back.

James never said it outright, but it was clear: he had another womanactually twoand never intended to marry Emma. The fairytale castle of promises shattered in seconds. He was no noble knight, just a scoundrel keeping a young, lovestruck girl around while he paid no price.

Margaret hailed a cab, spent the whole night with Emma, then brought her home. She didnt lecture, didnt demand an apology. She simply stayed.

The first weeks left Emma a pale shadow of herselfhardly eating, no sitcom binges, barely making soap. She went to work on autopilot, but stopped defending James.

Margaret dug out the savings shed been tucking away for a holiday and handed Emma an envelope.

Here, she said, passing it over. Take this. Go somewhere, walk on a beach, eat fresh fruit. It isnt much, but itll get you to Brighton for a few days.

Emma hesitated, then accepted.

Ten days later she returned, a little tanned, lighter, and the gloom gone from her eyes.

Mom, the sea I sorted everything in my head, Emma confessed softly, eyes down. All his words, his actions I see how foolish I was. Im sorry for everythingmy yelling, my denial.

Margaret smiled, not with triumph but relief. Love, dont give up. There are plenty of good people out there.

Plenty, Emma replied, but right now I need to love myself first.

Margaret nodded, pulled her into a hug. She was glad her daughter finally stepped off the cliff shed been clinging to for three long years. Reality had finally beaten the selfdeception. Emma was saved, and shed tasted the bitter truth enough to never again trade her life for cheap promises and other peoples fantasies.

Come In, Stevie… — Madam, but we don’t have any money… the boy murmured, eyes fixed shyly on the overflowing shopping bag. After Christmas, the town felt lonelier. The fairy lights still dangled on the lampposts, but no longer warmed anyone. People hurried by, the shops were almost empty, homes were left with too much food and silence that weighed heavy. In the large Johnson family house, the tables had been overflowing—as every year. Mince pies, roasted turkey, salads, satsumas—far more than anyone needed. Mrs. Johnson gathered the plates slowly, a tightness in her throat at the thought that some would surely go to waste. That pained her. On a sudden impulse, she went to the window. That’s when she saw him. Stevie. He stood by the gate, small and quiet, woolly hat pulled low, an old, thin coat. He didn’t look pleadingly at the house—just waited, almost too shy to knock. Her heart tightened. Just before Christmas, she’d seen him around town, gazing into bakery windows, nose pressed to glass, silently watching the lovely food. He never begged or made a fuss. Just looked. That look—a hunger mixed with quiet resignation—had never left her. She understood, in that moment. She put down the plates and fetched a large shopping bag. She filled it with bread, Christmas cake, meat, fruit, sweets—everything left from the festive days. Then a second bag. And a third. Whatever remained. She opened the door quietly. “Stevie… come here, love.” He jumped, inching closer, uncertain, tiny steps. “Take this home to yours,” she said gently, handing him the bags. Stevie froze. “Miss… we… we don’t have any money…” “No need for money,” she replied. “Just eat and enjoy.” His hands shook as he took the bags, clutching them as though holding something precious, almost sacred. “Thank you…” he whispered, eyes filling with tears. Mrs. Johnson watched him go, moving even slower than he’d arrived, as if wishing the moment would last. That evening, in a small house, a mother wept with gratitude. A child ate until he was full. And a family felt a little less alone. In the big house, the tables were empty, but the hearts were full. True wealth isn’t in what you keep, but what you choose to share when no one is watching. And maybe Christmas isn’t just a day— Maybe Christmas begins when you open your door and say, “Come in.” 💬 Comment “KINDNESS” and share this story. Sometimes, a small gesture can change a life.

