**Victor – The Man Who Carried the World**
Victor came home exhausted, as usual. He pushed the kitchen door open—and froze. His mother sat there, tears streaming down her face.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tight with worry.
No reply. Just silence and downcast eyes.
Then Gran shuffled in from the hallway.
“I told you, Margaret,” she muttered with a sharp glance at her daughter. “I told you how this would end.”
Victor was fourteen then. That was the night he grew up. His father left—for someone else, someone “fun and carefree.” Left the three of them behind: Margaret, Victor, and little Lily. No money, no support. Just an empty space by the door.
Gran moved in the next day and took charge. Mum cried, Gran nagged, and Victor just tried to stay out of the way. He knew early—childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
First job was at the bakery. Auntie Joan, soft-hearted for a scrawny lad with tired eyes, gave him tea, pastries, and a few quid. That path—from boy to breadwinner—started there.
He studied, worked, hustled. Army rejected him—Joan pulled strings. She wasn’t the coddling type; she respected him for his grit, his quiet endurance.
By twenty-four, Victor was the man of the house. Lily, now grown, saw him as both brother and father. Gran, once hard as nails, saved him the best cuts at dinner.
He found love. Married. Took a mortgage. Bought his wife a car. Helped Lily. Moved Mum and Gran in—what else could he do? He was *the man*, after all.
Kids came. One, then another. His wife stayed home. Victor worked. Weekdays, weekends. Never enough money—he picked up extra shifts. Holidays to Spain for the family. Mum’s spa trips. Lily’s wedding. Nieces and nephews needed shoes. Victor was running on fumes.
When Gran passed, he didn’t even have time to grieve. Had to take Mum to the doctor. His wife sighed, irritated. But Victor carried on. No complaints.
Then one day… he bought a guitar. A childhood dream. Walked in, and his wife scoffed:
“Useless rubbish. Why bother?”
His son demanded cash for a ticket. Victor frowned.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Time to earn your own way, then.”
“But I’m at uni—”
“So was he—been working since he was fourteen!”
The door slammed. Victor left. Rented a flat for the night. Filed for leave. Slept properly—for the first time in years.
He decided—*this* was living. Just for himself. Even if only for a while.
Called his wife:
“Fancy a holiday? Your pick. The Alps, even Iceland.”
“Why?”
“Just… to *live*. Properly.”
“No. Too busy.”
“Alright. Goodbye, then.”
At home, the storm broke. “Victor’s a monster,” “abandoned us,” “after all I’ve done.” Friends shook their heads. “How could you, Vic?”
And Victor? He stood atop the Alps, breathing deep. Really breathing. Maybe he *was* selfish. Or maybe… just a man who finally let himself exist as more than a provider.
