The Most Important Man
In early November, the cold set in abruptly. A stinging sleet fell from the sky, and the wind tore off hats and sent coat flaps fluttering. Emily was glad her coat had a sturdy zip, but the wind cut right through her, not to mention her legs in thin tights and ankle boots. She hunched her shoulders on the bus stop bench, looking like a ruffled sparrow. Still, no bus came.
A sleek car pulled up by the kerb, and the driver tapped the horn. The waiting passengers exchanged glances, all somehow turning their eyes to Emily. She approached the car, and as the window rolled down, she recognised the man from work.
“Hop in quick, you’ll freeze out here. The bus isn’t coming anytime soon,” he said, smiling.
Without hesitation, Emily took the passenger seat. The car was warm, muffling the wind’s howl.
“Thank you,” she said, settling in.
“Not at all. I drive this way every day, but I’ve never seen you before.”
“I usually leave earlier—just running late today,” Emily replied.
William had noticed the quiet young woman for some time. Whenever he stopped by the accounts office, she greeted him politely before returning to her desk, unlike the others who chattered or flirted. Spotting her at the stop had delighted him—fifteen whole minutes with her beside him.
Once, his wife Lydia had been just as reserved and gentle. But after they married, she changed. Petulant, quick to snap. At first, William thought pregnancy was to blame. Then their daughter was born, and it grew worse. Lydia constantly griped—he didn’t earn enough, other husbands provided better, her friend Margaret had a new fur coat, and Sarah had holidayed in the Bahamas…
“We’ll pay off the mortgage, then things will be better,” William would soothe.
“Wait till we’re pensioners?” she’d shriek, and the cycle repeated.
One evening, walking home in the dark, he saw a car pull up outside their building. A woman stepped out, laughing as she waved the driver off.
That laugh was Lydia’s. The bitterness that followed was unbearable. He realised her complaints had only paved the way for someone wealthier. Inside the stairwell, her quick footsteps echoed, the scent of expensive perfume lingering.
He didn’t argue. Just packed his things.
“Go, and don’t come back!” Lydia shouted from the bedroom.
His daughter, Lucy, clung to him. “Daddy, don’t leave!”
“Sweetheart, I’m not leaving you. I’ll always be your dad.”
He loved Lucy fiercely.
Lydia appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “I’m keeping the flat. Don’t even think otherwise.”
William turned sharply. “I’ve paid the mortgage all these years. I need somewhere to live too.”
“Real men leave everything to their wives and children,” she sneered.
“Then I’m not a real man.” He walked out.
In court, Lydia spun tales of his neglect—no money, no help, her life a relentless grind. The magistrate cut her off, noting the designer dress and Italian boots she wore. No fur coat? The divorce was swift.
Splitting the flat took longer. Lydia rejected every estate agent’s suggestion, but eventually chose a spacious kitchen in their old neighbourhood, leaving William with a dingy one-bed on the city’s edge. Renovating it kept the melancholy at bay.
One day, he waited outside Lucy’s school. She flung herself into his arms, crying. His heart ached. He phoned Lydia, begging to see Lucy on weekends. To his surprise, she agreed—it freed her for her own pursuits.
So weekends were theirs, cinema trips when the weather allowed.
Glancing at Emily now, he saw her lost in thought. At the office, she thanked him politely, no simpering or hints.
That evening, he waited at her stop.
“What time do you usually leave home?” he asked as she unbuckled.
“You’ll spoil me. It’s easy to get used to kindness,” she smiled, stepping out.
The next day, he was there again. Soon, he drove her daily, then asked her to the cinema…
“He’s decent. What are you waiting for? Some girl will snatch him up,” Emily’s friend warned. “Or is it just rides you’re after?”
“Don’t be absurd. My son’s a teenager—he’s handful enough,” Emily deflected.
“All the more reason to introduce them. A man about the house would help.”
Emily hesitated. She liked William—respectful, never pushy. But her son’s reaction worried her. One Sunday, she invited him over, baking pies all morning.
“Mum, are we having guests?” Oliver asked, wandering into the kitchen.
“Lunch. You’ll be here?”
“Do I have to?” he muttered.
“Of course not. And wash your hands!” She swatted him as he grabbed at the salad.
She dressed carefully, curling her hair, adding a touch of lipstick. Oliver eyed her but stayed silent. When William arrived with roses and chocolates, Oliver scowled through lunch before retreating to his room.
“He hates me,” William sighed, gathering his coat.
“It’s not you. It’s just been us two. He’s jealous. Give him time…”
Later, Emily found Oliver at his computer, headphones on.
“He’s just a guest. One day you’ll marry, and I’ll be alone. What if your wife doesn’t like me? Shall I sulk then?”
Oliver didn’t look up. She lingered, unsure if he’d heard.
“You’re the most important man in my life. If you say no, he won’t come back,” she whispered, leaving.
On Monday, William waited as usual.
“How’s Oliver? Still against me?”
“He needs time. He’s kind—just not ready to share me. I rushed things. I’m sorry, Will, but his opinion matters.”
She left work early to avoid him. For days, she dodged conversations.
So William went to Oliver’s school, waiting as the bell rang and students spilled out. Spotting him with friends, William called him over.
“What?” Oliver grudgingly approached.
“Got a minute?” William nodded to the passenger seat.
After an eternity, Oliver climbed in.
“Seatbelt,” William said, ignition humming.
“Couldn’t afford a newer car?” Oliver sneered.
“You’re right. My wife wanted furs and holidays. Found someone richer. We split the flat—she got the better deal.”
“So you’re after Mum for a place to stay?”
“I have my own flat—small, out of town. But I’ve liked your mum for ages. After the divorce, I was scared to try again. Then I gave her a lift, and… Look, I respect her—and you. If you say no, I’ll go. But ask yourself: will you be happy making her unhappy? She does everything for you. Why shouldn’t she have a choice?”
They sat in silence by the roadside.
“You want to marry her?” Oliver finally asked.
“Yes. But she needs your blessing.”
“Don’t buy her roses. She thinks they’re too pretty to cut. She likes gerberas. And no flashy jewellery—just a simple, thin ring if you’re serious.” Oliver opened the door.
“Thank you!” William called after him.
Two days later, at eleven on a Saturday, the doorbell rang.
“You?” Emily gasped, finding William on her doorstep with gerberas.
“You’ve been avoiding me. I can’t take it,” he said, offering the flowers.
Oliver appeared. Emily buried her face in the bouquet, hiding her smile.
“Oliver, I’ve come to ask for your mum’s hand.” William produced a velvet box. Inside lay a delicate band, its tiny stone catching the light. Emily looked from the ring to William, then Oliver—fear and hope in her eyes.
“I’m fine with it. You, Mum?” Oliver grinned. William and Emily exhaled together.
Later, over tea, Emily admired the ring, amazed it fit. William and Oliver shared a glance. They’d marry in May—a garden celebration.
Some say adults shouldn’t let children dictate their lives. But if they expect to shape their children’s futures, they must listen in return.
All happy families resemble one another, yet every bond with children is unique.
Had Emily acted differently, William might never have spoken to Oliver, or fumbled the words. Oliver might have clung to teenage stubbornness, and nothing might have come of it.
But they had just enough love—and tact—to understand each other.
