“Walking in His Footsteps”
“Mick, what’s wrong with you? Look at this—English, a D, maths, an F, and you’ve skipped literature altogether! Why won’t you study? Why do you keep bunking off? What am I supposed to do with you, you little rascal?” sighed Emily, flipping through her son’s year-nine report card for the hundredth time.
“Dunno,” the teenager muttered, turning away.
“Em, leave the lad alone! Literature, biology—I used to skip classes too, and I turned out fine!” slurred her husband, Simon, sprawled on the sofa in the next room.
“Oh, clearly! Too busy to talk to your son like a proper father—too busy nursing a three-day hangover!” Emily snapped.
“What’s the big deal? I’ve got a right! Not like I’m spending your money! Besides, it was Dave’s birthday—his fiftieth, mind you!” Simon dropped his head back onto the cushion and drifted off again.
Emily had grown up in a well-to-do family. Her parents had given her more than just good manners—they’d ensured she had a proper upbringing. She’d excelled in school, earned a place at a prestigious university, and by some cruel twist of fate, she’d met Simon at a student party. Emily was in her final year; Simon had just finished trade school and started as a mechanic. She’d been drawn to his rough charm, his expressive eyes. Back then, she hadn’t realised how he’d unravel her orderly life.
They married the summer she graduated. At first, things weren’t awful, but Emily soon noticed Simon never missed an excuse to drink—any minor occasion turned into a boozy affair.
Eventually, she realised she’d made a mistake. They were all wrong for each other. She decided to leave—until she found out she was pregnant.
She couldn’t bring herself to end it, nor did she want her child fatherless. Ever the optimist, Emily hoped parenthood would steady Simon. But when he showed up drunk at the hospital, she knew—nothing about him would ever change.
And it didn’t. Simon drank heavily and often. Half-hearted help around the house was all he managed between hangovers and nights out with his mates.
Emily never complained. She carried the weight—working long hours, keeping the house spotless, doting on her son, Mick. But as he grew older, he took after his father. She saw none of herself in him: schoolwork bored him, clubs were a waste of time.
By year seven, he was out of control.
“Mrs. Thompson, you must speak to your son. He’s rude, disruptive, and his grades are abysmal… It’s heartbreaking,” his form tutor would say.
Every parents’ evening, Emily walked home seething—not at Mick, but at herself. Was she failing him?
At first, Mick promised to do better. Empty words.
He scraped through year eleven. Sixth form was out of the question—trade school it was. Emily watched in horror as he followed Simon’s path. By then, Simon was a full-blown drunk. She dragged him out of benders, endured the shouting matches, even begged his foreman not to sack him.
Mick fared no better at trade school—skiving, mouthing off, picking fights.
“Mum, maybe I’ll just quit and work with Dad. Earn some proper cash,” he said once.
“Don’t be silly! What cash? That’s no life. Get your trade first—you can always study later. Do you really want to end up like your father?”
“What’s wrong with Dad? He’s all right,” Mick shrugged.
“Yeah, what’s your problem? Let the lad work if he wants! We’ve got a spot for him,” Simon chimed in.
Somehow, Emily convinced Mick to finish his course. She pleaded with tutors to overlook his behaviour, to give him just one more chance.
He barely graduated—then announced he’d join Simon at the garage. Emily begged him not to. She already saw how it would end. Mick was his father’s double—looks, temper, everything. There was nothing of her in him.
But like any mother, she hoped he’d wake up before it was too late. Fate wasn’t kind. Mick started on Simon’s shift—and they began drinking together.
One evening, Emily tripped over something in the hallway. She flicked the light on.
Mick lay sprawled, barely conscious.
“Mick? Love, are you hurt?” She shook him, ready to call an ambulance.
“Piss off, Mum… m’tired,” he slurred, passing out again.
The reek of booze hit her. He was paralytic—just like Simon in his younger days.
She walked further in. Simon was slumped at the kitchen table, snoring. She nearly shook him awake for another row—then stopped herself.
Grabbing her bag, she left. She wandered the streets, nowhere to go. No close friends to confide in. She ended up on a park bench. The autumn air was mild, families strolling past, laughing. Emily watched them, wondering what she’d done to deserve this.
A dog suddenly bounded up, a red ball in its mouth. Startled, Emily gasped.
“Sorry about that! Bailey, here, boy!” called a man. The Lab trotted back obediently.
“It’s fine. Just surprised me,” Emily said, wiping her eyes.
“You alright? Need some help?”
“No, no… I’m fine,” she lied.
“I’m Anthony. And you?”
“Emily.”
“Lovely name. Bit old-fashioned nowadays. This lump is Bailey. Fancy a coffee?”
To her own surprise, she said yes.
They talked for hours. For the first time in years, Emily felt warmth. They exchanged numbers, started seeing each other. Eventually, she told him everything. Anthony offered her a way out.
“Look who’s got herself a new bloke! Mick, your mum’s ditching us! Who’d want you, you daft cow?” Simon jeered when she packed her things.
“Mum, you serious? What about me and Dad?” Mick asked.
“You’ll manage,” Emily said.
“Yeah, reckon so.”
“Come on, son, let’s celebrate your mum leaving. Big occasion,” Simon sneered.
Anthony was waiting downstairs. As he loaded her suitcase, Emily glanced up at the flat. The kitchen light was on. She could picture them already—Simon and Mick, cracking open cans, another “special occasion” underway.
“Ready?” Anthony asked.
“Yes. Quickly.”
Anthony was everything Simon wasn’t. At first, his tidy flat—all sleek furniture and quiet—felt alien. She’d forgotten life could be this calm.
She divorced Simon, spoke to Mick only when he rang to borrow money. She gave it, but never invited him over.
“Em, how’d you feel about moving to London?” Anthony asked one evening.
“I… hadn’t thought about it.”
“Head office offered me a transfer. Better pay, better role. Didn’t say yes yet—wanted your thoughts.”
After a pause, she nodded. “Let’s go. I’ll find work there. Nothing left for me here.”
Before leaving, she met Mick at a café. He showed up half-cut.
“What d’you want?”
“Charming. You’re drunk.”
“Come to lecture me?”
“No. I’m leaving. Moving to London. For good.”
“With that posh bloke?”
“Mick, look at yourself. It’s not too late to change. Anthony knows people—he could help you find—”
“Piss off! Got a job already. You wanna go? Go. Me and Dad’ll sell the flat—too big anyway. We’ll live in the digs by the garage.”
“Do what you want. I’m done.”
Two weeks later, she was on a plane. Anthony held her hand.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Just remembering… grew up here. My parents are buried here.”
“Regret coming?”
“Not one bit.”
And she meant it.
