“Mum, if you can’t accept my choice, I’m leaving. For good…”
Anthony stepped into the commuter train carriage and glanced around. Plenty of empty seats—take your pick. He settled by the window. Every so often, the doors slid open with a hiss, letting in new passengers.
Opposite him sat an older couple. The woman rustled a paper bag, pulled out two buttery scones, and they began eating. The rich smell of fresh baking filled the air. Anthony politely turned to the window.
“Young man, have one,” the woman offered, holding out a scone.
“No, thanks,” Anthony smiled.
“Go on, it’s nearly a two-hour ride.”
He took the scone and bit into it. Bloody delicious. Over the tannoy, a crackling voice interrupted the noise: *”This service will depart in… minutes… Calling at… with stops at all stations except… Repeat…”*
“Love, what did he say? Which stations are being skipped?” the woman fretted.
Anthony shrugged. He was going all the way—hadn’t paid attention.
“I told you we should’ve taken the stopping service. Never listen, do you?” she scolded her husband. “What now? We’ll have to get off early and wait for the next one…”
She only calmed down when a bloke across the aisle confirmed their stop was included. The bickering died, Anthony finished his scone, and stared out at the blur of trees, sunlight dappling through spring leaves, the stations flashing past. The carriage grew stuffy; sweat trickled down his back under the stiff army uniform.
He imagined stepping through the front door, his mum’s face lighting up, the bliss of a hot shower… Just get home, rip off this uniform, pull on jeans, a T-shirt, trainers—no more dawn wake-ups or drill parades. He’d sleep a full day on the sofa, wake to a plate of golden pancakes under a tea towel, left out by Mum.
*Wonder how Alice looks now. A year’s not long—probably the same.* In his mind, she was slight, chestnut-haired, green-eyed. A year younger, lived a few doors down, just finished sixth form. He’d never paid her much mind—just another girl.
The night before he left, their lot had gathered at the playground. Max tore into him for chucking uni to join the army. Paul backed Anthony—said if not for his mum, he might’ve enlisted too. The girls pretended to care about the group splitting but were glued to their phones, giggling.
Alice—the one they all called “kid”—suddenly said, dead serious, she’d wait for him. Silence. Then she flushed and bolted.
“Ant, mate, you’ve got yourself a fiancée!” Paul crowed.
“Piss off,” Alice shot back, vanishing into the dark.
“Laugh all you want. I’ll marry her when I’m back,” Anthony said, half-joking, shoving Paul so hard he nearly toppled off the bench.
He’d never explained why he’d enlisted—not even to Paul or Max. He’d started uni to please his dad. By spring, his father walked out—another woman, a baby on the way. His world and respect for the man collapsed. Enlisting was his rebellion.
Mum cried, of course. He promised he’d figure things out after his year—maybe return to studies, part-time.
Now, that year was done. Thoughts of revenge had faded. He missed home, his mates, ordinary life. He’d done the right thing. Plenty of time ahead.
At the next stop, the couple left; their seats went to a quiet pair holding hands. Anthony’s mind circled back to Alice. That night, his reply—it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.
The train shuddered to a halt. Anthony strode through the underpass, relishing the echo of his steps—like a crowd marching beside him. Dad used to laugh, call it an acoustic trick.
Up on the high street, he walked home, breathing in the familiar air. Near his block, a neighbour spotted him.
“Anthony’s back! Your mum’ll be chuffed…”
He skipped the lift, took the stairs three at a time. Rang the bell—only then realising she might be out. But the lock clicked. The door flew open. Mum hugged him, pulled back to check he was real, scolded him for not warning her.
Under the shower, he found fresh clothes stacked on the washer. The jeans were tight, the T-shirt short.
“You’ve grown!” Mum said when he entered the kitchen. “Never mind—I’ll nip to the shops after dinner.”
“Don’t bother—they’ll do.”
“Wear that, and no girl’ll glance at you.”
Over food, she filled him in: Paul had crashed his dad’s car drunk, spent months in hospital, now wheelchair-bound. Max had vanished. Erica married…
Alice’s name never came up.
Mum left for the shops. Anthony wandered the flat, reacquainting himself.
When she returned, he changed and went to Paul’s. His mum answered. Paul, in his chair, barely reacted. The conversation stalled.
“Max ever visit?”
“Couple times in hospital. That’s it.” Paul eyed him warily.
Anthony left, promising to return.
Max, though, hugged him tight. Anthony asked about the rift. The crash?
“Not about that. You’ll find out.”
“Find out what?”
“You will.”
Too late to visit Alice now. Home, he lay awake, replaying the day’s mysteries.
Next morning, he waited till Mum left for work. Under the tea towel: warm pancakes, just as he’d dreamed. After breakfast, he headed to Alice’s—wanted to catch her alone.
Heart pounding, he rang the bell. Silence. He tried again. The lock clicked.
There she stood—exactly as he remembered.
“You said you’d wait. I’m back,” he smiled.
For a second, her eyes lit up—then dimmed. She stepped back. Under her floral dressing gown, her belly curved.
“Come in,” she said, moving aside.
“You married?” he asked, toeing off his trainers.
“No.”
“Then who’s the father?”
“Paul.”
It took a beat to connect the name.
“He—”
“The crash was after. Two days later.” She filled the kettle, hands trembling. “I didn’t wait. Sorry.”
Anthony bolted, barely hearing her call. He ran to Paul’s, rang the bell. Paul’s mum answered, frightened. Inside, Paul wheeled back as Anthony advanced.
“You know?” Paul asked.
“If you weren’t in that chair, I’d knock you out.”
“Anthony, please—he’s suffered enough!” his mum begged.
“What’d you slip her? Talk!”
“Nothing! We—Max and I—got some stuff at the club. I wasn’t right either…”
“Don’t remember, eh?” Anthony loomed.
“I didn’t mean—”
Anthony’s fist connected. Blood sprayed. Paul’s mum shrieked.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Anthony muttered, leaving.
Home, he punched the pillow. Called Max.
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“I left early—Dad was ill. Didn’t know what he’d do…”
“Right. We’re done.”
When Mum returned, he said, “I’m getting married.”
“Slow down. The baby’s not yours—”
“It is now. I’m getting a job, a place at the factory digs.”
“Don’t throw your life away. There’ll be other girls, your own kids—”
“It’s her or no one. The kid needs a father.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“Mum—if you don’t accept this, I’m leaving. For good.”
She sagged.
“It’ll work out. You’ll have grandkids—proper ones.”
Next day, he got the job, a room. Proposed to Alice.
They married quietly. He enrolled part-time at polytechnic. In August, a daughter arrived—Alice in miniature.
He adored her, never doubted she was his. Wanted a son next, but there was time. When Alina started nursery, he pushed Alice to study. She chose nursing school. Mum helped with the baby, thawing gradually.
Anthony never regretted it. Paul and Max were history. He had his family—another child on the way.
