In September, a new girl named Elsie joined the class. She was so delicate and fragile, like a wisp of wind could snap her in two. Always bundled in a thick jumper, her bony shoulders poking through, her thin blonde hair plaited into skinny braids with big pink ribbons. Her large eyes in that pale, triangular face had this sad, surprised look—like she’d just stepped out of a fairy tale.
To tall, sporty Oliver, she was like some enchanted princess needing protection, and he threw himself into the role with enthusiasm. The other girls, though? They took an instant dislike to her.
“Scrawny thing, acting all high and mighty… How she even stays upright is a mystery, and yet she’s gone and bagged the fittest lad in school,” they’d whisper spitefully between lessons.
Elsie never ate in the canteen—school food made her feel ill. Instead, she’d bring a big apple, nibbling tiny bites so slowly she’d barely finish half by break time. The girls scoffed when they spotted the massive leftover core in the bin. Oliver, meanwhile, wolfed down his lunch and dashed off to guard her like some loyal knight.
He carried her bag, walked her home, and not a single lad dared tease him for it. Oliver had a reputation—mess with him, and you’d regret it. Soon, everyone got used to seeing them together everywhere.
When school ended, Oliver had a blazing row with his parents. They wanted him off to uni in Manchester, but he didn’t care where he studied as long as he didn’t lose Elsie. So he enrolled at the local college instead. Her parents adored him, trusting him completely with their daughter. Elsie was bright, but exams wrecked her nerves—she barely scraped through. University was out of the question.
She was their late-in-life miracle, and they fretted over her like she’d shatter if she sneezed too hard. Truth was, she wasn’t even sick that often.
At a family meeting, they decided education mattered less for a girl than a good marriage—and Oliver was perfect. Her mum, a GP, pulled strings to get Elsie a receptionist job at the clinic. So there she sat, typing away, answering calls.
Oliver’s parents, though? They weren’t fans. Not the bride they’d imagined for their son. They nagged him to reconsider—did he really want a life propping up some feeble girl? She’d never be his rock, might not even bear children…
Oliver didn’t care. He liked looking after her. It made him feel stronger. Liked that she wasn’t like other girls, liked how her big grey eyes watched him. But the endless marriage talk wore him down, so one day, he just proposed.
Her parents were over the moon—their girl had landed a solid match. Now they could rest easy. Housekeeping wasn’t Elsie’s forte, though, so they decided the newlyweds would live with them until they settled in. Bigger house, anyway.
Oliver’s parents grudgingly agreed—at least he’d be fed.
The two got on peacefully, never a cross word. When Elsie got pregnant, her parents barely believed it. Even late on, her bump was tiny. No fiery passion between them either—just quiet nights, not a peep from their room.
They wouldn’t let her lift a finger, terrified she’d lose the baby. Eventually, they banned Oliver from sharing her bed, buying a secondhand sofa for him. He hated it, started staying over at his folks’ instead. His parents never missed a chance to gripe—why shackle himself to that stick insect? He’d be her servant forever.
Frustrated, he started drifting off to mates’ houses. One night, he met Natalie—curvy, bold, and shamelessly sexy. The attraction was instant, wild. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, the heat between them growing fiercer by the day.
His parents scolded him for straying when Elsie needed him. Not that she seemed bothered—just lost in her own world, listening to the restless kicks inside her. The baby only calmed outdoors, so she’d sit for hours on the balcony, reading.
Maybe the kid took after Oliver’s fiery spirit, or maybe he just got fed up squeezed in there—but he arrived early. Small but tough, the spitting image of his dad. Even Elsie’s parents admitted it, thrilled.
Oliver was with Natalie when it happened. His mum rang work the next day to say he was a father. He rushed to the hospital, staring up at pale, exhausted Elsie through the window—somehow even thinner now.
