**The Sting of a Man’s Tears**
“Off somewhere fancy, are we?” the neighbour asked, spotting Oliver in his crisp suit and tie.
“My son’s graduation,” Oliver replied.
“Blimey! Other people’s kids grow up so fast…”
“So do your own,” Oliver chuckled.
“True… So, no more child support soon, eh?”
Oliver shot him a look that could curdle milk.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Come off it! Fed up handing cash to the ex yet?”
“No,” Oliver snapped, leaving the neighbour baffled as he walked off.
Slowly, his good mood returned. Memories flooded in…
***
The day his life flipped upside down, Oliver had been numb.
By all rights, he *should* have been happy. Free as a bird, earning more than most, living in a swanky London flat, never short of female attention, thriving in business. So why did he feel so hollow? Nothing brought joy. Nothing sparked desire. Everything was just… meh.
Leaving the office, Oliver noticed the sky greying. Rain was coming, and the wind had picked up.
He hailed a cab—no sense getting drenched. His car was in the shop, and he’d never owned an umbrella in his life.
Slumping into the back seat, he sank into his own emptiness. The driver prattled away, trying to impress his clearly well-heeled passenger, while the radio played some dreary tune…
Oliver hated that sort of music.
Then, suddenly, lyrics yanked him back to reality.
*I lived so careless, wild and free,*
*Like reckless wine, my blood ran high.*
*Her love seemed endless—boundlessly,*
*I never thought to question why.*
*But day by day, I threw it all away,*
*Hurt her more with every step,*
*And lost the love I couldn’t keep,*
*Back in the days when she was mine…*
A pang twisted inside him. The pain spread, and Oliver *finally* understood its source.
*Claire…*
*Claire-bear…*
*Clarissa…*
He’d called her different names over the years.
Their school sweetheart days had led to marriage. No one believed posh, beautiful Clarissa Hartley would ever wed the school’s notorious troublemaker, Oliver Thorne.
But *he* had believed. *Known* it would happen. Life without her was unimaginable.
For her, he’d studied. For her, he’d clawed his way up. For her, he’d become the man he was.
And she?
She’d always been there. Loving. Caring. Inspiring.
Gave him two sons.
Always calm, always kind, always radiant.
Never a complaint, never a sigh.
She’d seemed *content*.
And at some point, Oliver assumed it would *always* be that way. That her love was a given. That she’d never leave, no matter what. Understand, forgive, stay.
So Oliver let loose. Money brought friends, girls, all-night parties…
Clarissa stayed quiet. Never questioned. Just *endured*.
Raised their boys.
He never apologised, never explained, never helped.
Provided.
Thought that was enough to keep her happy.
He was wrong.
One day, it ended with four words:
“Oliver, I don’t love you anymore.”
“Don’t be daft,” he scoffed. “You’re just tired. Let’s have dinner…”
She set the plates down. Firmly said:
“You’re not listening. We need to divorce. I can’t—won’t—do this anymore.”
“What about the *kids*?” Oliver blurted, then cringed at how clichéd it sounded.
“Of course. They deserve love… not just a marriage.”
“Fine. Sod off, then!” He grabbed his coat and stormed out.
Three days gone. Waiting, hoping she’d call, search for him.
Silence.
He returned home to find suitcases in the hall. Hers. The boys’.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“Packing,” Clarissa said calmly.
“Why?”
She gave him a baffled look.
“Stop this,” Oliver muttered. “Don’t… *I’ll* go.”
And he did.
Left her everything. The flat, the boys. In his mind, there was no other way.
After the divorce, Clarissa stayed single for years. He knew that. So he’d drop by unannounced, lavish the boys with gifts, demand respect. Felt entitled to it.
Then, out of nowhere, Clarissa remarried.
Oliver *raged*. How *dare* she? *His* children’s mother! She should be *grateful*—he’d given her everything, paid hefty child support, helped on top!
So he made her life hell.
Especially when drunk.
Which, lately, was often.
Calls. Texts. Threats.
Clarissa ignored him. Eventually blocked him everywhere.
So he started *waiting* for her outside…
Sober, Oliver always loathed himself for losing control, for doing things he’d never do clear-headed.
Yet no matter the guilt, he *never* apologised. Couldn’t face her.
Slowly, his life became pure hate. For himself. For her. For the whole damn world.
He stopped feeling. Forgot how to smile.
Everything was grey.
***
And now, *this song*…
“Who’s singing?” Oliver rasped.
“You joking, mate? That’s *Finley James*! Never heard of him?”
Oliver didn’t answer. A minute later:
“Turn around. *Now*. Quick!” He barked an address.
Passing a supermarket, he spotted an old lady with a bucket of peonies. Clarissa’s favourite.
Stopped the cab, leapt out. Took the whole lot, shoved money at the startled woman…
Now, at *her* door…
His heart hammered like a jackhammer.
Long-dead emotions surged.
For the first time in years, he felt *alive*.
*Yes. This is it.*
Oliver pressed the bell…
Clarissa answered. First shock. Then fear. Then—seeing the once-brash rebel shuffling awkwardly—she smiled. Realised he wasn’t here to fight.
“Come in,” she stepped aside.
Oliver entered. Held out the flowers.
“For you. Know you love them.”
“Thank you.” Clarissa buried her face in the blooms, inhaling.
“Claire, who’s here?” Her husband, Henry, emerged from the kitchen in a silly cartoon apron.
Seeing Oliver, Henry stiffened. Past encounters *never* ended well.
“Clarissa,” Oliver said softly, meeting her eyes, “I *get* it now. I was wrong. Took me years to see I *wrecked* my own life. My happiness. Because without you and the boys… I’ve got *nothing*.”
Clarissa just stared. Henry squeezed her hand.
“And you—Henry, right? Thank you. For being there for them. When I wasn’t.”
Oliver extended a hand.
Henry hesitated—then shook it.
“Where are my lads?” Oliver blurted. “Can I… see them?”
“Of *course*,” Clarissa smiled. “They’ve missed you.”
Dinner followed. Long talks. A decision:
They’d stay in each other’s lives.
***
Years passed.
Oliver lived alone, worked hard. But always made time for his sons.
He became a fixture in Clarissa and Henry’s home. Holidays. Weekends.
He and Henry bonded over fishing—even got the boys hooked.
No one saw Oliver as the “ex” anymore. Just… *family*.
And he *cherished* that. Never—*never*—gave them reason to doubt his decency.
***
Lost in thought, Oliver barely noticed reaching the school.
“Dad!” His eldest waved through the crowd.
“Late?” Oliver hugged him, shook Henry’s hand, smiled at Clarissa. “Walked here…”
“Right on time,” Clarissa smiled back. “It’s just starting…”
*How late we learn, how slow we see,*
*Through loss and mistakes, the cost so steep.*
*Who warms her now, who holds her tight?*
*Who tastes the love I failed to keep?*
*May life be kind, may God watch o’er,*
*Her heart, her home, her children dear,*
*For I knew heaven—just for a while—*
*Back in the days when she was mine.*
Oliver never became a Finley James fan. But every time that song plays, a single, stubborn tear escapes…
