He called her a pitiful maid and left for another woman. But when he returned, he received an unexpected answer.
From childhood, Olivia had heard the same phrase from her grandmother and mother: “In our family, the women are unlucky in love.” Her great-grandmother was widowed at twenty-two, her grandmother lost her husband in a factory accident, and her mother was left alone with a baby before Olivia turned three. Though she didn’t believe in curses, deep down, she always feared her love would end in pain. She didn’t want it—she longed for warmth, a home, a husband, children.
She met her future husband, Ian, at the factory where she packed boxes. He worked in another department, but they shared the same canteen. It happened fast: a few dates, a proposal, a wedding. Ian moved into her two-bedroom flat, inherited after her grandmother’s death. Her mother had already passed. At first, things were calm—their first son was born, then the second. Olivia did what she could: cooking, laundry, raising the boys. Ian worked, brought money home, but his visits grew fewer, their conversations shorter.
When he started staying late, coming home exhausted with strange perfumes on his shirt, she knew. She didn’t ask, afraid of being left alone with the boys. But one day, she snapped.
“Think of the children. Please. I’m begging you.”
Silence. Just a cold stare. No excuses. No shouting. The next morning, she served him breakfast—he didn’t touch it.
“All you’re good for is being a servant,” he spat with disgust.
A week later, he left. Just packed his things and shut the door behind him.
“Don’t leave us, please!” she sobbed in the hallway. “The boys need their father!”
“You’re a pitiful maid,” he repeated. Their sons heard. Two little boys huddled on the sofa, clinging to each other, wondering: What did they do wrong? Why had their father left?
Olivia refused to collapse. She lived for them. Scrubbed floors, cleaned stairwells, carried water, taught the boys to read, washed clothes by hand when the machine broke. The boys helped—they grew up fast. She forgot herself, forgot dreams. But fate has a way of surprising you.
One day at the supermarket, her packet of tea slipped from her hands. A stranger picked it up and smiled.
“Need help with your bags?”
“I’m fine,” she replied automatically.
“Too late, I’ve already got them,” he said, lifting her shopping.
His name was Alfie. He started visiting that same shop daily, then began walking her home, then turned up at her flat to help with chores. The boys were wary at first, but he was kind, patient. The first time he stayed for dinner, he brought a cake and white roses. When her eldest joked, “You a footballer or what?” he laughed.
“Played a bit in school. Long time ago.”
Later, he confessed:
“I was in an accident. I speak slow, move stiff. Wife left. I reckon you’ll want me gone too.”
“If the boys are happy, stay,” she said simply.
He offered his hand. His heart. Asked to speak to the children.
“Maybe I could be a proper father to them.”
That night, Olivia explained everything. The boys hugged her.
“Our dad left and forgot us,” the youngest said. “Be nice to have a real one. A dad who stays.”
So Alfie became family. He played football with them, helped with homework, fixed shelves, joked around. Friends came over. The house filled with life. Years passed. The boys became men. Theo fell in love and came to Alfie for advice. Then—the doorbell rang.
Ian stood on the doorstep.
“I was a fool. Take me back. We’ll fix it—”
“Get lost,” Theo snapped.
“You dare speak to your father like that?!” Ian roared.
“Don’t you talk to my son that way,” Alfie said firmly.
“We don’t need you,” the younger one added. “We’ve got a dad already.”
The door slammed. For good.
Olivia stood there, looking at the three men—her protectors, her family, built from nothing, fought for, earned. She was happy. Finally.
