The First Pancake is Always Lumpy
Rosalind was a pretty twenty-seven-year-old woman. Her life echoed the lyrics of that old song: “You choose, they choose you, how often it doesn’t match up…” Plenty of men fancied her, but most wanted everything right away—no time wasted on courtship, just straight to bed. Why wait? Times had changed. Opportunities slipped through fingers if you hesitated, snatched up by someone else.
She grew up in a household of women—raised by her mother and grandmother, both refined, proper ladies. Rosalind was named after her great-great-grandmother, educated in a finishing school back in the days of imperial England.
Her grandfather had passed young, and her mother divorced when Rosalind was only twelve. As a girl, she buried herself in books where romantic heroes defended their beloveds’ honour, braved dangers to shield them from cold and hunger. She dreamed of love like that—pure, selfless, stolen kisses under the moonlight. She was modern, knew how the world worked, but still longed for that old-fashioned romance.
Most men these days had no patience for chivalry. They rushed through life chasing pleasure. A single rose on the first date, then straight past kisses to something more intimate. No moonlit walks. Flowers only reappeared on anniversaries or holidays—if things lasted that long, if a proposal even happened.
No romance. And plenty of women liked it that way. They wanted it all now, too. Why waste time on empty chatter when there were better uses for it?
But Rosalind couldn’t stomach such rushed affairs. She fell hard, heart pounding, butterflies in her stomach—only to watch the man she adored drag some other girl to bed. Men were in a hurry to sow their wild oats while they could, before wives and children tied them down.
All her girlfriends had married, had kids, divorced, remarried, and had more kids. They’d sigh and ask when she’d finally meet her prince. But that one destined man, the one from her books, seemed lost. What if he never appeared?
Dreams were just dreams. Time ticked on. The pool of eligible men around her shrank, replaced by divorcees. She grew tired of waiting. Her heart ached for love. Then she met James—handsome, with a flat and a car to his name. What more could a woman want? She plunged headfirst into love.
Months passed, but no proposal came. Then she discovered he was married. Not out of malice—he hadn’t hidden it. He’d just lost his head over her. And Rosalind? She’d never asked. He and his wife lived apart, didn’t bother divorcing—until now. Now he’d met Rosalind, and he’d file the papers. Tomorrow, definitely.
Overjoyed, she didn’t even ask if he had children. He did—one.
Rosalind waited patiently for him to divorce, to have him all to herself. And he did. But the flat went to his ex-wife—a one-bedder wasn’t worth splitting, and he didn’t haggle like some penny-pincher. The car? Hers too. He walked away with nothing—just a mortgage debt and child support.
Was this what Rosalind had dreamed of? She should’ve left then. But she wasn’t raised that way. Her mother and grandmother had taught her: if you love someone, you don’t abandon them in hardship. Like a loyal soldier’s wife, she stood by him, for better or worse.
If her family suspected trouble, it was too late to interfere. Especially when James finally proposed, borrowed more, and they threw a lavish wedding.
They lived in a rented flat—not that Rosalind advertised it. She was happy enough. Whatever came, they’d face it together. If warning bells rang, she ignored them. What use were doubts now, pregnant so soon? She wanted the baby, but how would they manage? Debts piled up. How would they live?
James took on extra work. He came home late, collapsed into bed. Mornings, he left scowling at his sleeping wife.
So Rosalind got what she’d wanted—what she’d dreamed of. She played happy for her family, but they knew. Time passed. The due date neared. Anxiety gnawed at her: what now? How would they live? She wasn’t working; James’s earnings vanished into debts and rent like sand through fingers. Her coat wouldn’t button over her belly, winter biting outside. The baby needed things—but there was no money. And they had to eat.
Nights, she lay awake, wondering how she’d trapped herself. The rose-tinted glasses had shattered. What love?
*“I’ll figure it out,”* James promised, soothing her. He came home later. Work, he claimed. But the money never materialised.
*“We need rent. Leave me some cash,”* Rosalind asked one morning.
*“Sorry, I paid a debt. Ask your mum.”*
So she did. Where would they get the money? They’d never been rich. But they scraped it together—how could they not help?
*“Pay this month, then what? Leave him. We’ll manage,”* her grandmother urged.
Rosalind snapped at James at home. Shame, misery, despair.
*“You’re on maternity leave. Find some work,”* he suggested.
*“Who hires a pregnant woman?”*
*“Not officially. Work from home. Think of something.”*
Easy to say. To earn, you needed money to invest. So Rosalind decided on tutoring. She had the education, spoke French—she’d teach schoolkids. Schools barely taught languages properly anyway—not the teachers’ fault, just the crammed curriculum. Knowledge came last.
She started with friends’ children. Word spread. These days, you needed languages. Soon, she wasn’t begging James for money—he was asking her.
After the birth, once recovered, she resumed tutoring. Cradling her tiny son, fears faded.
Friends gifted a pram, a cot, enough clothes for years. Then one friend opened her eyes: James wasn’t working nights—he was upstairs with the neighbour. She’d seen him.
That evening, Rosalind confronted him. He denied it, yelled that jealousy drove the lies.
*“Jealous of what? Our rented flat? Our debts? Try a better excuse,”* she said, tears burning. But what good were tears?
After more misery, she left. James begged her to stay, promised to fix things, swore he loved her and their son.
*“You’re unreliable. A liar. Only good at making babies. It won’t get better,”* she said, and took their son to her mother’s.
They were overjoyed.
When her boy grew older, Rosalind returned to work. Life improved. She swore off marriage—who’d want her, a single mum? She’d live for her son.
Then James’s mother came pleading. A boy needed his father. James had changed, matured.
*“Win her back. Dig the earth if you must. You’re a man. Flowers, gifts, attention—women love that. And stop chasing skirts.”*
James bought roses, knelt before Rosalind, wept, complained how empty his life was. Even offered a ring.
*“Did your mistress dump you? Not eager for a twice-divorced dad with child support? Save it. I’m done,”* she said.
At work, she ignored men’s advances. Then one persisted—kind, unbothered by her son. She relented. He cared, bonded with her boy. Her family hoped this time, she’d be happy.
James stormed in, screaming. *“So this is why you left! Playing hard to get while sneaking around?”*
*“I left you first. Or did you forget?”*
His mother swooped in with gifts for her grandson. *“He’ll resent you for taking his father.”*
*“I *am* thinking of him. Where were you when we starved? Now I work, you want me back to support *your* son?”*
James visited occasionally, barely speaking to the boy. He’d moan to Rosalind, then leave.
Life brightened. Her new partner proposed. No big wedding—just signing papers and dinner with friends. Her last wedding brought no joy. Her son would start school soon.
James called. *“I miss him. Let me visit.”*
She knew he was snooping. But she agreed.
*“You’re married?”* he gasped. *“What about me?”*
*“You should’ve thought earlier. Remember why I left?”*
*“He’ll raise *my* son?”*
*“You didn’t want to. You just helped make him.”*
*“Fine. Then waive child support,”* James snapped.
*“Why?”*
*“He’s the dad now. I’ll remarry, have kids. You know my situation.”*
*“Didn’t tell your fiancée about us? Clean slate? Go ask your first ex to waive *her* child support. Pretend we never existed?”*
**“The law says you pay till he’s eighteen—or you’ll be a stranger to him forever,”* Rosalind said, watching James storm out, knowing some stories, like first pancakes, were never meant to turn out right, but life, in the end, served each what they deserved.
