**Don’t Let Me Down**
Lucy’s father was a hard man, strict to the bone. Even her mother feared him, too hesitant to voice a disagreement. Yet with strangers—especially other children—he was soft-spoken, even kind. Only with them did he raise his voice, and Lucy could never understand why he didn’t love her. The truth wouldn’t reveal itself until she was older.
At school, she pushed herself to excel, desperate for his approval. By Year 8, she’d already set her heart on university—top marks at A-level, a place at a prestigious London school.
Whenever relatives visited, they’d gush over how clever and pretty she was. *What do you want to be? Where will you study?* Lucy would glance nervously at her father and murmur, *I haven’t decided.* She kept her dreams to herself.
*Eleven years of school is enough. I won’t fund her till retirement. Strong girl like her? She can work. Everyone wants to be a scientist or a manager—who’ll actually do the labour?* Her father’s tone brooked no argument.
*Oh, James, don’t be like that*, her mother fluttered, with a pleading look. *Lucy’s bright, straight A’s! You want her behind a shop counter selling sausages? These days, without a degree, you’re nothing. A good job—a respectable husband—that’s what education brings.*
He scoffed, silencing her with a glare. *What does a girl need brains for? Cooking and dusting don’t require diplomas. Babies don’t care if you’ve got a First. Look where *your* education got you.*
Her mother shrank, guests shifting awkwardly, too polite to challenge him. So Lucy stayed quiet, swallowing her hopes—until results day. She clutched her stellar grades, marched home, and announced she was leaving for London. She was an adult now. He couldn’t stop her.
The moment she saw his scowl, her courage faltered. But she spoke anyway.
*You’re not going anywhere,* he snapped. *We fed you, clothed you—now it’s your turn to support us. No daughter of mine wastes my money on nonsense.* His fist slammed the table, cutlery clattering.
*You shouldn’t defend her,* he growled at his wife. *You know better than anyone where ‘education’ leads. You owe me your life, for what I took on.*
*James, please—*
*She’s old enough to hear it.* His smile was cruel. *Let her learn from your mistakes.*
*Mum?* Lucy whispered, tears brimming.
*She’ll work. End of story.* He slurped his soup, dismissing her.
She fled. Later, her mother slipped into her room.
*Why does he hate me?* Lucy choked out.
The truth spilled then. The affair. The man who’d abandoned her mother. The husband who’d ‘saved’ her—and resented every day since.
*Now I know,* Lucy murmured, wiping her cheeks. *I’m glad he’s not my real father.*
Her mother pressed a roll of banknotes into her hand. *It’s not much. Hide it. I can’t promise more—he checks every penny.*
*Thank you. But he’ll hurt you.*
*A slap or two. I’ll survive. Go to London. Don’t let me down.*
Three days later, while he was at work, Lucy left.
University was gruelling. The money ran out fast; she took evening shifts as a cleaner, mopping offices after dark. Her flatmate, Martha, breezed through life—parties, designer clothes, gifts from an older married man.
*Why him?* Lucy asked once.
Martha smirked. *He’s got money. What do student boys have? Debt?*
When summer came, Martha invited her to Brighton. *Archie’s paying. Thinks I’ll flirt otherwise.*
On the beach, two lads approached. One—Nicholas—had kind eyes. They walked the pier, talking of nothing. Martha vanished with the other.
*You didn’t…?* Martha scoffed later. *God, you’re boring.*
Lucy met Nicholas every day. Kisses, nothing more.
*I promised my mum I wouldn’t repeat her mistakes.*
Back in London, he called often. Promised to visit at Christmas. Then—silence.
Martha dropped out, pregnant. *Archie’s thrilled. His wife never could.*
Nicholas never came.
Graduation. A job at a City firm—translator now, not cleaner. Years passed. A flat. A car. A decade before she returned home.
Her mother wept. Her father sneered. *Honest money? Translator—or escort?*
*If I were yours, you’d be proud,* Lucy shot back.
For once, he had no retort.
Then, at a work function in London, a familiar voice: *You’re even lovelier now.*
Nicholas.
*Why us?* he asked later, under midnight streetlamps.
She told him everything. Her mother’s shame. Her father’s contempt. The promise she’d made.
*I wanted my children to have their father. Always.*
*I’d have waited,* he said. *I did wait. Let me prove it.*
She studied his face. *Don’t let me down.*
And under the city’s glow, he nodded. A second chance.
