Una loved
Ever since she was little, Una hated her name. Old-fashioned, granny-like. When she grew older, her mum told her there had been someone—a dazzling, beautiful Una—who’d caught her dad’s heart in his youth. He’d loved her deeply, but she’d turned him down and married another.
“Then he met me. And when you were born, he named you after her. Some loves, you never forget,” her mum said calmly.
“You’re not jealous?”
“No. He loves you. He loves me. But first loves stay with you. And one day, you’ll have one too.” Her mum smoothed Una’s hair.
“Was his Una as ugly as me?” the girl muttered.
“Don’t be silly. Remember ‘The Ugly Duckling’? And if you hate your name that much, you can change it when you’re grown. What would you pick instead?”
Una stood before the mirror, testing out names like trying on dresses. None fit. With a sigh, she admitted a new name wouldn’t make her pretty. Beauty wasn’t in a name. Besides, she was used to it now.
But Una doubted anyone would ever love her as Dad had loved *his* Una. Mousy hair, narrow eyes, a sharp chin—plain as porridge.
Her father loved her almost as much as he loved a drink. After work, he’d often stop at the pub. Liquor softened him. He’d bring Una little treats—chocolates, sweets, sometimes a toy. If he forgot, he’d give her money instead. She saved it, buying what she liked.
When she finished school, her dad drowned. He’d been walking home, tipsy, when kids by the river lost their ball in the water. He went in after it and didn’t come out.
Mum cursed him for leaving them. How would they manage? Una needed an education, but what future did their tiny village hold?
Grief-stricken, Una refused to leave—until Mum insisted.
“What’s here for you? Go. Maybe you’ll marry well.”
So Una left. She dreamed of being a doctor, but with her village schooling, that was unlikely. She enrolled in a nursing college instead. She liked the crisp white uniforms.
Her dorm roommate was Margot, a stunning brunette with curls, dark eyes, and a figure to envy. Una watched her with awe; Margot, in turn, basked in the contrast. They got on well—until Margot met Paul, an engineering student.
Una was smitten the moment she saw him. It was hard not to be. Sometimes he waited in their room while Margot studied, sighing as she pored over textbooks.
“You done yet?” he’d ask impatiently.
“Go to the pictures with Una. I’ve got an exam tomorrow,” Margot would say.
Una would’ve *loved* to sit beside Paul in the dark, trembling—but he never asked. He’d just sigh and leave.
“Why do you treat him like that?” Una fumed. “If someone waited for *me* like that, I’d be over the moon!”
“Don’t waste your heart on him. He’s a flirt. Plenty of girls throw themselves at him—what’ll happen later? Find someone simpler, love,” Margot advised sweetly.
Una was an average student. One evening, Paul arrived to find Margot still at the library. On the table sat a pan of fried potatoes and shop-bought meat pies. Paul couldn’t take his eyes off them.
Una cooked like her mum taught her—crisp potatoes fried in dripping, the smell drawing half the floor to their door. She never left food unattended; it’d vanish in seconds.
“Fancy supper? Margot’ll be back soon,” Una offered, watching Paul swallow hard.
He didn’t need persuading. He wolfed it down while Una gazed adoringly, willing Margot to stay away.
“You’ll make someone a fine wife,” Paul finally said, leaning back like a contented cat.
One Saturday, Paul came for Margot—they’d planned a cinema date—but she’d gone home after a phone call.
“Tell Paul I’m sorry,” she’d said before leaving.
Una cooked her best dish, hoping.
“I even got tickets,” Paul frowned when he heard.
“Take me instead,” Una teased. “Unless you’re embarrassed?”
“Don’t be daft. Get dressed—I’ll wait outside.”
Una barely believed her luck. An hour and a half beside him! Maybe he’d even hold her hand… She’d never dare initiate it. She freshened up, spritzed perfume, and rushed out before he changed his mind.
The film was good, but Una barely watched. She kept nudging her hand closer, hoping he’d take it. He didn’t. Then a tense scene—she grabbed his arm, “frightened,” and didn’t let go till the credits.
Walking her back, Paul suggested a café.
“Waste of money. I’ve got dripping at home—Mum sent some yesterday. *Proper* tasty! Mash and pickles too. Better than any café. Come on.” She led him back without waiting.
They had wine. Full and tipsy, Paul dozed off on Margot’s bed. Una turned off the light and sat beside him. He slumped against her, nuzzled her shoulder—then kissed her. Maybe he thought she was Margot. Maybe he didn’t care. Una kissed back, breathless.
“Sorry,” he mumbled next morning. “Don’t tell Margot, yeah?”
Una felt no guilt—just joy. Paul didn’t either. He never refused willing girls.
Three weeks later, Una knew she was pregnant.
“Who’s the father?” Margot asked.
“Paul,” Una admitted.
“Fast work. Don’t expect a ring.”
Una knew this might be her only chance with him. She told Paul.
“Look, it was a mistake. Sort it yourself,” he said.
Hurt but resolute, Una said she’d keep the baby.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged.
Una finished her exams but missed graduation—she went into labour early. A daughter. Margo visited, handed her cash and baby clothes.
“The girls chipped in. I shook Paul down too. Going home?” Una shook her head. “Thought not. You can’t stay here—you’ll need a flat. I found a room. Landlady’s lonely, cheap rent. Most kids won’t live with strangers.”
Luck, really. The landlady, Rose, helped immediately.
“Paul gave money, but don’t expect more. He’s seeing someone,” Margot said before leaving. “I’m going home—held up because of you.” Una wept.
“Stop that, you’ll spoil your milk,” Rose scolded.
Money ran out, but Rose adored the baby. She brushed off Una’s apologies, fed her, then brought friends for paid injections—elderly aches and pains. Una grew bolder, took hospital night shifts to days with her girl.
One day, pushing the pram near town, she ran into Paul. Peeking in, he started visiting with little gifts.
Then Rose died in her sleep. She’d once said she’d leave the flat to Una, who hadn’t believed it. Sorting Rose’s things post-funeral, Una found the will. Rose’s friends vouched for her when police questioned Rose’s death.
Now Una had her own home. When Paul called to visit, she cooked his favourites. He still loved to eat.
Once, he proposed.
“I’m not a complete rogue.”
Una knew the flat tempted him, not love for her. But she took it. They married. Nothing changed—Paul came and went, lived as he pleased. But she was glad. He always came back.
Then she noticed a change. Distant, thoughtful, pushing pasta absently around his plate.
She called his mate and learned the truth: Paul had fallen for a singer at a club.
Una went to see her. Slim, blonde, legs flashing through a slinky dress. A voice like honey. Una, post-baby, had lost her waist.
This love felt different. At first, Una pretended ignorance. She loved him—she’d never kick him out. But Paul grew shameless, strolling in at dawn reeking of perfume.
One night, he came home late, saw her awake, and said, “I’m leaving. I’ll send money for the girl.”
“Go on, then,” Una said calmly. He’d married her—never promised love.
By then, they’d refurbished Rose’s flat. Their girl was in school. Una still did injections, and Rose’s friends brought pies and preserves like family.
Troubles never come singly. Mum fell ill. Caring for her distracted Una from heartache. She brought Mum home. Realising she wouldn’t recover, Mum urged selling their village house. Not much, but with their flat’s sale, they could afford somewhere bigger.
Una didn’t risk it—not with a sick mother. She got a mortgage. Mum never saw the new place. Una moved there with herYears later, when Paul returned broken and alone after his glamorous life crumbled, Una took him in—not because she still loved him, but because kindness had outlasted every other feeling she’d ever carried.