The Anniversary Invitation Was a Trap… But the Gift I Brought Changed Everything When the invitation arrived, I read it twice. Then a third time — as if the letters might rearrange themselves to reveal the truth. “A wedding anniversary. We’d love for you to join us.” So polite. So polished. So… not her style. I’ve never struggled to be a guest at someone else’s happiness — even when that happiness was built upon my silence. Yes, I knew the man standing next to her tonight used to stand next to me. And no, I didn’t feel humiliated for being “replaced.” No one replaces another woman — you simply leave one version of yourself behind and step into another. But what unsettled me about the invitation wasn’t the past. It was the tone. As if I wasn’t being invited as a friend… but as an audience. Still, I accepted. Not to prove myself, but because I wasn’t scared. I’m not the sort of woman who enters a room to compete with others. I enter a room to reclaim my own breath. It took me time to prepare, and not because of the outfit. Because I had to decide how I’d appear in their eyes. I didn’t want to be “the wounded one.” I didn’t want to be “the proud one” either. I wanted to be exactly myself — the kind of woman no one can use as a backdrop for their own self-esteem. I chose a champagne-coloured dress — simple, unembellished. My hair was up — not coquettishly, but confidently. My makeup — soft, natural. I looked in the mirror and told myself: “Tonight, you are not here to defend yourself. Tonight, you’ll simply watch.” When I stepped into the room, the light was warm — chandeliers everywhere, laughter and drinks flowing freely. Music designed to make you smile, even when you’re not happy. She saw me immediately. She couldn’t not see me. Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then opened wide — that rehearsed delight that passes for “good manners.” She approached, glass in hand. Kissed me on the cheek, barely brushing my skin. “How surprising to see you here!” she called, just a little too loudly. I recognised the tactic. When you say something loudly enough, you want everyone to hear how “magnanimous” you are. I smiled slightly. “You invited me. So I accepted.” She gestured towards the tables. “Come along, I’ll introduce you to a few people.” That’s when I saw him. Near the bar, laughing with two men. Laughing the way he used to, when he could still be gentle. For a split second, my heart reminded me it still has a memory. But I had something stronger than memory: clarity. He turned around. His eyes landed on me, as if someone had drawn back a curtain. No guilt. No courage. Just that awkward recognition: “She’s here. She’s real.” He walked over. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said. Not “I’m sorry.” Not “How are you?” Just a courteous sentence. And immediately, she cut in: “I insisted!” she smiled. “You know me — I love… grand gestures.” Grand gestures. Yes. She loved the performance. She loved to look kind. To be the centre. And especially, she loved proving there’s “no problem here.” I said nothing. Just nodded. They seated me at a table close by — exactly as I’d suspected. Not far, not comfortable. Centre stage. Around me: laughter, toasts, photos flashing as she swirled like the perfect hostess from a glossy magazine. Now and then her gaze drifted over me, checking whether I’d wilt. I didn’t. I am a woman who has survived quiet storms. After that, noisy people start to seem… a bit ridiculous. Then came the moment she’d prepared for. The emcee took the stage, reciting how “strong a couple they are,” how “everyone is inspired by them,” and how “their love proves true relationships conquer all.” Then, in front of everyone, she took the microphone. “I’d like to say something special,” she announced. “Tonight we have someone truly important with us… because sometimes only certain people teach us the real value of love.” All eyes turned to me. Not everyone knew the story, but everyone felt it was “that moment.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m so happy you’re here.” I heard the whispers. Like little pins. Exactly as she wanted. To cast me as “the past,” dutifully applauding the present. Her husband stood like a statue. Didn’t even glance at me. And that’s when I stood up. No drama. No theatre. I simply got to my feet, smoothed my dress and took a small gift box from my handbag. The room hushed, not from fear, but curiosity. People love other people’s tension. I approached them. She was ready. Expecting some polite, pitiful phrase — “I wish you happiness,” “all the best.” She wasn’t getting that. I took the microphone, held it the way you hold the truth — gently. “Thank you for the invitation,” I said quietly. “It’s sometimes brave to invite the past to your celebration.” Her smile grew tense. The audience stirred. “I’ve brought a gift,” I added. “And I won’t take up your evening.” I handed the box to her. Directly to her. Her eyes sparkled, not with joy, but suspicion. She opened it. Inside: a small black USB stick and a folded sheet of paper. Her face went blank. “This is…?” she began, her voice suddenly thin. “A memory,” I said. “A very precious memory.” Her husband stepped forward, jaw clenched. She unfolded the paper. And as she read, the colour drained from her face. There was no need to shout the truth. It wrote itself across her features. The paper contained a short text — not long, but precise. Snippets of conversations. Dates. A few bits of evidence. Nothing crude. Nothing low. Just the facts. And one final line: “Keep this anniversary as a mirror. In it, you can see how it really began.” Everyone could feel it now. Nothing is louder than suspicion in a room full of luxury. She tried to smile. To crack a joke. But her lips trembled. I looked at her calmly. Not as an enemy. But as a woman who’s simply reached the end of a lie. Then I turned to him. “I have nothing else to say,” I told him. “Except for this: be honest, just once. If not with others… at least with yourself.” He could barely breathe. I knew that look. Cut off his exits and he collapses. The crowd had gathered for a show, but I didn’t give them one. I handed the microphone back to the emcee. Smiled faintly and dipped my head. And walked towards the exit. I heard chairs shifting behind me. A voice: “What just happened?” Another: “Did you see her face?” But I didn’t look back. Not because I didn’t care. But because I was no longer there to fight. I was there to close a door. Outside, the air was cold and crisp. Like truth after a long lie. I caught my reflection in the glass. I didn’t look like a winner in any loud way. I looked… at peace. And for the first time in ages, I felt no hate, no sadness, no jealousy. I felt free. My gift wasn’t revenge. It was a reminder. Some women don’t shout. Some women simply walk in, lay the truth on the table, and leave like queens. ❓So, what would you have done in my place — kept silent “to keep the peace,” or let the truth do the talking for you?