In the days of austerity Britain, I married a woman with three children, left to fend for themselves with no help at all.
“Bloody hell, Andrew, you’re actually going to marry a shopgirl with three kids? Lost your marbles, have you?” Vince, my flatmate in the cramped boarding house, clapped me on the shoulder with a smirk.
“What’s wrong with that?” I barely looked up from the alarm clock I was tinkering with, screwdriver in hand, though I caught his eye sideways.
Back then—the early ’80s—our sleepy Midlands town moved at its own slow pace. For me, a thirty-year-old bloke with no family, life was a dull loop between the factory and my narrow bed in the shared digs. After college, I’d settled into it: work, the odd game of chess, the telly, and the occasional pint with mates.
Sometimes I’d glance out the window at kids playing in the yard, and it would hit me—the old dream of a family. But I’d shove it away quick. What kind of family could you have in a dingy boarding house?
Everything changed one rainy October evening. I popped into the corner shop for bread. Same as always. Only this time, behind the counter stood *her*—Natalie. I’d never noticed before, but now my eyes stuck. Tired but warm, with a quiet spark deep inside.
“White or wholemeal?” she asked, the ghost of a smile at her lips.
“White,” I mumbled, like a schoolboy caught staring.
“Fresh from the bakery,” she said, wrapping it deftly before handing it over.
When our fingers brushed, something clicked. I fumbled for change while stealing glances. Plain, in her shop apron, early thirties maybe. Worn out, but with a light inside.
A few days later, I saw her at the bus stop, struggling with bags while three kids buzzed around her. The eldest, a lad of about fourteen, gripped a heavy bag stubbornly; a girl held the hand of the youngest.
“Let me help,” I said, taking a bag.
“No, it’s fine—” she started, but I was already loading them onto the bus.
“Mum, who’s this?” the little one blurted.
“Quiet, Alfie,” his sister hissed.
On the ride, I learned they lived near the factory, in a crumbling postwar flat. The boy was Jack, the girl Emily, the little one Alfie. Natalie’s husband had died years back, and she’d been hauling the family alone since.
“We manage,” she said with a weary smile.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her eyes, Alfie’s voice—something long buried stirred in me, like a promise waiting just ahead.
From then on, I became a regular at the shop. Milk one day, biscuits the next, sometimes just lingering. The lads at work noticed.
“Andrew, mate, three trips a day? That’s not groceries, that’s love,” my foreman, Peters, grinned.
“Just fancied something fresh,” I muttered, flushing.
“Or the shopgirl, eh?” he winked.
One evening, I waited for her after closing.
“Let me carry those,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“You don’t have to—”
“Sleeping on the ceiling’s the uncomfortable bit,” I joked, taking the bags.
On the walk, she told me about the kids—Jack did odd jobs after school, Emily was top of her class, and Alfie had just learned to tie his laces.
“You’re kind. But don’t pity us,” she said suddenly.
“I don’t. I want to be here.”
Later, I fixed their leaky tap. Alfie hovered, fascinated.
“Could you fix my aeroplane too?”
“Fetch it, let’s see,” I smiled.
Emily asked for help with maths. We worked through sums. Over tea, we talked. Only Jack kept his distance. Then I overheard:
“Mum, d’you need him? What if he leaves?”
“He’s not like that.”
“They’re *all* like that!”
I stood in the hallway, fists clenched. I nearly left. But then I remembered Emily’s grin when she aced her test, Alfie’s laughter as we fixed his toy, and I knew—I couldn’t walk away.
Gossip swirled at work, but I didn’t care. I knew what I was living for.
“Listen, Andrew,” Vince said one night, “think it through. Why take that on? Find a nice girl without baggage.”
“You’re off your head, mate! Marry a shopgirl with three kids?”
“Piss off,” I grunted, still fiddling with the clock.
“It’s not that—just three kids, it’s—”
“Shut it, Vince.”
One evening, I helped Alfie with a school project, cutting out shapes as he stuck out his tongue in concentration.
“Uncle Andrew, are you gonna stay with us forever?” he asked suddenly.
“What d’you mean?”
“Y’know… like a dad.”
I froze, scissors in hand. A floorboard creaked—Natalie stood in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth. Then she spun and hurried to the kitchen.
She was crying into a tea towel.
“Natalie, love, what’s wrong?” I touched her shoulder gently.
“Sorry… Alfie doesn’t understand what he’s saying—”
“What if he’s right?” I turned her to face me.
Her tear-filled eyes widened.
“You mean it?”
“Dead serious.”
Then Jack burst in.
“Mum, you alright? He upset you?” He glared at me.
“No, Jack, it’s fine,” Natalie managed through tears.
“Liar! What’s he even doing here? Clear off!”
“Let him speak,” I met Jack’s stare. “Say what you want.”
“Why d’you keep coming? We’ve no money, the flat’s tiny—what d’you want?”
“You. And Emily. And Alfie. And your mum. I need *all* of you. I’m not going anywhere, so don’t hold your breath.”
Jack stared, then turned and slammed his bedroom door. Muffled sobs came through.
“Go to him,” Natalie whispered. “You have to.”
I found Jack on the fire escape, hugging his knees, staring into the dark.
“Mind if I join you?” I sat beside him.
“What d’you want?”
“I grew up without a dad too. Mum tried, but it was hard.”
“So?”
“Just know what it’s like—no one to show you how to fix a bike or stand up for yourself.”
“I can fight,” he muttered.
“I bet. You’re a good lad, Jack. But being a man isn’t just fists. It’s knowing when to let someone help. For your family.”
He was quiet. Then, barely audible:
“You really won’t leave?”
“Never.”
“Swear it.”
“On my life.”
“Don’t lie,” he almost smiled.
“Aunt Marge, d’you have anything simpler?” I squinted at rings in Woolworths.
“Andrew Mills, you’re seriously marrying Natalie? With *three* children?”
“Dead serious,” I said, eyeing a plain band with a tiny stone.
I proposed without fuss—just a bunch of wildflowers (she’d once said she preferred them to roses). Alfie tackled me at the door.
“Who’re the flowers for?”
“Your mum. And there’s something else.”
Natalie froze when she saw them.
“Andrew—” My voice shook. “Maybe we should make it official? Feels odd, just visiting.”
Emily gasped. Jack looked up from his book. Natalie burst into tears.
“Mum, is it a bad present?” Alfie panicked.
“The *best*, love,” she smiled through tears.
We married quietly at the factory canteen. Natalie wore a homemade white dress; I had a new suit. Jack shadowed her all day, solemn. Emily decorated with friends. Alfie raced around announcing, “This is my new dad! Forever now!”
A month later, the factory gave us a two-bed in a new estate. Peters even helped move us in.
“Alright, newlywed,” he clapped my back. “Just don’t expect us to paint it for you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I grinned.
And we did it ourselves—Jack plastering, Emily choosing wallpaper, Alfie passing tools. Natalie cooked, and we ate on the floor. It was the happiest I’d ever been.
Natalie quit the shop—I insisted she rest. Jack started technical college, helping me with projects. Emily took up dance. Alfie just *glowed*.
Not that it was perfect. We had rows. Once, Jack came home drunk—first time with mates. I didn’t shout, just sat opposite him.
“How is it?”
“Rubbish,” he admitted. “Head’s killing me.”
“Good. Means youThe years rolled on like pages in a well-loved book, and one rainy autumn evening, as I watched Alfie—now taller than me—teach his own son to fix a broken toy plane, I realized the circle had closed, and the love we’d built had grown roots deep enough to outlast us all.
