“Following in His Footsteps”
“Danny, what is it with you? Look—English, a D, maths, an F, and you skipped literature altogether! Why won’t you study, and why are you always playing truant? What am I supposed to do with you, you hopeless lad?” Laura sighed, flipping through her son’s school diary for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Dunno,” the teenager muttered, turning away from his mother.
“Leave the lad alone, Laura! Literature, biology… I used to bunk off too, and I turned out fine!” came the slurred voice of her husband, Mark, sprawled on the sofa in the next room.
“Oh, clearly! Too busy to have a proper talk with your son—three days on the drink, aren’t you?” Laura snapped.
“What’s the big deal? I’ve got the right! I’m not spending your money on it! Besides, it was old Mike’s birthday—his fiftieth, mind you!” Mark grumbled before dropping his head back onto the pillow, drifting off again.
…Laura had been raised in a proper, educated household. Her parents had instilled in her not just good manners but a disciplined upbringing. She’d worked hard in school, earned a place at a prestigious university. Yet, by some cruel twist of fate, she’d met Mark.
They’d crossed paths at a student party—Laura in her final year, Mark already out of trade school and working at the factory. She’d been drawn to his roguish charm, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He’d seemed older than his years. Back then, she’d had no idea how thoroughly he’d upend her orderly life.
They’d started dating, married that summer after Laura finished her degree. At first, it hadn’t been so bad, but even then, she couldn’t ignore how Mark never missed a chance for a celebration—any excuse turned into a raucous night at the pub.
Eventually, Laura realised her mistake. They were all wrong for each other. She’d made up her mind to leave. But fate had other plans—she discovered she was pregnant.
She couldn’t bring herself to end it. Raising a child alone wasn’t much of a choice either. Ever the optimist, Laura had hoped the baby would steady Mark. But when he stumbled into the maternity ward drunk, she’d known—nothing about him would ever change.
And so it proved. Mark drank hard and often. The rare times he lifted a finger at home were half-hearted, always either recovering from last night’s binge or rushing off to the next one.
Laura bore it all without complaint—worked long hours for a decent wage, kept the flat tidy, gave Danny what attention she could. But the older he grew, the more he took after his father. Laura scarcely recognised herself in him—schoolwork bored him, after-school clubs were a battle.
By year seven, he was running wild.
“Mrs. Thompson, you must speak to him. He’s rude in class, never listens, and his marks are dismal…” The complaints from Danny’s teachers never ended. Each parents’ evening left Laura silently berating herself—where had she gone wrong?
At first, Danny made excuses, swore he’d do better. Empty promises, every one.
He scraped through his GCSEs. College wasn’t an option. It’d be trade school, same as his father. Laura watched in quiet horror as history repeated itself. By then, Mark was hopeless—regular binges, humiliating trips to the factory to beg them not to sack him.
Danny fared no better—skiving lessons, mouthing off to tutors, fighting with classmates. “Mum, maybe I’ll just quit and work at the factory with Dad. Earn some proper dosh,” he’d say.
“Don’t be daft! What sort of talk is that? You need qualifications first, then you can decide. Is this really what you want—to end up like your dad?”
“What’s wrong with Dad?”
“Exactly! Lay off him, Laura! If the lad wants to work, let him! We’ve got openings anyway,” Mark would cut in.
Somehow, she convinced Danny to finish trade school. She begged his tutors for leniency, one last chance. He barely made it—then announced he’d take that factory job. Laura pleaded, already foreseeing the outcome. Worse, Danny was his father in every way—face, voice, temper. There was nothing of her in him.
Still, she hoped, against all sense, that he’d wake up. Fate wasn’t so kind. Her worst fears came true—Danny joined his father’s shift, and soon, they were drinking together.
One evening, Laura tripped over something in the dark hallway. She flicked the light on.
Danny lay sprawled on the floor, dead to the world. She knelt beside him, shaking him.
“Danny, love, what’s wrong? Are you ill?” Her hand hovered over her phone, ready to call for help.
“Piss off, mum… just knackered…” He waved her away, slurring, before passing out again.
The stench of booze hit her. He was plastered—so drunk he’d collapsed right there, just like Mark used to.
She stepped past him into the kitchen. Mark was slumped over the table, snoring. She almost shook him awake, almost screamed—then stopped herself.
Grabbing her bag, she walked out. She wandered aimlessly, nowhere to go. No close friends to moan to, no sofa to crash on. She slumped onto a bench in the park. It was an unseasonably warm autumn evening, people strolling happily past. Laura watched them, baffled—what had she done to deserve this?
A dog suddenly bounded up, a bright red ball in its mouth. Laura startled.
“Sorry about that! Buster, here!” A man whistled, and the spaniel trotted obediently back.
“It’s fine. Just took me by surprise,” Laura said, wiping her eyes.
“Everything alright? Need any help?”
“No, it’s… nothing,” she lied.
“Name’s Anthony. And you?” He wasn’t taking the hint.
“Laura.”
“Lovely name—don’t hear that often nowadays. This troublemaker’s Buster. Fancy a coffee, Laura?”
She surprised herself. “Alright.”
“Brilliant. There’s a café just round the corner. We’ll grab takeaway—Buster’s not exactly welcome inside.”
They talked for hours. For the first time in years, Laura felt something unclench inside her. They swapped numbers, kept talking.
Bit by bit, she told him everything. Anthony offered her a way out—she took it.
“Look at her, Dan! Found herself a new bloke, has she? Abandoning us, your own family! Who’d want you anyway?” Mark jeered when she moved out.
“Mum, seriously? You’re just leaving us?” Danny asked.
“You’ll manage. You always do.”
“Yeah, suppose.”
“Well, son, best mark the occasion—don’t get dumped every day, do we?”
Anthony waited outside with the car. As he loaded her case, Laura glanced up at the flat’s lit kitchen window. She could picture them already—some cheap lager, half-hearted sandwiches, another night of it.
“Ready?” Anthony asked.
“Yes. Quickly, please.”
Anthony was everything Mark wasn’t. At first, his tidy home—the polished furniture, the quiet—felt alien. She’d forgotten life could be like this.
She filed for divorce, cut contact. Danny only called to borrow money. She gave it, but never invited him over.
“Laura, how’d you feel about moving? London, maybe?” Anthony asked one evening.
“I… hadn’t thought about it.”
“Head office offered me a transfer. Better pay, better position. Wanted to see what you thought.”
She considered it. “Why not? I’ll find work there. Nothing’s keeping me here.”
“Sorted, then.”
Before leaving, she met Danny one last time. He showed up drunk.
“What d’you want?”
“Charming. You’re pissed again.”
“Come to lecture me, mum?”
“No. I’m leaving. London. For good.”
“With that posh git?”
“Danny, look at yourself. It’s not too late to change. Anthony knows people—he could help you find something better.”
“Don’t need your help! Got a job, haven’t I? Piss off to London, then. Me and Dad’ll sell the flat—too big anyway. We’ll move into the factory digs.”
“Do what you want. I’ll sign whatever.”
Two weeks later, she was on the plane. Anthony squeezed her hand.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Just remembering, I suppose. My parents are buried here. Whole life, really.”
“Regrets?”
“Not a single one.” And she meant it.
