Graham Parker walked up the path, adjusting his scarf. It had been ages since he’d accepted a proper invitation—let alone from a woman who’d been occupying far too much of his thoughts lately. And after swearing off relationships entirely, too. No more families, no love, no marriages, no heartache. Been there, done that, got the emotional scars to prove it.
After the divorce, life had gone pear-shaped. His ex took their three-year-old son and moved to another city—Manchester, of all places. Graham fought it, of course. Refused to believe the whispers about her affairs until she looked him dead in the eye and said she was leaving him for another man. “Real love, the kind I never had with you.”
He didn’t beg her to stay. But without his boy? Unbearable. He’d raised that kid from day one—night feeds, nappies, first steps, the lot. They were inseparable. And then—poof—erased. When Graham finally scraped together the train fare to visit, his son climbed onto his lap without a word, gripping his hand tight. And when it was time to leave? The little lad pulled on his coat and planted himself by the door.
“I want to go with Dad. I’m going with Dad.”
They stopped him, of course. Shoved Graham out into the hall. The boy’s voice echoed down the stairwell long after: “I want my dad!”
That was that. No more visits. Just the odd phone call, the occasional parcel. He became a ghost. Present, but not really *there*.
Graham shut down. There were women, sure, but the second things got serious? He vanished. Not for his sake—for the boy who’d been taken from him.
Then he spotted Eleanor. At some dreary book launch. Copper hair, a sharp black dress, a gaze that cut right through him. Suddenly, he was awake again. Dug up everything he could: single mum, three-year-old son, lived with her mother, no current suitors. Clever, principled, stunning.
He engineered “accidental” run-ins—at her office, outside Tesco. Eleanor didn’t brush him off, but kept her distance. Slow going. And then—invitation. To her place. Meet the family. A signal, if ever there was one.
Graham prepped like a man on a mission: wool coat, cologne, a giant Lego set in tow. Would the boy like him? Would they click?
The doorbell chimed.
“Who’s there?” A small, serious voice.
“Graham Parker.”
The door swung open. A pint-sized gentleman in a crisp white shirt and clip-on bow tie stood there, deadpan.
“Hello. Come in! Mum’s just popped to Sainsbury’s. She said to greet you properly. But quietly—Gran’s napping. Migraine. Oh—and take off your trousers.”
“Sorry?”
“You’ve been *outside*. Mum says trousers track in germs. We’ll all get poorly. Off they come, right here in the hall. It’s warm—you won’t freeze.”
The kid was utterly sincere, parroting some very firm household rules. Graham hesitated.
“What if I promise they’re clean? Brand new. Didn’t even roll in mud. I’ll hoover them if you like. I’m Graham. You are?”
“Oliver. After Grandad. Pleasure. Fine, keep them on, but Mum’ll have my head. Here—slippers. Non-negotiable.”
“Floor hygiene. Understood.”
“Mum bought these special for you. I’m not allowed shoes past the mat unless it’s an emergency—then it’s tiptoes along the skirting and a leap over the rug. Gran says a clean house isn’t about scrubbing—it’s about not making mess in the first place.”
Graham grinned. The kid was whip-smart, cheeky, and clearly playing host like a pro. When Oliver met his gaze—wide-eyed, trusting—something in Graham’s chest twisted warm.
“Brought you something. Lego. Like building?”
“Love it. Bit rubbish at it, though. Mum says I’ll improve. I’m nearly four.”
“We’ll manage. Team effort?”
“You’re not just visiting, are you? You’re… staying?”
Graham crouched, eye-level. “I’d like to. If you’ll have me.”
“Course.”
“Then I’m definitely marrying your mum.”
“Think it through! She’ll make you de-trouser in the hallway. She’s *proper* strict.”
“We’ll negotiate. Might even get you shoe privileges.”
They laughed. A man’s rough hand closed around a small, trusting one. Just like that—bond sealed.
When Eleanor returned, she paused in the doorway. Oliver’s voice floated out:
“Right, bolt this bit here, and the lorry’s done!”
Eleanor’s mother appeared beside her, watching the scene with a soft smile.
“Well, love…” she murmured. “He’s a good one. You can tell. Kids don’t trust just anyone straight off. Go on, call them for tea. Let this work. Time you moved on, eh? Widowhood’s had its run. Leave the past where it belongs.”
Eleanor nodded, swiping at her eyes. Ahead, something warm was stirring. Life, carrying on. And maybe—just maybe—beginning anew. With those who’d come to stay.
