**”Victor – The Provider Who Was Consumed by His Own Goodness”**
Victor came home exhausted, as usual. He pushed open the kitchen door—then froze. His mother sat there, tears streaming down her face.
“Mum? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tight with worry.
No answer. Just silence and downcast eyes.
From around the corner, his grandmother appeared.
“I told you, Lucy, I told you how this would end!” she snapped at her daughter.
Victor was fourteen at the time. That evening marked the end of his childhood. His father had left—for another woman, one who was “fun and carefree.” He abandoned three people: Lucy, Victor, and little Emily. No money, no child support. Just a shadow in the doorway.
Grandmother moved in the next day and took charge. Mum wept, Gran nagged, and Victor tried to stay out of the way. He learned early: childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
His first job was at a bakery—Auntie Helen took pity on the scrawny lad with the weary eyes. She gave him hot tea, pastries, and a bit of cash. That was the start of Victor’s journey—from boyhood to survival.
He studied, worked, and took odd jobs. The army didn’t call him—Auntie Helen pulled strings. She became like family: no pity, no fuss, just respect for his resilience and quiet endurance.
By twenty-four, Victor had become a man in full. Emily grew up with him as both brother and father. Gran, once so harsh she’d shout, now saved him the best cuts of meat.
He found love. Married. Took on a mortgage. Bought his wife a car. Helped his sister. Brought Mum and Gran to live with him—what else could he do? He was “the man of the house.”
The children came. One, then another. His wife stayed home. Victor worked. No weekends, no breaks. When money fell short, he took extra shifts. Summers—family trips to Cornwall. Mum—sent to a health retreat. Sister—wedding expenses. Nieces—new clothes. Victor—stretched thin.
When Gran passed, he didn’t even have time to grieve. Mum needed a doctor. His wife frowned, exhausted. But Victor carried on. For everyone. Without complaint.
Then one day… he bought himself a guitar. A childhood dream. He brought it home. His wife scoffed:
“Useless junk. Why bother?”
His son demanded money. For a trip. Victor asked:
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Then maybe it’s time you earned it?”
“I’m still studying—”
“So was I. And I worked since fourteen!”
The door slammed. Victor left. Rented a flat for the night. Filed for leave. He slept—properly—for the first time in years.
He decided: now, he’d live. For himself. Just a little. Just to try.
He called his wife:
“Fancy a holiday? Your pick. The Alps, Iceland—wherever.”
“What for?”
“Just to live. Together. Like normal people.”
“No. I’m busy.”
“Then goodbye.”
At home, the storm broke. “Victor’s a villain,” “he abandoned us,” “I gave him everything.” Friends shook their heads. “How could you, Victor…”
And Victor? He stood atop Snowdon, breathing. Really breathing, for the first time. Maybe he was a villain. Or maybe… just a man who finally dared to live for himself.
*Sometimes, the hardest duty is learning when to stop.*
