Oliver and I first crossed paths when we were both twenty-seven. At that time, Oliver had already finished university with honours and was preparing for his viva. Hed done well for himself in education. On top of that, hed managed by then to save up and buy a cosy two-bedroom flat with a parking space. After graduation, he planned to treat himself to a car. A year later, we got married. Eighteen months after that, our daughter was born. By the time we both turned thirty, our child was already two months old.
With Olivers birthday approaching, I suggested we celebrate at a quaint little bistro with his parents. But he shook his head gently and told me he wanted to spend his day with just usme and our little girl, his favourite women.
And so it wasa quiet evening, all blurry edges and a gentle drizzle tapping on the windowpane. The next day, after work, Oliver popped round to see his parents. Only he came back rather quickly. He lowered himself onto the old settee and started to cry. It was so oddthis strong, capable man, the father of my child, sobbing like a lost boy. I sat beside him, stroked his hair, and whispered comforts.
And there, as if the walls faded away and we were floating through rain and sunlight, Oliver told me how things had always been. When he was small, hed been hit for the smallest error: for kicking a football, for muddying his trousers, for making a mess with his pen in his notebook Both his father and mothers hands had been heavy on him.
When I got older, they stopped hitting me, he said, voice trembling, but they never had one kind word to say. I finished college with top marks.
So what? his father replied. Its only college. And now youre off to university. Why bother?
Still, Oliver went even though the degree wasnt what he truly wanted.
He bought a flat.
Its hardly big enoughbarely fifty square metres, his mother sniffed, though their own house could fit inside it with space to spare.
Then he married me.
Isnt she a thin, plain thing? theyd whispered. Can she even bear children?
She couldand did.
Well, whos to say whose child that is? they clucked, peering at our daughter. Shes got nothing of us in her!
At last, they made a scene because Oliver hadnt thrown an elaborate do for their wedding anniversary.
Ungrateful son! they cried, as if in judgement.
And then, in the soft, blue dusk, Oliver turned to me and asked, Am I really such a terrible person that they cant love me? I told him softly that some people simply dont know how to love. He was just unlucky to have been born into their house. But now he had me. And our daughter. And we loved him more than anything, trulywe did, because he was the best in all the world.
Dont you see how your little girl beams when you come home, how happy she is just to lay in your arms? I said. And as Oliver remembered the sparkle in our daughters eyes when she saw her father, the autumn rain outside seemed to clear, and he finally began to smile, too.
