**Victor — The Provider Who Was Eaten by His Own Goodness**
Victor came home exhausted, as usual. He pushed open the kitchen door—then froze. His mother sat there, eyes red with tears.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” he asked, heart pounding.
No answer. Just silence and downcast eyes.
Around the corner, Grandma shuffled in.
“I warned you, Margaret—I told you how this would end!” she hissed at her daughter.
Victor was fourteen that night. That was when he grew up. His father had left—for another woman, the one who was “fun and carefree.” He abandoned three: Margaret, Victor, and little Lily. No money, no child support. Just a shadow on the doorstep.
Grandma moved in the next day and took charge. Mum wept, Grandma nagged, Victor stayed out of the way. He learned early: childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
His first job was at a bakery—Auntie Eleanor pitied the scrawny boy with eyes too old for his face. She gave him warm tea, pastries, a few pounds. That was the start: childhood traded for survival.
He studied, worked, scraped by. The army wouldn’t take him—Auntie Eleanor pulled strings. She became family—no coddling, no pity, just respect. For his strength, his grit, his silent endurance.
By twenty-four, Victor was a proper man. Lily grew up, seeing him as both brother and father. Grandma, once harsh to the point of shouting, now served him the best cuts at dinner.
He fell in love, married, took on a mortgage. Bought his wife a car. Helped his sister. Brought Mum and Grandma to live with him—what else could he do? He was “the man of the house.”
Children came—one, then another. His wife stayed home. Victor worked—weekdays, weekends, no breaks. Never enough money, so he took side jobs. Summer holidays to Cornwall for the family. Mum to a spa. Sister’s wedding paid for. Nephews’ school clothes. Victor—always stretched thin.
When Grandma died, he didn’t even have time to cry. Had to take Mum to the doctor. His wife scowled, exhausted. But Victor carried them all. Without complaint.
Then, one day… he bought himself a guitar. A childhood dream. He brought it home. His wife sniffed:
“Waste of money. What for?”
His son demanded cash—for a trip. Victor asked:
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“So maybe it’s time you earned it?”
“I’m in uni—”
“I was working at fourteen!”
The door slammed. Victor left. Rented a flat for the night. Handed in a leave request at work. Lay down—and 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—Snowdonia, the Lake District, wherever.”
“Why?”
“Just to live. Together. Like normal people.”
“No. I’m busy.”
“Then goodbye.”
At home, chaos erupted. “Victor’s a scoundrel,” “abandoned us,” “I gave him everything.” Friends shook their heads. “How could you, Victor?”
But Victor? He stood atop Snowdon, breathing—really breathing—for the first time. Maybe he *was* a scoundrel. Or maybe… just a man who finally dared to live for himself.
*Lesson learned: Even the strongest back breaks if it never learns to bend.*
