**The Real Man**
Lydia and Henry had been dating for two years. Her mum had already started fretting, convinced her daughter was wasting time with him—would it ever lead to a wedding? Henry, for his part, insisted there was no hurry. Plenty of time. They were happy as they were.
Summer faded, leaves tumbled from the trees, paving the pavements in gold, and the rains set in. Then, on one particularly soggy October afternoon, Henry clumsily proposed, presenting her with a modest little ring.
She threw her arms around his neck and whispered “Yes” into his ear, then slid the ring onto her finger and shrieked, “Yes!”—arms flung skyward, bouncing giddily on the spot.
The next day, they toddled off to the registry office, blushing like teenagers as they handed in their notice. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Lydia had wanted a summer affair—everyone admiring her in a white dress. But she didn’t argue. What if Henry postponed again? Or worse, changed his mind altogether? She loved him. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
Their wedding day brought a proper blizzard. The wind had its wicked way with her carefully styled hair. Her dress billowed like a bell, threatening to whisk the blushing bride clean away. On the doorstep, Henry scooped her up—giggling—and carried her to the car. Neither the storm nor the windswept curls could dampen their joy.
At first, Lydia floated on love. Surely, life would stay this perfect. Oh, they bickered now and then, like all young couples, but they always made up by nightfall—passionately, of course.
A year later, baby Daniel arrived.
A quiet, clever little boy, he was the apple of his parents’ eyes. Henry, like many men, was hopeless with nappies and terrified of holding the tiny thing. The moment he did, Daniel would wail, and Lydia would swoop in.
“You’re better at this,” Henry would say, shuffling away. “I’ll play football with him when he’s older. For now, I’ll focus on providing.” Trouble was, his salary barely stretched to cover the three of them.
Daniel toddled off to nursery. Lydia returned to work. Yet money remained tight—saving for a mortgage deposit felt impossible. Snipes about spending crept in. The easy reconciliations vanished.
“Enough! I work my fingers to the bone, and it’s never enough. What d’you do, eat the cash?” Henry snapped one evening.
“That’d be you,” Lydia shot back. “Look at that gut.”
“Don’t like my gut? You’ve changed too. Married a butterfly, got a caterpillar.”
One barb led to another. By the time Lydia fetched Daniel, tears pricked her lashes. Yet halfway home, listening to his chatter, she realised—she couldn’t lose Henry. She’d hug him, kiss him, say sorry. And he’d kiss her back, and all would be well. Squabbling sweethearts just tease each other, don’t they? Heart lighter, she hurried Daniel along.
But the flat was dark and silent. Henry’s coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off,” Lydia decided, frying his favourite—bangers and mash.
Henry never came home. Nor answered his phone. Next morning, hollow-eyed, she dropped Daniel at nursery and dragged herself to work. At lunch, feigning illness, she left—but went straight to Henry’s office.
Rehearsing her speech, she pushed his door open. There he stood, back turned, locked in a kiss. The woman’s hands—manicured scarlet—splayed across his jacket like maple leaves.
She saw Lydia. Didn’t pull away. Just held Henry tighter.
Lydia fled. Stumbled through streets, blind with tears, until her feet carried her to Mum’s.
“Mum,” she sobbed, “why? Are all men like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cheats. Was it happening all along? It can’t be sudden!”
Mum sighed. “When you love, he’s your whole world. So if he betrays you, it feels like all men would.”
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
“Time heals. You’ve Daniel. Think of him. And if not… maybe it’s for the best. You’re young. Happiness will find you.”
“You never found yours.”
“How d’you know? I just feared history repeating. And you were older—I worried for you. But you’ve a son. He needs a father…”
Calmer, Lydia fetched Daniel.
“Mum, play with me?” he begged at home.
“Not now,” she snapped.
His voice wobbled. “I don’t like when you talk like that.”
Henry returned as she tucked Daniel in. He hauled out a suitcase.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, though she knew.
“Leaving. Had enough. The rows, this shoebox, your face.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted wedding, baby? Enjoy.” Zipping the case, he glanced at wide-eyed Daniel—then fled.
Lydia crumpled, weeping. A small hand touched her shoulder.
Daniel, pyjama-clad, whispered, “Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave like Dad.”
She hugged him, sobbed harder.
Henry never returned. Filed for divorce.
Once, Daniel asked about his father. Lydia’s sharp reply silenced further questions. Life, though aching, trudged on. At secondary school, she met Robert—younger, effortlessly bonding with Daniel.
He proposed often. She stalled. What if he wanted his own child? Would Daniel resent it? And their age gap—surely he’d trade her for youth someday.
One day, tidying while Robert took Daniel out, the door burst open. Robert carried him in—blood streaking his face from a slide mishap. Stitches at A&E.
Logically, she knew Robert wasn’t to blame. Daniel had taken worse tumbles with her. Yet the thought nagged—if he were Robert’s own, would it have happened?
Soon, they drifted apart.
“Mum, don’t worry,” Daniel said again. “I won’t leave you.”
No more men crossed their threshold.
Daniel grew—handsome teen, then man. Lydia swelled with pride but feared the day he’d wed, leaving her alone.
“Mum’s lot,” her mother soothed. “Raise them, let go. I’m alone. You’ll adjust. Grandkids’ll keep you busy!”
Lydia resolved—Mum was ageing. She’d move in, let Daniel have the flat.
Then Mum fell ill. A year later, she was gone—but not before signing her flat over to Daniel.
Enter Henry—scruffy, weathered. Whinging about women loving him in health, abandoning him in sickness. Asked after “Mother-in-law.” At news of her death, he cursed fate for robbing him of wife and son. Hinted he hadn’t long. Only ever loved his Lydia. Sob story central.
“Mum, who’s here?” Daniel called, spotting a sports bag in the hall. He strode into the kitchen. A man rose.
“Hello, son. Look at you,” Henry said, almost respectful.
Daniel’s smile died.
“Your son?” he bit out.
“Daniel,” Lydia warned from the window, clutching a tea towel.
“Sorry, Mum. But I don’t know him. First, I waited for you to fetch me from nursery. Then for birthdays. Presents. You never came. Never asked, ‘How’s school? How’ve you grown?’ I waited—hid it from Mum.”
Henry’s head drooped.
“And you? Off with your mistress? Made her abort? Then the next, and the next—”
“Daniel, how—”
“I tracked you. Wanted to see why you left. Fell out of love with Mum—fine. But what did I do? Why leave me? Back now? Another woman booted you? Remembered us? Or just fancied Gran’s flat?”
“Daniel, enough! He’s your father,” Lydia scolded.
“No. He helped make me. You raised me.”
Henry rounded on her. “This your doing? Poisoned him? I paid maintenance!”
“Why not raise him yourself?” She turned away.
“Right. Not welcome.” Henry stood, waiting.
Silence.
Daniel stepped aside. Henry hobbled out, groaning theatrically.
“Mum, no.” He blocked her path. “Let him go.”
The door slammed.
After uni, Daniel took a job in London. Lydia refused to join, aching yet unwilling to burden his future.
“You’ll marry. I’d be in the way. Don’t argue—I’ll manage. I’m not old yet.”
Such is a mother’s fate—to let go, stay behind. Still, Daniel visited most weekends.
“Mum, we need to talk,” he said once.
“If it’s about moving, don’t—I won’t.”
“I’m getting married.”
“Really?””Then, as the years rolled by, Lydia found herself rocking her first grandchild to sleep, whispering the same lullabies she’d once sung to Daniel, her heart fuller than she’d ever imagined possible.”
