During dinner, Dad kept shooting disapproving glances at his son. Tom figured Mum must’ve told him about his plans to go to university in London after finishing school.
Dad shoved his empty plate away and stared Tom down. “Here we go,” Tom thought. He wished the floor would swallow him whole. Under Dad’s glare, the spaghetti felt like glue in his throat—too thick to swallow, too awkward to spit out.
Mum stepped in, distracting Dad by sliding a mug of tea toward him and nudging the biscuit tin closer.
“Thanks, Mum, but I’m full. I’ll have tea later,” Tom said, pushing his chair back.
“Sit down!” Dad snapped.
Tom knew better than to argue. He lowered himself back into his seat.
“I’ve got homework…” he started weakly.
“Plenty of time for that. Your mother says you’re set on London. What’s so bad about here? We raised you, thought you’d stick around to help us in our old age, but no—off you go.”
“I’m not running away—” Tom mumbled.
“Then explain. What’s so special about London, eh?”
“More opportunities. I want to study architecture—no course like that here,” Tom shot back, raising his voice.
“John, let him go. His teachers say he’s bright,” Mum soothed, resting a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“We can’t afford London! Everything’s pay-to-play there—here, it’s free. See the difference?” Dad’s temper flared.
“I’ll get a scholarship,” Tom insisted. “I’m going either way.”
“John, calm down. It’s not tomorrow—exams come first. Go on, love, do your homework.” Mum flicked her eyes toward the door. Tom didn’t need telling twice.
“Stop coddling him! Raised him for nothing. Won’t have anyone to care for us when we’re old…”
Tom froze outside the kitchen, gripping the door handle.
“Don’t be dramatic. London’s two hours by train—he’ll visit.”
Dad grumbled something indistinct.
“Drink your tea before it’s cold. Sugar?” Mum asked.
“Like I’m a child—I can manage,” Dad muttered irritably.
The storm had passed. Tom shut himself in his room, his heart singing. Late March—just two more months of school, then exams, but none of it mattered. He was going to London. A life of possibilities awaited. He’d make something of himself…
After graduation, Tom and Mum went to the capital to submit his university applications. Mum’s cousin, a sharp-tongued, lonely woman, greeted them with a scoff. “Everyone flocks to London like it’s got room to spare…”
“Fine, he’ll stay with you. Just—no late nights, no guests. I’ll do breakfast, share dinner, but sort your own lunches,” she laid down the rules. Mum just nodded.
“How much for rent?” Mum ventured, hoping she’d refuse out of family pride. No such luck.
“London’s not your backwater town. Life’s expensive here—don’t take it personally.” She named a sum that made Mum gasp.
“Mum, I could just stay in halls—”
“Don’t be silly. You need proper rest. We’ll manage—just focus on studying.”
“Acting like she’s royalty now,” Mum sighed on the train home. “Don’t tell your father about the rent. I’ll handle him.”
Tom got in. He arrived early to settle in. Commuting from the outskirts was a slog, but this was London! He left at dawn and wandered until dark. At Primrose Hill, the skyline stole his breath. A tour group paused nearby, led by a striking guide. Tom edged closer to listen. She noticed but didn’t shoo him away. When the group left, she lingered, checking her phone.
“You’re a great guide,” he said.
She smiled. “Not from here, are you?”
“That obvious?”
“Newcomers always have that look—lost and dazzled.”
He confessed he was there to study, but living on the outskirts didn’t feel like “proper” London. Chatting, they wandered downhill without realizing.
“I live nearby,” she said suddenly. “Tired? Come for tea—I’ve time before picking my daughter up.” She laughed at his startled face.
Her name was Helen. Twice his age. She fed him soup, poured tea. He didn’t want to leave.
“Can I visit again?” he asked at the door.
She studied him—not mocking, just thoughtful. “Sure.”
He lasted one day. On the third, he stood outside her building, hesitating. Then he spotted Helen with her daughter, Lily. He fumbled excuses, but Helen saw right through him. He played with Lily while Helen cooked. Dinner together. Lily threw a tantrum when he tried to leave—begged him to read her a story.
Then… it was too late to go back to his cousin’s.
“Stay,” Helen said.
He did. He told his parents he’d moved in with a flatmate—Dad covered the rent. No need for extra money (though Mum secretly sent it anyway).
Visits home felt suffocating now. He counted days until he returned to Helen.
He often collected Lily from nursery, took her to parks, films. Guilt gnawed at him—after first year, he switched to part-time studies and got a job. A one-night stay had stretched into years.
During third year, he met Claire—vivacious, gorgeous. Soon, he made excuses to Helen, avoided her eyes. She’d nod sadly, reheat his dinner. At night, he turned away, “too tired,” dreaming of Claire.
“Someone else?” Helen finally asked. “You’re free—I’m not your wife.”
He admitted it, relieved he didn’t have to lie to Claire. Helen’s eyes said, “Or to me.”
He packed his things—far more than he’d arrived with—and left. Halfway down the stairs, he braced for the door to slam. Silence. Helen listened to his footsteps fade.
Outside, he gulped air, hating his cowardice. No looking back. On the tube, he justified it: The age gap was a chasm. No promises made. Claire was young, electric. He breathed freely at last.
Now he could properly court Claire. He crashed in a storeroom at work. When her parents were out, he’d shower at hers. They slept together. When her parents found out—too late, she was pregnant. Polite people, they quietly arranged a wedding. Tom never told his parents. Stopped visiting. Worked.
In her family’s spacious flat, he felt like a guest—unlike with Helen. Her parents noted his shortcomings, kindly but condescending. He knew they tolerated him for their daughter’s sake. His father-in-law got him a job at his firm. Claire expected luxury.
Tom had dreamed of architecture—now he pushed papers. He grew bitter. The passion with Claire fizzled. Had she not been pregnant, he’d have left.
Then, a scooter hit her on the way to the clinic. She lost the baby. Withdrew. Shut him out. He felt everyone blamed him.
Helen crept into his thoughts—their little family. Home was a minefield. He wandered after work, sat in cafés. One evening, his feet carried him to her street. A stranger held the door—he dashed up, skipping steps.
When Helen answered, she didn’t seem surprised.
“Lost or nostalgic?” she teased, but her smile was warm.
“Came to see you. Both of you.”
“You’ve grown up,” she said, setting the table.
“Where’s Lily?”
“Dance class. Back soon.”
“You haven’t changed.” He pulled her close…
Later, in bed, he confessed: “Everything’s wrong. Claire’s parents sent her to Brighton to recover. I can’t stand them. That job’s a joke.”
“All bad?”
“We’re nothing alike. The passion faded. I’m a stranger there. I belong here. With you.”
While Claire was away, he stayed with Helen. She returned refreshed—her parents had told her everything. Tom packed his bags and moved back to Helen.
Before Christmas, he spotted Claire at Westfield—arm in arm with a man, chatting happily, her coat straining over a rounded belly. She didn’t see him. Good. She’d moved on.
And Tom? No complaints. Helen took him back. He graduated, worked as an architect. Lily started school. Life was sweet—until another wave of passion hit.
One evening, a suitcase sat in the hall. Helen faced the window.
“If you leave this time, don’t come back.”
“I won’t,” he promised. And left.
His new life had it all—dream job, car, beautiful wife. But Valeria refused children. A TV producer, she craved fame—no kids to ruin her figure. He longed for a son.
She was never home. Shoots. Castings. Parties. Trips. Their marriageHe stood at Helen’s grave years later, whispering, “You were my only home,” as rain blurred the words on the stone.
