Lucy’s father was a stern man. Even her mother feared him, too afraid to say a word out of turn. But with other people’s children, he was different—warm, smiling, kind. With Lucy and her mother, it was only sharp words and harsh glances. For years, she couldn’t understand why he didn’t love her. The answer came much later, in secondary school.
She studied relentlessly, striving for top marks to avoid his disapproval, to please him. Since she was twelve, she’d dreamt of acing her A-levels and getting into a university in London.
When relatives visited, they’d praise their clever, beautiful daughter and ask what she wanted to be, where she planned to study. Lucy would glance nervously at her father and mumble that she hadn’t decided yet. She never mentioned London.
“Eleven years of school is enough. I won’t be supporting her till retirement. She’s grown—time to work. Everyone wants to be a scholar, a boss. Who’ll actually do the work?” he’d declare.
Her mother, anxious, would intervene. “Don’t listen to him, Lucy’s brilliant—straight A’s! A girl like her shouldn’t end up behind a till selling groceries. These days, you need a degree for a decent job, a proper life. A good job means a good husband, too.”
But her father wouldn’t have it.
“Quit your prattling,” he’d scoff, silencing her with a glare. “What’s a girl need education for? Doesn’t take a degree to cook and clean. She can pop out kids without one. All learning does is cause trouble. Look at you—what good did it do?”
Mum would shrink under his gaze, and the guests would shift uncomfortably, staying silent rather than oppose him.
So Lucy kept her dreams tucked away. But when her A-level results arrived—stellar—she resolved to announce her decision: she was leaving for London. She was an adult now. She wouldn’t be held back, wouldn’t leech off him. She’d prove her worth. She wasn’t afraid.
Or so she thought, clutching her certificate, heart pounding as she walked home.
One look at his stormy face, and her courage faltered. Still, she forced the words out.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he barked. “I fed you, clothed you. Now you’ll help support us. What nonsense is this?” His eyes flicked to her mother, who looked away.
“I said no!” His fist slammed the table, rattling the plates, soup sloshing over.
“And don’t defend her.” He sneered at his wife. “Remember where *your* schooling got you? You owe me your life for marrying you, saving your reputation, raising this thankless brat.”
“Paul, not in front of her—” Mum begged.
“Why not? She’s grown. Let her learn from your mistakes.” He waved dismissively. “Like mother, like daughter.”
Lucy turned, fleeing to her room. Later, when he’d left, her mother slipped in.
“Mum, why does he hate me?” she whispered through tears.
And then the truth spilled out.
Now she knew. Now she understood. And in a way, she was relieved—he wasn’t her real father.
Mum pressed a roll of banknotes into her hand. “It’s not much, but it’ll help. Hide it well. I can’t promise more—he tracks every penny.”
“Thank you. I’ll figure it out. But he’ll hurt you.”
“He’ll shout, maybe hit me. He’s allowed. Just go. Study. Don’t disappoint me.”
Three days later, while he was at work, Lucy left.
At university, she moved into halls. Mum’s money ran out quickly, so she took a job as a cleaner in a nearby office, mopping floors after hours.
Her roommate, Martha, was glamorous, carefree—rarely studied, always out. She had an older boyfriend, Richard, whom she’d met at a club.
“Why him? He’s married, isn’t he?” Lucy once asked.
Martha laughed. “Money, darling. What’s a broke student got to offer? This?” She gestured to her designer clothes. “Richard rents me a flat. Help me move?”
The flat was lavish. Lucy visited often, even stayed over when Richard was busy.
She missed her mother, called whenever she could—always during the day, when *he* wasn’t home. When summer came, she said she wouldn’t return. Then Martha invited her on a trip.
“I can’t afford it.”
“Richard’s paying. He wants you there—thinks you’ll keep me in line.” Martha winked.
“Do you even love him?”
Martha’s smile faded. “So, are you coming?”
They took a train south. The landscape shifted—golden fields gave way to vineyards, the sky brighter, the air warmer.
The sea was just as Lucy remembered: vast, cool, whispering. They rose early, spent mornings on the beach, evenings strolling. Men noticed them.
One night, two approached, inviting them for drinks. Martha flirted shamelessly.
“Relax,” she hissed, dragging Lucy aside. “Richard won’t know. You won’t tell him, right?”
She didn’t.
Later, the pairs split. Martha vanished with her man; Lucy walked the promenade with James—kind-eyed, easy-smiling James.
Martha didn’t return till dawn.
“What if Richard finds out?” Lucy hissed.
“He’s with his *wife*. What about you?”
“Nothing happened.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “Prude.”
Lucy met James daily. They kissed, but she held firm.
When they left, the boys stayed behind. James called, wrote, promised to visit at Christmas. Lucy wondered if she’d been too harsh.
Autumn term began. Richard divorced his wife. Martha planned to marry him.
“I’m dropping out after New Year’s,” she announced one day.
“Why?”
“Pregnant.” Martha grinned. “It’s Richard’s. I went to the south already carrying. He’s over the moon—his ex couldn’t have kids.”
James never came at Christmas. Then the calls stopped.
Martha had a daughter in January. Lucy finished her degree alone.
After graduating, she landed a job at a prestigious firm—translator for international investors. The office manager where she’d cleaned put in a word.
She earned well, traveled, lived frugally. Four years later, she bought a flat. A year after that, her first car. Only then did she return home—ten years vanished.
Mum wept. Dad glared.
“Back for good?” he grunted.
“I missed you,” she said, hugging her mother.
His eyes flicked to the car. “Where’d you get that? Some rich bloke paying?”
“I bought it. I’m a translator—good pay, freelance work too.”
He scoffed. *Honest* money won’t buy that. Translator, eh? Fancy word for escort?”
The insult burned. She’d clawed her way up, and still, he belittled her.
“Thanks, Dad. If I were really yours, you’d be proud, wouldn’t you?”
For once, he stayed silent. She counted it a victory. He couldn’t frighten her anymore.
One day, on a business trip to Liverpool with her boss, Lucy attended a corporate reception. A man approached—James.
“Hello. You’re even lovelier now.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Our firms partner. Married?” His gaze dropped to her ringless hand.
“No. You?”
“Was. Divorced. Why didn’t we work? I thought you liked me.”
“You thought,” she said flatly. “You never came. You stopped calling.”
“You were so distant. I assumed you found me lacking.” He hesitated. “Where are you staying? I’d like to walk you back.”
Under the city lights, she told him everything—her mother’s past, her father’s contempt, the fear that had frozen her.
“I wanted my children to have their real father. I didn’t want to lie to them.”
James exhaled. “If you’d told me then… I’d have understood. I married someone else—for all the wrong reasons. I never forgot you.”
“We barely knew each other.”
“No. But some people linger.” He met her gaze. “Give me a chance?”
She studied him. “I won’t bend my principles.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Then don’t disappoint me.”
Love, after all, wasn’t a fleeting spark. Real love was like fine wine—aged, deepened. And she intended to savor every drop.
