A skint single mum accidentally sent a text to a billionaire asking for baby milk moneyand thats when everything changed.
Lucy Whitmore slumped in the dimly lit kitchen of her shabby flat in Leeds, exhaustion weighing her down like a sack of potatoes. It was 2 a.m., and in the next room, her baby, Alfie, was wailing non-stop. Shed been up for hours trying to soothe him, but the hungry cries left no room for doubt. She had just enough formula for one last bottle… and then what?
As a single mum scraping by, Lucy was out of options. Her job at the local café barely covered rent, let alone essentials for Alfie. Shed already pawned her grandmothers necklace for groceries and couldnt ask her familythey were just as strapped for cash. (Family holiday deals, flashed a stray ad in her frazzled thoughts.)
She grabbed her phone and checked her bank app: a depressing £0.00. Then her eyes flicked to a draft message shed saved for days, too nervous to send. It was meant for a number shed found onlinesome bloke claiming to help with baby supplies. Shed tried before, only to be ghosted or fobbed off with empty promises.
That night, desperate and cornered, she typed:
*Hi I hate asking this, but Ive run out of baby milk and dont get paid till next week. My little ones crying, and Im at my wits end. If you could help, Id be forever grateful. So sorry to bother you, but Ive nowhere else to turn. Thanks for reading.*
With a shaky sigh, she hit send before she could overthink it. Apologising for her struggles was second nature by now, but this time, she had nothing left to lose. Slumping back in her chair, she waitedhalf-expecting silence.
Then her phone buzzed.
*Hello, this is Oliver Kingsley. Wrong number, I suspect. But I gather youre in a tight spot. Dont fret about the milkIll make sure youre sorted.*
Lucy gaped at the screen. Oliver Kingsley? The name rang a faint bell, but she couldnt place it. Part of her braced for a scamshed seen con artists use posh names before. But this message felt genuine.
Before she could reply, another text popped up:
*Ill have everything delivered tomorrow. Just focus on you and your boy, Lucy. Youre all right now.*
Her breath hitched. This wasnt a scam. Whoever this bloke was, he meant it.
Tears spilled over. For the first time in ages, Lucy let herself hope.
The next day, a delivery van pulled up outside her flat. Boxes upon boxes of formula, nappies, even a tub of chocolate digestives (because stress-eating is a universal coping mechanism). A note sat on top:
*Know how tough it can be. Hope this helps. Reach out if you need anything else.*
Signed simply: *Oliver Kingsley.*
Lucy stared, gobsmacked. No one had ever been this generous, let alone a stranger. Was this real? Would it vanish like a mirage?
Half-convinced shed hallucinated, she tore into the boxes. Each one was packed with suppliesway more than shed dared dream of. For the first time in months, she felt like she could breathe. She snapped a photo and texted Oliver:
*Thank you. I cant even say what this means. Youve given me and Alfie a lifeline.*
His reply was instant:
*Happy to help. But its not charityits what anyone decent would do. Been where you are.*
Lucy blinked. Oliver had been skint? She knew nothing about him. Was he loaded? A CEO? A secret fairy godfather in a tailored suit?
Before she could ask, another message:
*If you need anything elsemilk, groceries, a kettle that doesnt leakjust say. Ive got you.*
She sank onto her sofa, phone clutched like a lifeline. She didnt want to take the mickey, but the gratitude was overwhelming. Who *was* this man?
After a long pause, she typed:
*Why help me? You dont know me.*
His reply came fast:
*Because drowning feels the same for everyone. Ive got the means to throw you a rope. You and Alfie deserve a fair shot. No one should face this alone.*
Her hands shook. It was too much to take in. A tiny spark of hope flickered in her chestone she hadnt felt in years.
Over the next fortnight, Oliver kept sending deliverieseach more absurdly generous than the last. He covered her rent when the landlord threatened eviction, stocked her fridge, even bought Alfie a posh new pram and cot.
Then, one day, a text knocked the wind out of her:
*Fancy a proper chat? Lets meet. My treat.*
Nerves fizzed in her stomach. She still didnt know who he *really* was. Was this a wind-up? Yet part of her was giddy. Oliver had already changed her life.
They met at a cosy café in Manchester. Lucy arrived early, clutching her phone like a security blanket. She didnt know what to expecthalf-wondered if shed wake up any second.
Then the door opened, and in walked a man who oozed confidence. Tall, sharp-suited, with a smile that could sell toothpaste. Her pulse spiked. *Oliver Kingsley.*
He strode over, hand outstretched. Lucy, he said warmly. So this is the woman who texts billionaires for baby milk.
She laughed despite herself. Youre not what I pictured.
I get that a lot, he grinned.
They talked for hoursabout her struggles, his rise from nothing, how hed built his fortune from a market stall. For once, Lucy didnt feel judged. It was like breathing for the first time in years.
Then Oliver leaned in, voice soft:
Lucy, I didnt help you just because I could. I see myself in you. But Im not offering just money anymore. Im offering a futurefor you *and* Alfie. With me, if youll have us.
Her heart stuttered. What dyou mean?
He smiled. I want us to be family. Properly.
(Family holiday deals, her brain unhelpfully supplied.)
Her pulse raced. Was this *happening*?
Oliver had already given her so much. Now he was offering the one thing shed never dared hope fora fresh start.
And for the first time in forever, Lucy didnt have to face the world alone.
