Victor had been the provider, swallowed whole by his own kindness.
He came home exhausted, as usual. Pushing open the kitchen door, he froze—his mother was in tears.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.
Silence. Just downcast eyes.
From around the corner, his grandmother appeared.
“I warned you, Louise! I told you how it would end!” she hissed at her daughter.
Victor was fourteen that night. That was the moment he grew up. His father had left—for another woman, someone “fun and carefree.” He abandoned three of them: Louise, Victor, and little Lily. No money, no support. Just a shadow lingering in the doorway.
Granny moved in the next day and took over. Mum wept, Granny nagged, Victor tried to stay out of the way. He understood early—childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
His first job was at the bakery. Auntie Jean took pity on the scrawny boy with her tired eyes. Gave him warm tea, a pastry, a few quid. That was the start—Victor’s fast-track from boyhood to survival.
He studied, worked, hustled. The army wouldn’t take him—Auntie Jean pulled strings. She became family: no babying, no pity, just respect for his grit and quiet endurance.
By twenty-four, Victor was a proper man. Lily had grown up—Victor was both brother and father to her. Granny, once sharp-tongued till he flinched, now saved him the best cuts at dinner.
He fell in love. Married. Took on the mortgage. Bought his wife a car. Helped his sister. Moved Mum and Granny in—what else could he do? He was the “man of the house.”
Kids came. One, then another. His wife stayed home. Victor worked. No weekends, no breaks. Never enough—he took side jobs. Summers, he sent the family to Cornwall. Mum to a spa. His sister’s wedding. Nieces and nephews got new clothes. Victor? Pushed to the edge.
When Granny died, he didn’t think to cry. Too busy driving Mum to the doctor. His wife scowled, tired of it all. But Victor carried the weight. No complaints.
Then one day… he bought a guitar. A childhood dream. He walked in, and his wife scoffed:
“Rubbish. What’s the point?”
His son demanded cash for a trip. Victor asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Time to earn it yourself, then.”
“But I’m in uni—”
“So was I. And I worked since I was fourteen!”
A door slammed. Victor left. Rented a flat for the night. Wrote a holiday request. Lay down… and slept properly for the first time in years.
He decided—now, he’d live. For himself. Just a little. Just to try.
Called his wife:
“Fancy a holiday? Your pick. Alps or Iceland.”
“Why?”
“Just to live. Together. Like normal people.”
“No. I’m busy.”
“Then goodbye.”
At home, the storm broke. “Victor’s a villain,” “he left us,” “I gave him everything.” His mates shook their heads. “How could you, Vic?”
And Victor? He stood atop Ben Nevis, breathing. Really breathing. Maybe he was a villain. Or maybe… just a man who finally dared to live.