Back home, Oliver carried the baby the whole way—Elsie was too weak. Hard to believe she’d even given birth. Petite as she was, though, her milk came in strong. The boy fed greedily, bulking up fast into a chubby, loud little bruiser.
The grandparents took over most childcare. Elsie just pushed the pram, gazing at her sleeping son, baffled he was hers. Not a trace of her in him—pure Oliver.
At first, Oliver raced home after work. Then the nights with Natalie crept back in. But he always slept beside Elsie.
Both sets of parents sighed, letting him be. He’d sow his wild oats, come to his senses eventually.
Natalie wasn’t having it, though. “Why cling to that dried-up twig? Can’t cook, can’t… other things. Make a choice,” she’d snap.
The fights drained him. Elsie never scolded, never demanded. When he came home, she’d just smile, chat about the baby. Holding his son melted his heart—but Natalie’s pull was fierce. He couldn’t just walk away.
Then one day, it ended. After a nasty row, Oliver stayed away. When he finally went back, a neighbour handed him a note—Natalie had found someone else, left town. Told him not to bother looking.
Oliver got blind drunk for the first time, stumbled to his parents’ place, and collapsed at their door. When he sobered up, he went home. Elsie asked no questions, just glowed having him back full-time. Little Harry clung to him like a shadow—only Dad could toss him high or give piggyback rides.
Fatherhood became Oliver’s solace. Evenings were all about Harry, who worshipped him. The two were peas in a pod—cheeky, lively, inseparable. Elsie knew she didn’t quite fit their dynamic, but she didn’t mind. Let Oliver take the lead.
When Harry was in Year 5, Elsie’s dad died. Her mum followed a year later, heartbroken. Suddenly, Elsie had to learn housekeeping. Oliver and Harry pitched in—cleaning, shopping. With Oliver’s mum’s help, she managed basic meals.
Harry copied his dad, handling chores when Oliver was at work. The whole street cooed seeing them together—Harry almost as tall as Oliver now, Elsie like a reed beside them.
“Look at her luck—husband’s a looker, son’s even handsomer,” one neighbour grumbled. “My girl dances attendance on her bloke, and he’s either drunk or tomcatting. This one’s had it served on a silver platter.”
Oliver’s mum died of cancer when Harry finished school. His dad sank into grief. Elsie tried comforting him, but he passed a year later, joining his wife.
Funny how it goes—the “strong” ones faded, but Elsie, who seemed held together by air, kept going. Like they say: the storm breaks the mighty oak but only bends the slender reed.
Harry went to uni in London. In third year, he married fiery, brilliant Marina—his perfect match.
Passions cooled, leaving Oliver and Elsie just… living. Then Oliver’s heart started acting up. Gone were the days of pull-up contests with Harry. Now a soft belly, thinning hair. Elsie had silver threads too but stayed slight and straight—time barely grazed her.
During one hospital stay, Elsie visited daily with fresh juice and broth, chatting away while he listened, still seeing that shy Year 7 girl.
“Forgive me. I failed you,” he murmured once.
“Don’t. It’s me who failed. You deserved better. Sorry I couldn’t let you go.” She pressed his hand to her lips.
Months later, Oliver died in his sleep. A blood clot, doctors said. Harry came for the funeral with his eldest. Seeing him, Elsie wept—he looked even more like Oliver now.
“Come live with us, Mum. Why stay here alone?” Harry said after.
“No, love. I’ll manage. When your boy’s older, send him to me. Good schools here, cleaner air. You’ll visit more.”
So she stayed. Visited the graves often, saving Oliver’s for last—standing forever, updating him like he could hear.
She believed he still watched over her. How else could she go on without him? Creaking like dry wood, never complaining, quietly keeping house, whispering his name.
Then Oliver’s dad went too.
God gave Elsie a frail frame, a flicker of life—yet she outlasted them allHarry and his family moved back to their hometown, and in the end, Elsie closed her eyes one evening, smiling at the thought of Oliver waiting for her just beyond the twilight.
