A Real Man
Emma and Jack had been dating for two years. Emma’s mum had started to worry that her daughter was wasting her time with him, that marriage would never happen. Jack himself always said there was no rush—they had plenty of time, and they were happy as they were.
Summer faded, leaves littered the pavements like a golden carpet, and the rains came. Then, on a damp, chilly October day, Jack clumsily proposed, presenting Emma with a modest little ring. She flung her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes,” before slipping the ring on her finger and shouting it out loud, raising her hands and jumping for joy.
The next day, they went to the registry office, shy and nervous, to give notice. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Emma had wanted a summer wedding, imagining herself radiant in a white dress for all to see. But she didn’t argue with Jack. What if he delayed it until next summer—or changed his mind entirely? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard swept through. The wind tore at her carefully styled hair, and the delicate hem of her white dress billowed like a bell, as if the next gust might carry her away. But Jack lifted his bride into his arms on the doorstep and carried her to the car. Neither the storm nor her ruined hairstyle could dim their happiness.
At first, Emma basked in love. It felt endless. Of course, there were small quarrels, but they always made up by nightfall, falling into each other’s arms stronger than before.
A year later, their son William was born.
The boy grew up quiet and bright, filling his parents with pride. Like most men, Jack rarely helped with childcare, afraid to hold the baby. And if he did, little Will would bawl until Emma took him back.
“You’re better at this,” Jack would say. “When he’s older, I’ll play football with him. I’ll focus on providing.” But his salary barely covered their needs.
Will started nursery, and Emma went back to work. Still, money was tight—they couldn’t save for a mortgage deposit. Resentment grew, quarrels flared, each accusing the other of wasting money. The easy make-ups of the past became rare.
“Enough!” Jack snapped one day. “I work my fingers to the bone, and it’s never enough. What do you do with it?”
“Look who’s talking,” Emma shot back. “That belly of yours didn’t grow itself.”
“Oh, now my stomach’s the problem? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly, and now you’re more of a slug.”
The fight exploded. Emma wiped her tears as she collected Will from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way home, she realised she couldn’t lose Jack. She’d hug him, kiss him, apologise—and he’d kiss her back, like always. Love thrives on a little strife, she told herself, hurrying Will along with newfound cheer.
But the flat was dark and silent. Jack’s coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off,” she thought, frying bacon and potatoes, his favourite.
He never came home. Didn’t answer calls. The next morning, exhausted, Emma took Will to nursery and dragged herself to work. At lunch, she feigned illness and went to Jack’s office instead of home.
She rehearsed her words, opened his door—and froze. His back was turned as he kissed a woman. Her manicured hands splayed across his jacket like autumn leaves.
The woman glimpsed Emma but didn’t pull away—just held Jack tighter.
Emma fled, blinded by tears, stumbling until she reached her mum’s doorstep.
“Mum, why would he do this?” she sobbed. “Are all men like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on for ages. He wouldn’t just—”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, they’re your whole world. So when they betray you, it feels like the whole world’s against you.” Her mother sighed. “He’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Time heals. You’ve got William. Think of him. If Jack doesn’t return… maybe it’s for the best. You’re young, you’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How would you know? Maybe I was too scared to try again. And you were older—I worried for you. But you’ve got Will. He needs a father…”
Calmer now, Emma fetched Will from nursery.
“Mum, play with me?” he asked at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“I don’t like it when you say that,” he whispered, retreating.
Jack returned that night as Emma tucked William in. He pulled out a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” she asked, though she knew.
“Leaving. I’m done. Done with the fights, this cramped flat, your face.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage, a baby? Now live with him.” He zipped the suitcase, glanced at Will’s wide eyes, and left. The door slammed.
Emma collapsed on the sofa, weeping—until small fingers touched her shoulder. She looked up, hoping it was Jack.
It was Will in pyjamas.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you like Dad,” he said, patting her shoulder.
She hugged him, sobbing harder, then lay beside him until he slept.
Jack never came back. Filed for divorce.
When Will once asked about him, Emma snapped. He never asked again. Life slowly mended. When Will started school, Emma met Luke. He was younger, which helped him bond easily with Will.
He often proposed, but Emma hesitated. Would he want his own child? Would Will resent it? And their age gap… What if he left her for someone younger?
One day, cleaning while Luke took Will to the park, the door burst open—Luke carried Will inside, blood streaking his face from a slide accident. He needed stitches.
Emma knew it wasn’t Luke’s fault. Will had fallen before. Still, she couldn’t shake the thought: If he were Luke’s own son, this wouldn’t have happened.
They drifted apart.
“Mum, don’t worry. I won’t leave you,” Will repeated.
She never introduced him to anyone else.
Will grew into a handsome teen, then a man—seemingly overnight. Emma swelled with pride but also dread. Girls adored him. Once he married, she’d be truly alone.
“That’s a mother’s lot,” her mum consoled. “Raise them, let them go. I’ve lived alone. You’ll adjust. Grandkids will keep you busy.”
“Right. Mum’s getting older—she needs me too. I’ll move in with her, let Will keep the flat,” Emma decided.
But her mum fell ill and died within a year, leaving her flat to Will.
Then Jack returned—unshaven, worn out. He moaned about women deserting him after his health failed. He even asked after his ex-mother-in-law. On hearing of her death, he cursed fate for costing him his family. Hinted he hadn’t long left. Only ever loved one woman—his Emma. Pure guilt-tripping.
“Mum, who’s here?” Will asked, spotting a duffel bag in the hall. He kicked off his trainers and walked into the kitchen, where a man stood up.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown,” Jack said, almost respectful.
Will’s smile vanished.
“Your son? Since when?” he spat.
“Will—” Emma twisted the tea towel in her hands.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—for you to pick me up from nursery, to show up on my birthday. Not once did you ask, ‘How’s school? How’ve you grown?’ I waited, just never let Mum see.” Jack’s head sank lower. “Where were you? Off with some mistress? Made her get rid of your kid? Then another, and another—”
“Will, how—”
“I found you. Wanted to see the man who threw us away. Fell out of love with Mum? Fine. But what did I do? Why’d you leave me? Or did you just hear about Gran’s flat?”
“Will, stop! He’s your father,” Emma scolded.
“No. He helped make me. You raised me.”
“Is this how you brought him up?” Jack glowered at Emma, then Will. “I paid child support!”
“Then why not raise me yourself?” Emma turned to the window.
“Right. I get it.” Jack slapped his knees and stood. “No welcome here. Sorry to bother you.” He lingered, hoping they’d stop him. They didn’t.
Will stepped aside. Jack dressed slowly, groaning for effect.
“Mum, don’t.” Will blocked her from following. “Let him go.”
The door slammed.
After uni, Will moved to London for work. Emma refused to join him, though the separation crushed her.
She watched him build a life of his own, and in time, she learned to cherish her independence, knowing she’d raised a man who kept his promises.
