The Mirage
Over dinner, Daniel’s father kept shooting him disapproving glances. Daniel already knew—his mother must have told him about his plans to study at a university in London after finishing school.
His father abruptly pushed his empty plate aside and fixed him with a hard stare. *Here it comes,* Daniel thought. He wished the floor would swallow him whole, or that he could vanish on the spot. Under that glare, the spaghetti stuck in his throat—too thick to swallow, too awkward to spit out.
His mother stepped in. She distracted his father, setting a steaming mug of tea in front of him, nudging the biscuit tin closer.
“Thanks, Mum. I’m full. I’ll have tea later,” Daniel said, rising from the table.
“Sit down!” his father barked.
Daniel knew better than to argue. He slumped back into his chair.
“I’ve got homework…” he muttered.
“Plenty of time. Your mother tells me you’re set on London. What’s wrong with here? We raised you, thought you’d be here to help us in our old age—but no, you’re running off!”
“I’m not running…” Daniel mumbled.
“Don’t give me that. What’s so special about London, eh?”
“There are more opportunities there. I want to be an architect—they don’t offer that course here,” Daniel shot back, raising his voice.
“Jack, let him go. His teachers say he’s bright,” his mother soothed, resting a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“We haven’t got the money for London. Everything’s paid there—here, it’s free. See the difference?” his father snapped.
“I’ll get a scholarship,” Daniel said stubbornly. “I *am* leaving.”
“Jack, calm down. It’s not like he’s leaving tomorrow—exams first. Go on, love, do your homework.” His mother flicked her eyes toward the door. Daniel didn’t need telling twice. He bolted from the kitchen.
“Stop coddling him! Raised him for nothing. Won’t have a soul to care for us when we’re old…”
Daniel froze outside his bedroom door, grip tight on the handle, listening.
“Don’t be dramatic. London’s close—two hours by train. He’ll visit…”
His father grumbled something indistinct.
“Drink your tea before it’s cold. Sugar?”
“Stop fussing. I’m not a child—I’ll do it myself,” his father muttered irritably.
The storm seemed to pass. Daniel shut himself in his room, heart singing. Late March—just two more months of school, then exams. None of it mattered. He *was* going to London. A thrilling life, endless possibilities. He *would* make something of himself.
After graduation, Daniel and his mother traveled to the capital to submit his applications. His mother’s cousin—a plain, lonely woman—greeted them coldly, complaining about *all* the relatives flocking to London… as if the city had unlimited space.
“Fine, he can stay. Company, I suppose. But—high blood pressure, bad sleep. No late nights, no guests. I’ll do breakfast, share dinner—lunch is on you,” she laid down the rules.
His mother just nodded.
“How much for rent?” she ventured cautiously, hoping the woman might refuse or take offense—charging family? But no such luck.
“This *is* London, not your little…” His cousin curled her lip. “Life’s expensive here. So, don’t take it personally—” She named a sum that might as well have been a fortune back home.
His mother gasped, exchanging a glance with Daniel.
“Mum, I could just stay in halls—”
“Don’t be silly. How would you study? We’ll send money—your dad and I. Just focus on your work.”
“Listen to her. Barely set foot in London, already putting on airs. Love, don’t mention the money to your dad. I’ll handle him,” his mother sighed on the train home.
Daniel got in. He arrived in London days before term, eager to explore. The commute from the outskirts—multiple changes, long and tedious. But still—*London*!
He left the house at dawn, wandering until dark. At Primrose Hill, the city sprawled beneath him, breathtaking. A tour group paused nearby, their guide—a young, pretty woman—began explaining the view.
Daniel edged closer to listen. She noticed but didn’t shoo him away. When the group moved on, she lingered, checking her phone.
“You’re a great storyteller,” he said.
She smiled. “Where are you from?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Newcomers always are. That mix of wonder and nerves.”
Daniel admitted he was here to study—but stuck on the outskirts, which felt no different from home. Barely left his small town. They talked, drifting from the hill without realizing.
“I live nearby,” his companion said. “Worn out? Come for tea, if you’ve time. I’ve got to fetch my daughter from nursery later,” she added, laughing at his startled look.
Her name was Eleanor. Nearly twice his age. She fed him soup, poured tea. Daniel sank into the warmth, reluctant to leave.
“Can I visit again?” he asked at the door.
Eleanor studied him—not mocking, not condescending, just *looking*.
“Come by,” she said simply.
He lasted a day. On the third, he stood outside her building, hesitating—then spotted her with her daughter. He babbled excuses about being “in the area,” but Eleanor saw through him instantly. While he played with Lily, Eleanor cooked. They ate together. The little girl threw a tantrum when he tried to leave—*read me a story, tuck me in!*
And then… It was too late to return to his cousin’s.
“Stay,” Eleanor said.
He stayed. He told his parents he’d moved into a flat with a classmate—his father paying the rent. Too far to trek from his cousin’s. No need for extra money. But his mother still smuggled small transfers to his card.
On holidays, he visited home—counting days until he could return to Eleanor. His hometown now felt cramped, dull.
He often collected Lily from nursery, played with her. Weekends, they explored the city, saw films. Guilt gnawed at him—living off Eleanor. After first year, he switched to part-time studies, found work. That one-night stay stretched into years.
By third year, he met Sophie—a lively, beautiful girl. Soon, he lingered out evenings, mumbled excuses to Eleanor: *work*. She’d nod sadly, reheating his dinner. Nights, he turned away—”tired”—while dreaming of golden-haired Sophie.
“Someone else?” Eleanor asked one evening. “I’m not your wife. You’re free.”
Daniel confessed—smitten, just hadn’t known how to say it. Relieved no more lies. *And to me*, her eyes replied.
He packed his belongings—far more than he’d arrived with—and left. Halfway down the stairs, he braced for the slam of the door. Silence. Eleanor stood on the landing, listening to his footsteps fade…
Outside, Daniel gulped air, hating his cowardice, his ingratitude. He hurried to the Tube, weaving excuses: *The age gap—a chasm. No promises. She invited me. Sophie’s young, intoxicating.* By the station, he breathed freely, thoughts fixed on Sophie.
Now he could court her openly. He did. Slept in a storeroom at work. When her parents were out, Sophie let him shower, do laundry. They became lovers. By the time her parents found out, she was pregnant. Polite people, they skipped the shouting—fast-tracked a wedding. Daniel didn’t tell his parents. Stopped visiting, buried himself in work.
In their spacious home, he felt a guest—nothing like Eleanor’s. Her parents corrected his manners—gently, but pointedly. Tolerated for their daughter’s sake. His father-in-law got him a job at his firm. Sophie expected luxury.
Daniel had dreamed of architecture. Now he pushed paper. Grew sullen, short-tempered. The passion fizzled—he and Sophie were oil and water. Without the baby, he’d have bolted long ago.
Then—a scooter knocked her down outside the clinic. She lost the baby. Withdrew, shut him out. He felt the blame like a weight.
More and more, he thought of Eleanor, their trio. Home held no appeal. He wandered after work, lingered in cafés. One evening, his feet carried him to Eleanor’s street. A woman exited the building—he caught the door. Took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding.
When she answered, she didn’t seem surprised.
“Lost, or just nostalgic?” she teased—but Daniel saw the gladness.
“Came to see you. Both of you.”
“You’ve changed. Grown up,” she said, laying the table.
“Where’s Lily?”
“Dance class”Ten years later, as he rocked his granddaughter to sleep in the same chair where Eleanor once read to Lily, Daniel finally understood—love wasn’t the blaze he’d chased, but the quiet ember that had warmed him all along.”
