The Secret We Alone Keep
Years had to pass before I could look back on it without bitterness, and without that turbulent mix of shame and gratitude, which, at nineteen, I couldn’t even comprehend. Now, in my thirties, I’m married with a daughter, and life has settled into its rhythm. But that story, that secret we still keep to this day, remains in my heart as a reminder of my own mistakes… and of the importance of having someone nearby capable of saving you—from others, from the world, and most importantly, from yourself.
When I was eighteen, I was completely infatuated with Andrew, my father’s best friend. He was nearly twenty years my senior, intelligent, calm, and refined. A classic man with a past: long since divorced, worked for the county council in York, and always smelled of good cologne and coffee.
To me, he seemed like someone from a movie: gallant, attentive, with a soft voice and eyes you could drown in. I daydreamed about him, scribbled his surname next to mine in my diary, believing this was the sort of love they describe in books.
He… he saw what was happening. And thankfully, he didn’t respond to my feelings with any hint of flirtation or suggestion. He was incredibly tactful, never overstepping bound even when I, driven half-mad by youthful hormones, attempted to provoke him time and again.
When he distanced himself, I harbored resentment. I decided to ‘get back at him,’ or so I thought. I got involved with Connor, a guy everyone knew: a family filled with drunks, a philanderer, and a blabbermouth. My parents begged me to end it, my mother cried, and my father shouted. Even Andrew tried to intervene, explaining that I was heading for disaster. But I… I was angry. I thought Andrew was jealous, that he wanted to control me, that everyone was trying to ‘make me a good girl.’
I ignored them all. It wasn’t long before I discovered I was pregnant.
Connor disappeared the moment he found out. I was left alone, frightened, angry, and humiliated. I couldn’t tell my mother—she was already frail, and my father was battling heart disease. Any bad news could have been too much for him. I cried into my pillow every night, clueless about what to do next.
Then, mustering what little courage I had, I went to Andrew’s door. When he opened it, I broke down on his doorstep.
He didn’t ask anything. He just said:
— Let’s sort this out.
And we did. His ex-wife, whom I had once judged, turned out to be an amazing woman—a midwife with golden hands. She looked after me from my first ultrasound to the end, which, in my case, led to termination, unfortunately.
Andrew managed everything: arranging appointments, covering costs, and being there with me. He never judged, chastised, or lectured me. He was simply there, every single day.
I know he never uttered a word to my parents. He saved me and my family from horror, pain, disgrace, and sorrow. He acted like a true gentleman, like a real man.
Several months later, he took me to a café, where we sat in silence until he quietly said:
— Your father’s really not doing well. The doctors hold no hope. Even if a donor is found, his heart might not withstand the surgery.
Something died inside me at that moment. Dad passed within a week. Throughout it all, Andrew stayed by our side. He was with me, held my hand, talked to Mum, helped with funeral arrangements. He never shied away from my grief. He cried along with me.
Many years have passed. Andrew eventually moved to Brighton, remarried. We don’t keep in touch, just occasionally exchange brief letters. But I will always remember him. For his silence. For his support. For resisting my youthful infatuations and not ruining my life.
I’m not sure what I imagined back then. Maybe I sought a father figure in him, maybe a hero. But he didn’t let me fall. He preserved his dignity and mine.
And still, we keep our secret. No one knows. Not Mum, not my husband, not even my closest friends. Just Andrew and me.
Sometimes I think the world holds together thanks to people like Andrew. People who know how to remain silent, understand, forgive, and be there. Not out of pity, but out of genuine love. True love—not the kind found in novels, but the kind that saves lives.
This story could have destroyed me. Ultimately, it made me stronger. Thanks to one person, who just remained a decent human being.
