A Real Gentleman
Emma and Henry had been together for two years. Emma’s mother was beginning to worry that her daughter was wasting her time with him—there was still no sign of a wedding. Henry himself insisted there was no rush, that they had plenty of time, and they were happy just as they were.
Summer faded, leaves fell from the trees, gilding the pavements, and the rains began. Then, on a damp, dreary October day, Henry suddenly proposed to Emma in his awkward way, presenting her with a modest little ring.
She threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes,” before slipping the ring onto her finger and laughing, “Yes!”—her hands stretched toward the sky as she hopped with joy.
The next day, they went to the registry office and, bashful and nervous, filed their notice. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Emma had dreamed of a summer wedding, where everyone could see how beautiful she looked in her white dress. But she didn’t argue with Henry. What if he postponed it to next summer? What if he changed his mind entirely? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard raged outside. The wind tore through her carefully arranged hair, and the full skirt of her gown billowed like a bell, as if the next gust might sweep her away. Henry lifted his bride from the porch and carried her to the car. Nothing—not the storm, not her ruined hairdo—could dampen their joy.
For a while, Emma floated in love and happiness. It felt like it would last forever. Of course, young couples quarrel, but they always made up by nightfall, their love only stronger.
A year later, their little family grew—Daniel was born.
The boy was quiet and bright, a delight to his parents. Like most men, Henry rarely helped Emma care for their son, afraid to hold him. And when he did, Daniel would wail until Emma took him back.
“You take care of him—you’re better at it,” Henry said. “When he’s older, I’ll kick a football around with him. I’ll focus on providing for us.” Yet his wages barely stretched far enough.
Daniel grew, started nursery, and Emma returned to work. Still, they couldn’t save for a house. Squabbles began, each blaming the other for needless spending. Their easy reconciliations became a thing of the past.
“Enough. I slave away, and it’s never enough. Do you eat money or something?” Henry snapped one day.
“You eat enough for both of us,” Emma retorted. “Look at that gut.”
“Don’t like my gut? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly, and now you’re a slug.”
One sharp word led to another. Emma wiped her tears and went to fetch Daniel from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way home, she suddenly knew she couldn’t lose Henry. She’d go back, hug him, kiss him, and say she was sorry. He’d kiss her back, and things would be right again. Sweethearts quarrel for fun, after all. Her spirits lifted, and she hurried home, urging little Daniel along.
But the flat was dark and silent. His coat was gone, his shoes missing. “He’ll cool off and come back,” she decided, frying potatoes with sausage—his favourite.
Henry never returned. Calls went unanswered. Exhausted by sleeplessness and dread, Emma took Daniel to nursery, then went to work. At lunch, she feigned illness and headed straight to Henry’s office.
She rehearsed her words as she opened his door—only to find him kissing a woman, her bright-nailed hands splayed on his back like autumn leaves.
The woman saw Emma but didn’t pull away—just clung tighter.
Emma fled, blind with tears. Her feet led her to her mother’s house.
“Mum, why would he do this? Are all men like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on a while. How could I miss it?”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, the whole world is in them. If they betray you, it feels like the whole world’s false.” Her mother sighed. “He’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Time heals. You’ve got Daniel. Think of him. If he doesn’t return, maybe it’s for the best. You’re young—you’ll find happiness again.”
“You didn’t.”
“How would you know? I was afraid—what if it happened again? And you were older—I worried for you. But you’ve got Daniel… he needs a father.”
Calmer, Emma collected Daniel.
“Mum, play with me,” he asked at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
His little voice quivered. “I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
Henry came back as she put Daniel to bed. He pulled out a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” she asked, though she knew.
“Leaving. I’m done—the fights, this tiny flat, the sight of you.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted a wedding, a child? Here they are.” He zipped the case, glanced at Daniel’s wide eyes, and slammed the door behind him.
Emma wept on the sofa. A small hand touched her shoulder—she turned, hoping it was Henry. But Daniel stood there in pyjamas.
“Don’t cry, Mum. I’ll never leave you,” he said, patting her arm.
She hugged him tight, sobbing. Then she lay beside him till he slept.
Henry never returned. He filed for divorce.
Daniel asked about his father once, got a sharp reply, and never asked again. Life moved on. When Daniel started school, Emma met William—younger, kind, and quick to bond with Daniel.
He proposed more than once, but Emma hesitated. He’d want his own child—would Daniel resent that? She feared history repeating.
One day, while Emma cleaned, William took Daniel to the park. The door burst open—William carried Daniel inside, his face bloody from a fall off the slide. They stitched the cut at hospital.
Emma knew it wasn’t William’s fault—Daniel had fallen before. But the thought nagged: If he were Daniel’s real father, would it have happened?
Their relationship faded.
“Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll never leave you,” Daniel said again.
Emma brought no one else home.
Daniel grew into a fine young man. Emma swelled with pride—and secret fear. Girls adored him. Once he married, she’d be truly alone.
“It’s a mother’s lot,” her mother said. “You raise them, you let go. You’ll have grandchildren soon—no time to mope.”
Emma resolved to move in with her ageing mother—let Daniel have her flat. But her mother fell ill and died within a year, leaving her flat to Daniel.
Then, out of nowhere, Henry returned—haggard, unkempt. He lamented how women only wanted him when he was fit, how illness left him alone. He asked after Emma’s mother—then cursed fate when told she’d died, lamenting the wife and son he’d lost through foolishness. He hinted he hadn’t long left. Only ever loved one woman—his dear Emma. He laid on the guilt thick.
“Mum, who’s here?” Daniel asked, spotting a duffel bag in the hall. He hung up his coat and stepped into the kitchen. A man rose from the table.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown.”
Daniel’s smile vanished.
“Since when am I your son?”
“Daniel,” Emma warned from the window, wringing a towel.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—for you to fetch me from nursery, to show up on my birthday. Did you ever ask how I was? How I grew? I waited, but never let Mum see.” His voice hardened. “Where were you? Too busy with mistresses? Making them get rid of your babies?”
“Daniel, how—”
“I found you. I wanted to know why you abandoned us. Fell out of love with Mum—fine. But what did I do?” He turned to Henry. “Why come back now? Another woman threw you out? Remembered your family? Or maybe you heard about Gran’s flat?”
“Daniel, stop! He’s your father,” Emma snapped.
“No. He helped make me. You raised me.”
Henry bristled. “You poisoned him! I paid child support!”
“Then why not raise him yourself?” Emma turned away.
“Right. Clearly, I’m not wanted.” He stood, waiting—but neither spoke. Daniel stepped aside.
The door slammed.
After university, Daniel moved to London. Emma refused to follow, though the separation pained her.
“You’ll marry soon—I’d just be in the way.”
Such is a mother’s fate—to let go and be left behind.
Yet Daniel visited nearly every weekend.
“Mum, we need to talk,” he said one day.
“If it’s about movingThe day he married, she watched with quiet pride from the front row, knowing she had raised not just a son, but a man who kept his promises.
