It definitely wasn’t just chance.
Lydia was heading to the club, as if floating on air.
A short denim skirt, skin-tight silver leggings, pristine white trainers, a crop top with a model’s face printed on it, and a high ponytail tied with a thick elastic band. Lips glazed in pink, eyes shimmering with rainbow eyeshadow—a true star.
Everyone said Lydia was a marvel—and she knew it. The pride of the neighbourhood. She got into university in London all on her own. No connections, no favours.
Remember how Mrs. Wilkins used to scoff?
“You, Sinclair? Getting into uni? Might as well walk to the moon! Best you’ll manage is a college course, and even that’s a stretch without your stepdad pulling strings. Otherwise, you’ll be scrubbing floors before you know it.”
Oh yes, the stepdad. Her real father had vanished years ago, and her stepfather? He’d never lift a finger for “such a lost cause.”
Mrs. Wilkins had expected tears. But Lydia just stood, looked her dead in the eye, and said, cool as ice, “We’ll see who ends up where.”
Mrs. Wilkins narrowed her eyes and vowed revenge in exams. But Lydia passed. Got in. Alone. No backroom deals. Just like that.
“Fancy a bit of proper, proper love?”
“With you? Thompson, you’ve lost the plot!”
“Come on, Lyds… How’s life?”
“Smashing.”
“That figure of yours, though… damn.”
“Want one for yourself?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
“Dress up, then—couldn’t hurt.”
“You’re cruel, Sinclair. Might be I love you, you know.”
“Piss off, you prat. Nan blessed an aspen cross—keeps me safe from nightmares and lads like you.”
“Bit harsh, innit?”
“Just being careful.”
They strolled down the evening street, trading playful jabs. Young. Free. Untouchable.
“Oi, how ‘bout we drop by school on Monday?” Thompson suggested.
“You mad? Why?”
“Imagine old Wilkins’ face when she finds out you got into uni on your own.”
Lydia smirked.
“Couldn’t care less. What about you?”
“Just bumbling about till summer. Then—army. You’ll wait for me?”
“Course. I’ll sit on the bench, knitting socks for you. Miles of ‘em.”
“Get lost.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, look—that’s Martha! Thought she went to trade school?”
“Yeah. Each to their own. Right, Mike, I’m off. There’s my lot. You and Martha, then?”
“Nah, just… hanging about.”
“She’s sweet. She’ll wait. I won’t.”
“So… no chance?”
“None.” Clear as day. And she walked away.
University came easy—not because it was simple, but because Lydia never complained.
“How d’you manage it all?” her flatmate asked.
“Manage what?”
“Y’know—parties, clubbing, and still nailing your studies?”
“Dunno,” Lydia shrugged. “I just live. No whinging. No lads mucking things up. Uni’s my future. Fun? Now’s the time.”
“I just want to marry rich.”
“Not me.”
She met David at a club. He was pushy—she bolted. Next day, he turned up at her halls with flowers and chocolates. She slammed the door. He came back with cinema tickets—she brushed him off.
She was half-irritated, half-amused. And then there was Thompson, writing from basic training—not about drills, but feelings.
As if she’d forget the boy who ran around in brown tights under shorts till he was fourteen. The one his gran dragged to a witch to cure his bed-wetting.
David roared up on a motorbike, stalking her like some romance flick. Then—he fell. Right in front of her. Without thinking, she rushed over. Not for him. For anyone who needed help.
And somehow… she agreed to a date.
Six months later, they were a thing. Not butterflies. Not love. Just… comfortable. He felt like home.
Then came Thompson’s letter—full of spite, accusations, filth. Someone had snitched. Not that she cared.
David was easier. Steady. Reliable. With him, she could dream—of weddings, futures.
“Lucky you, Lyds,” her flatmate said.
“How?”
“With David. You know who his dad is?”
“What?”
“Proper big shot. Bought him that bike. Now a car. Only child, loaded family.”
“So?”
“Rumour is… he’s already engaged. Lily. Fathers merging businesses.”
That night, she asked David. He fidgeted.
“It’s Dad’s thing. I don’t want Lily. I want you. We’ll run off.”
“I’m visiting my folks this weekend.”
“Right…” And she thought—just maybe—he sighed in relief.
When she returned, something was off. The girls glanced oddly. Lads smirked.
“What’s going on?”
“Sit down… Lyd… David… He—”
“What?”
“He’s married.”
No tremble. No tear. Inside—collapsed. Outside—stone.
“That’s it?”
“You’re so calm…”
“What else? I knew. I left to figure it out. He chose. I let him. Makes sense.”
She leaned in.
“Never say his name again. To me, he’s gone.”
After graduation, Lydia didn’t go home. She went to the maternity ward.
Little Alfie arrived—strong, gripping life tight.
“Lyd… you… will you tell the father?”
“Mum, never. Don’t ask.”
“Alright, it’s just… I hoped you wouldn’t follow my path.”
“I won’t. You married Dad. I won’t.”
“Will you stay with us?”
She saw her mum’s fear. Stepdad’s silent displeasure.
“Right. Not even picking me up from hospital?”
“Don’t be silly, of course we’ll—”
They came. Stepdad gave a stiff handshake.
“Dad says you can stay a month or two.”
“Thanks. We’ll be quick.”
Alfie barely cried. As if he knew—they weren’t welcome.
A month later, Lydia moved in with Nan. She hugged them tight, whispering, “You’re home now.”
Then—a knock.
“Thompson? Where’d you come from?”
“Got your address from Mum…”
They sat in the kitchen. Nan squinted.
“Not the dad. That’s Michael. Childhood friend.”
“Right… I’ll take the lad out,” Nan muttered, leaving.
“Lyd…” he began once alone. “I’m here. For you. For him.”
“Out of pity?”
“No! I love you. I want this.”
“And my kid? Doesn’t bother you?”
“No, I—”
“Your mum scoffed when she heard I had a baby. I’m dirt to her.”
“Lyd, that’s past—”
“Get out. Don’t even look my way again.”
“Who’d want you with baggage?!”
“Who’d want you without brains?”
The door slammed. She stood—shaking, tear-streaked.
“Friend?” Nan asked gently.
“Schoolmate. Pratt. Followed me around for years.”
“Proposing, was he?”
“Nan—” She laughed through tears. “He wet the bed till he was thirteen!”
Nan chuckled, then softly, “But what if…”
“No ‘what if.’ Lived with a stepdad. I know what I’m choosing.”
Lydia stood tall again. For her child. For herself.
Because nothing that happened was just chance. It was her path. Her fight. Her strength.
