LUCKY OR JUST FOOLISH?
Irene, a quiet and unassuming girl, was often called a “lucky fool” by her friends. How could those two things even go together? You’ll soon find out.
Before she even turned twenty, a friend invited her on a holiday to Brighton. Sea, sunshine, free accommodation—they were staying with the friend’s relatives. There, Irene met Alex—a handsome lieutenant colonel renting the place next door. A man with a military past, having served in Afghanistan, now working at the local recruitment office. He exuded strength, steadiness, and confidence. But also—pain. Irene realized this when she saw the old, jagged scar on his back. Foolishly, she asked,
“Did you get that over there?”
Alex shrugged silently and dove under the water. He didn’t like talking about it.
Irene fell head over heels. She gave herself to him the moment he wanted her. Smirking, he said,
“Well, guess I’ll have to marry you now.”
It didn’t faze her that no words of love were spoken. To her, this was real happiness.
Alex was seventeen years older and took charge of everything: a no-frills wedding, just a quick registry office visit in his town. “We’re too old for all that fuss,” he said. And besides… he’d been through it before. He was a widower with an eight-year-old daughter.
It hit Irene hard, but she decided love mattered more. So she stayed. The girl, Lily, was neglected and passed between grandmothers. At first, Irene just pitied her, but then, hearing Lily call out,
“Mum!”—she nearly burst into tears. And just like that, she adopted her.
Irene had only taken a hairdressing course. She wanted to study further, but Alex shut it down:
“Find a salon and get ready for maternity leave. I want a son.”
But pregnancy never happened. Or maybe the problem wasn’t her at all.
Then came the blow: one of his subordinates was caught taking bribes, and even though Alex had nothing to do with it, the blame rolled uphill. He was forced to retire “for health reasons.” The pension was decent, but it crushed him. He shut himself away at home, stopped contributing, drank with friends every day. Within a year or two, Irene realized her husband had become a shadow of himself. He didn’t work, didn’t help, didn’t even buy food—just ate whatever he fancied from the fridge.
When summer arrived, Irene took Lily to Brighton. Two weeks later, it was clear: she had to leave.
“You’re my mum,” Lily told her.
Irene nodded.
Alex threw a fit:
“Fine, you take Lily then!”
When he realized her mind was made up, he spat out,
“You’re a fool, Irene.”
She went back to her hometown, to her parents. Of course, they’d hoped for blood grandchildren, but they accepted Lily too. The girl started school; Irene went back to cutting hair. One day, a pleasant, polite man with silver streaks walked in. He left a tip—and later that evening, a bouquet. His name was Andrew. Ten years older, divorced, owned his own house, and ran a small but stable construction business.
Being with him felt comfortable. He told her he loved her. Irene thought, how much longer should she chase happiness? This was it. They married. Her friends were envious:
“If you hadn’t taken your ex’s daughter, you wouldn’t be such a fool.”
Irene felt a pang of sadness—children of her own never came. But life had another twist. Andrew had a younger sister—a mess. She’d had two girls but was reckless, drinking too much. Now she was losing custody. Social services were already involved.
Andrew hesitated.
“It’s not really your responsibility…”
But in that moment, Irene pictured the girls in a boat, everyone pushing them away. Their mother, their fathers, even their uncle. And what—would she do the same?
“We’re taking them,” she said firmly. “You know Lily isn’t mine by blood. And look at her now—off to college soon.”
HerAndrew held her tight, and in that quiet embrace, Irene knew she had finally found the kind of love that didn’t need luck—just a heart brave enough to choose it.
