The Most Important Man
The first week of November brought a sharp frost. A biting sleet fell from the sky, and the wind snatched hats and whipped open coat flaps. Emily was glad hers had a sturdy zip, but the cold still cut right through her, especially her legs in thin tights and ankle boots. She hunched her shoulders on the bus stop bench, looking like a ruffled sparrow, but the bus was nowhere in sight.
A sleek car pulled up by the pavement, and the driver tapped the horn. The others at the stop exchanged glances before turning to Emily. She approached cautiously. The tinted window rolled down, revealing a familiar face from work.
“Jump in, quick, before you freeze. The bus isn’t coming anytime soon,” he said with a smile.
Without hesitation, Emily slid into the passenger seat. The warmth inside was a relief, drowning out the howling wind.
“Thanks,” she said, settling in.
“Don’t mention it. I drive this route every day, and I’ve never seen you before.”
“I usually leave earlier, but today I got held up,” Emily replied.
James had noticed the quiet woman long before. Whenever he visited the accounts office, she gave a polite nod before burying herself in paperwork—never gossiping, never flirting like the others. Spotting her at the bus stop felt like luck. Fifteen whole minutes with her beside him.
Once, his ex-wife, Claire, had been just as reserved. But marriage changed her—turned her sharp-tongued and restless. At first, he thought pregnancy was to blame. Then their daughter arrived, and it only got worse. Nothing pleased her. She complained about his salary, compared him to other husbands, and resented her friends for their new designer coats and holidays in Spain.
“We’ll pay off the mortgage soon, and life will get better,” James reassured her.
“Wait until I’m pension age?” she’d snap, and the cycle would start again.
One evening, walking home in the dark, he saw a car pull up outside their building. A woman stepped out, laughing as she waved off the driver. That laugh was unmistakable—Claire’s. A sour churn twisted in his gut. She’d been picking fights because she’d found someone else.
He didn’t make a scene. Just packed his things.
“Leave and don’t come back!” she shouted from the bedroom.
Their daughter, Lily, clung to him.
“Daddy, please don’t go!”
“I’m not leaving you, sweetheart. I’ll always be your dad.”
Claire blocked the hallway, arms crossed.
“You won’t get the flat. Don’t even think about it.”
James turned sharply. “I’ve paid the mortgage for years. I need a place too.”
“Real men leave everything to their wives and kids,” she sneered.
“Well, I’m not a real man, then.” He walked out.
At the divorce hearing, he listened in silent shame as Claire accused him of bringing home nothing, forcing her to wear rags, and doing nothing to help. The judge cut in, noting her designer dress and Italian boots. The divorce was swift.
Splitting the flat took longer. Claire rejected every option until settling on a spacious kitchen in the same neighbourhood, leaving James with a dingy one-bed flat on the outskirts. He spent evenings renovating, drowning his sorrows in paint and plaster.
One day, he cracked and met Lily outside school. She hugged him, crying. His heart shattered. He called Claire, begging to have Lily for the weekend—expecting another fight. But she agreed, almost sweetly. Free time suited her just fine.
After that, he took Lily to the cinema or his flat on weekends.
Glancing at Emily now, he found her lost in thought. At the office, she thanked him quietly, no fuss.
The next evening, he waited at her stop.
“What time do you leave in the mornings?” he asked as she got out.
“You’ll spoil me. Good habits are hard to break,” she laughed, stepping into the cold.
Soon, he was driving her daily, then asked her to the cinema.
“Decent bloke, that. Why drag your feet? Some young thing’ll snap him up,” her friend warned.
“It’s not like that. My son’s at that difficult age. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“All the more reason! A man in the house’d help.”
James liked her. Respectful, never pushy. But her son worried her. One weekend, she invited him over, baking a pie.
“Mum, are we expecting guests?” Tom asked, eyeing the kitchen.
“Lunch. You’ll stay, won’t you?”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. And wash your hands first.” She swatted his wrist as he reached for the salad.
She dressed up—curled her hair, dabbed on mascara. Tom watched, silent. When James arrived with roses and chocolates, the boy clammed up, answering in grunts before retreating to his room.
“He hates me.” James stood to leave.
“It’s not you. We’ve been just us two for years. He’s jealous. Give him time,” Emily said.
Later, she knocked on Tom’s door. He sat glued to his screen, headphones on.
“Tom, he was just a guest. You’ll grow up, move on, and I’ll be alone. What if your future girlfriend doesn’t like me? Should I sulk like this?”
He didn’t look up.
“You’re the most important man in my life. If you say no, he won’t come back.”
On Monday, James waited at the stop.
“How’s Tom? Still against me?”
“He needs time. He’s a good boy—just not ready to share me. Maybe I rushed things. Sorry, James, but his opinion matters. Whatever he says goes.”
She left early to avoid him. Days passed without a word.
So James went to Tom. He waited outside school, spotting him with friends.
“Got a minute?” James called.
Tom hesitated, then slid into the car.
“Seatbelt,” James said, starting the engine.
“Bit of a wreck, this car. Can’t afford better?”
“Fair point. I had a wife, a daughter. Mortgage took most of my pay. She wanted holidays, diamonds, fur coats. Found someone richer.”
“So you’re after my mum for a place to live?”
“I’ve got my own flat—small, out of town. Your mum… I’ve liked her for ages. But I didn’t trust myself after the divorce. Then I drove her home and couldn’t stop thinking about her.” He parked. “I respect your choice. But tell me—would you be happy making her miserable? She’s young. She does everything for you. Why deny her a chance?”
Silence.
“You want to marry her?” Tom finally asked.
“Yes. But she won’t without your say.”
“Don’t buy roses. She thinks they’re too pretty to cut. She likes gerberas. And no flashy jewellery. If you want her to wear a ring, keep it small.”
“Thanks!” James called as Tom climbed out.
Two days later, James stood on their doorstep with a bouquet of gerberas.
“You’ve been avoiding me. I can’t take it.”
Tom appeared behind her.
“Tom. I’m here to ask for your mum’s hand.” James opened a velvet box—a slim band with a modest diamond.
Emily stared at it, then at Tom, fear and hope in her eyes.
“I’m fine with it. Mum?” Tom smiled.
Over tea, Emily kept admiring the ring—a perfect fit. James and Tom shared a look. They’d marry in May, outdoors.
Some say children shouldn’t decide their parents’ fate. But if parents meddle in their lives, they must listen too.
Happy families share happiness, but every parent-child bond is different.
If Emily had acted differently—if James hadn’t spoken to Tom, if Tom had stayed stubborn—things might’ve fallen apart.
But love and tact won the day.
