Victor—The Provider Devoured by His Own Kindness
Victor came home weary, as he always did. He pushed open the kitchen door and froze—his mother sat there in tears.
“Mum, what’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, his voice tight with worry.
No answer came—only silence and downward glances.
From around the corner, his grandmother appeared.
“I told you, Margaret,” she snapped at her daughter. “I told you how this would end!”
Victor was fourteen then. That evening, he grew up too soon. His father had left—for another, for a woman who was “full of life and charm.” He abandoned three behind: Margaret, Victor, and little Lucy. No money, no support. Just a shadow on the doorstep.
Grandmother moved in the very next day and took charge. Mum wept, Gran scolded, and Victor learned to stay out of the way. He understood early—childhood was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
His first job was at a bakery—Aunt Eleanor pitied the thin boy with a man’s eyes. She gave him warm tea, fresh rolls, and a few pounds. That was the start of Victor’s journey—from boyhood to survival.
He studied, worked, took odd jobs. The army wouldn’t take him—Eleanor’s connections helped. She became family—no pity, just respect. For his strength, his honesty, his quiet endurance.
By twenty-four, Victor was a man. A proper one. Lucy had grown up—he was both brother and father to her. Gran, once sharp-tongued, now saved him the best cuts at supper.
He found love. Married. Took out a mortgage. Bought his wife a car. Helped his sister. Brought Mum and Gran to live with him—what else could he do? He was “the man of the house.”
Children came. One, then another. His wife stayed home. Victor worked. No weekends, no rest. Money was tight—he took extra shifts. Summer—the family went to Cornwall. Mum—to a convalescent home. Sister—to her wedding. Nephews—new clothes. Victor—pushed to the edge.
When Gran died, he didn’t even have time to mourn. Mum needed a doctor. His wife scowled, exhausted. But Victor carried them all. Never complained.
Then one day… He bought himself a guitar. A childhood dream. He brought it home. His wife scoffed:
“Rubbish. What’s the point?”
His son demanded money—for a trip. Victor asked,
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Then isn’t it time you earned it yourself?”
“I’m studying—”
“So did I. And I worked from fourteen!”
The door slammed. Victor left. Rented a flat for a night. Put in for leave. Lay down… and slept properly for the first time in years.
He decided—now, he would live. For himself. Just a little. Just to try.
He called his wife:
“Fancy a holiday? Anywhere you like. The Alps, Iceland—your pick.”
“What for?”
“Just to live. Together. Like normal people.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Then goodbye.”
At home, the storm broke. “Victor’s a brute,” “he abandoned us,” “after all I gave him.” Friends shook their heads. “How could you, Victor…”
But Victor? He stood atop the highest peak in the Alps and breathed—truly, for the first time. Maybe he was a brute. Or maybe… just a man who dared, at last, to live for himself.
