The Secret We Keep Between Us
Years passed before I could recall the event without bitterness, without that swirling mix of shame and gratitude that overwhelmed me at nineteen, incomprehensible at the time. Now in my thirties, married with a daughter, life has found its balance. Yet the story, the secret he and I still share, remains a reminder of past mistakes and the importance of having someone there to save you—from others, from the world, and most crucially, from yourself.
At eighteen, I was utterly infatuated with David, my father’s closest friend. Nearly twenty years my senior, he was intelligent, calm, and refined. A man with a history: long divorced, working in the local council in York, always smelled of fine cologne and coffee.
To me, he was like a leading man from a movie: chivalrous, attentive, with a soft voice and eyes you could lose yourself in. I dreamt about him, scribbled my surname beside his in my diary, convinced this was the love the books talked about.
He, however, saw everything clearly. Thankfully, he never reciprocated with flirtation or even a hint of affection. He was the epitome of tactfulness, never overstepping boundaries, even when I, driven by teenage hormones, sought to provoke him in every way.
When he withdrew, I harbored resentment. I plotted revenge—or so I thought—and got involved with a boy named Kevin, notorious for the troubles in his family—a drinker and a womanizer. My parents begged me to leave him, my mother tearfully implored, my father shouted. Even David tried to intervene, cautioning me about the path I was on. But I was stubborn, thinking he was jealous, controlling, and everyone simply wanted to mold me into a “good girl.”
I ignored them all. Soon, I discovered I was pregnant.
Kevin vanished the day he found out. Alone and scared, I felt humiliated. I couldn’t tell my mother—she was barely coping, and my father was already suffering from heart disease. Any news might have been too much. I cried into my pillow each night, lost on what to do.
Summoning the last of my courage, I knocked on David’s door. As he opened it, I broke down on his doorstep.
He asked nothing. He simply said, “Come on, let’s sort this out.”
And sort it out, we did. His ex-wife, whom I once judged harshly, turned out to be a wonderful woman—a midwife with gifted hands. She guided me from the first ultrasound to the end—in my case, an abortion.
David took care of everything: organizing, paying, and supporting. He never judged, never lectured, just remained by my side every step of the way.
I know he never breathed a word to my parents. He shielded me and my family from horror, pain, disgrace, and sorrow. He acted with honor, like a true gentleman.
A few months later, he took me to a café. As we sat in silence, he softly said, “Your father is unwell. The doctors hold little hope. Even if a donor is found, his heart won’t endure the surgery.”
I felt a part of me die. Dad passed a week later. Through it all, David never left us. He stayed, held my hand, consoled my mum, and helped with the funeral. He wasn’t afraid of my pain. He cried with me.
Years have gone by. David relocated, moved to Brighton, remarried. We no longer speak, save for the occasional brief email. But I will always remember. For his silence. For his protection. For not yielding to youthful infatuations that could have shattered my life.
What I envisioned then, I don’t truly know. Perhaps I sought a father figure, perhaps a hero. But he refused to let me fall into disgrace. He preserved both his honor and my dignity.
And to this day, we preserve that secret. No one knows. Not my mother, not my husband, not even my closest friends. Only him and me.
Sometimes, I believe the world still turns because of people like David. People who can remain silent, who understand, forgive, and stand by you. Not out of pity—but out of love. True love. Not the kind spun in novels, but the kind that saves lives.
This story could have destroyed me. Instead, it made me stronger. Thanks to one person who remained nothing less than human.
