“Off somewhere smart, are we?” the neighbour asked, spotting Cyril in his sharp suit and tie.
“To my son’s graduation,” he replied.
“Blimey! Other people’s children grow up so fast…”
“One’s own do as well,” Cyril smiled.
“True… So, no more child support soon, eh?”
Cyril fixed him with such a look that the man shrank back:
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How d’you mean? Aren’t you sick of handing money to your ex?”
“Not in the least,” Cyril snapped, leaving the neighbour baffled as he strode off.
Gradually, his good humour returned. Memories washed over him…
***
The day his life changed forever, Cyril had been steeped in apathy.
By all accounts, he had it made—free as a bird, earning more than most, living in a fine flat in London, never short of female attention. Work was thriving; business boomed. So why did he feel so wretched? Nothing brought joy. No desires stirred. Everything left him cold.
Leaving the office, Cyril sensed rain brewing. The sky darkened, a harsh wind rose.
He hailed a cab—no sense getting drenched.
His own car was in the garage, and Cyril had never owned an umbrella.
Sinking into the back seat, he felt the emptiness inside swallow him whole.
The driver chattered, eager to impress his well-heeled passenger. The radio played a dreary tune—the sort Cyril detested…
Then, words cut through the fog, jolting him back to reality.
*I lived so reckless, wild, and free,*
*Like fire coursing through my veins.*
*Her love seemed endless, meant to be,*
*I never dreamed of breaking chains.*
*But day by day, I let it fade,*
*Each step I took brought deeper pain,*
*And lost the love I could have saved,*
*In days when she was mine again…*
A dull ache spread through him. Pain flared, and Cyril understood its source.
*Mary…*
*Molly…*
*Marie…*
Names he’d called her over the years.
Their school romance had led to marriage. No one believed beauty Mary Ellington would wed the school’s most notorious rogue, Cyril Whitmore.
But *he* had known it would happen. Without her, he couldn’t breathe.
For her, he’d studied, clawed his way up, become the man he was.
And she?
Always there. Loving. Tending. Inspiring.
She bore him two sons.
Serene, gentle, radiant.
Never a complaint, never a reproach.
Content with everything.
In time, Cyril grew certain it would always be so. That she was *his*—fixed, unshakable. She’d endure anything, forgive everything. Stay by him come what may.
Then came the money. And with it, hangers-on, late nights, women at every function…
Mary never spoke a word. Asked no questions. Endured in silence.
Raised their sons alone.
He never apologised, never helped.
Provided.
Fool that he was, he thought that enough to keep her happy.
He was wrong.
One evening, she spoke the words that shattered it all:
“Cyril, I don’t love you anymore.”
“Don’t be daft!” He laughed, uneasy. “You’re tired. Let’s eat—”
She set the plates down. Steady. Firm.
“You’re not listening. We need to divorce. I can’t—won’t—stay.”
“And the boys? Have you thought of *them*?” Cyril barked, instantly hating the cliché.
“Of course. They deserve love—not just a marriage.”
“Fine. Clear off, then!” He grabbed his coat and stormed out.
Three days he stayed away. Waiting, hoping she’d call, search for him.
Silence.
Returning home, he found bags in the hall. Hers. The boys’.
“What’s this?”
“Packing,” Mary said calmly.
“Why?”
She stared, bewildered.
“Stop this,” Cyril grimaced. “Don’t… I’ll be the one to leave.”
And he did.
Left her everything—the house, the boys.
In his world, no other way existed.
After the divorce, Mary remained alone for years. He knew it. So he’d visit unannounced, shower the boys with gifts, demand respect—as though he’d earned it.
Then Mary remarried.
Cyril raged. How *dare* she? *She*, the mother of *his* sons! She ought to kiss his boots for the money, the house, the support!
So he made her life hell.
Especially when drunk—a growing habit.
Calls. Texts. Threats.
Mary ignored him. Then blocked him everywhere.
So he waited for her on the street…
Sober, Cyril loathed himself for each outburst—things he’d never do in his right mind.
Yet though guilt gnawed, he never apologised. Couldn’t face her eyes…
Bit by bit, his life curdled to hate—for her, himself, the world.
He forgot how to feel, how to laugh.
Everything turned sour…
***
And now, this song…
“Who’s singing?” Cyril rasped.
“You joking, mate? That’s Terence Black! Never heard of him?”
Cyril didn’t answer. A minute later:
“Turn around. Now. Quick!” He barked the address.
Passing a market, he spotted an old woman with peonies. Mary’s favourite.
He leapt out, bought them all, thrust money at the startled seller.
Now, at her door, his heart hammered as if to burst.
Long-buried emotions surged.
For the first time in years, he felt *alive*.
Yes. This was it.
He pressed the bell.
Mary answered. First shock, then fear—then, seeing the rogue she’d once loved shuffling awkwardly, she smiled. Knew he hadn’t come to fight.
“Come in.” She stepped aside.
Cyril entered. Held out the flowers.
“For you. I remember you love them…”
“Thank you.” Mary buried her face in the blooms, breathing deep.
“Molly, who’s there?” Her husband, James, appeared—apron adorned with cartoon ducks.
Seeing Cyril, his smile vanished. Past encounters always ended in rows.
“Mary,” Cyril said softly, meeting her gaze, “I finally understand. I was wrong. I wrecked my own life. My happiness. Because without you and the boys… I’ve got nothing.”
Mary said nothing. James stood close, gripping her hand.
“And you—James, is it? Thank you. For being there for them. When I wasn’t.”
Cyril stepped forward, hand outstretched.
James hesitated—then took it.
“Where are the lads?” Cyril asked. “Can I see them?”
“Of course,” Mary smiled. “They’ve missed you.”
Dinner followed. Long talks. A promise—
To stay in each other’s lives.
***
Years passed.
Cyril lived alone, worked hard, but never missed a visit with his sons.
He became a regular in Mary and James’ home.
Holidays. Celebrations.
He and James bonded over fishing—even got the boys hooked.
No one saw Cyril as an outsider now. Just family.
He treasured it. Never gave Mary or James cause to doubt his decency.
***
Lost in thought, Cyril reached the school gate.
“Dad!” His eldest waved through the crowd.
“Am I late?” Cyril hugged him, shook James’ hand, smiled at Mary. “Walked a bit too slow…”
“Right on time,” Mary said. “It’s only just starting.”
*Too late, we learn the price we pay,*
*Through losses, errors, bitter pain.*
*Who holds her close now, night and day?*
*Who tastes her love, now free again?*
*May all bend gentle to her will,*
*God keep her children safe and true.*
*For this one truth remains with me still—*
*I knew my joy when she was mine…*
Cyril never became a Terence Black fan.
But every time that song played, sparse tears rolled down his cheeks.
