The Value of Lasting Friendship

Author Cyrus HargraveReading 9 minViews 2

The price of a lifelong friendship

But Poppy and I have always wanted you two to end up together

I know you and Poppy are friends, but I cant marry someone I feel nothing for. That would well, end badly for both of us.

—

A fine, relentless drizzle clung to the windows, making the courtyard feel even more drab.

For Rebecca and Poppy, calmly rocking their prams, the grey weather was just background noise for their endless, leisurely chat. They had been best mates for years, and almost simultaneously theyd both become mums. Rebeccas son, Mark, was a hefty lad, while Poppys little Ellie had eyes as sharp as a hawks.

Look at you, Rebecca, such a serious little man, Poppy cooed at Mark. And whos this serious one? Hell be a professor already, I can see italways inventing something.

Honestly, I have no idea, Poppy. Right now hes mainly figuring out how to shout louder. Who knows? And your Ellie? Shes tiny now but livelyalready a commander in training.

Oh, absolutely! Poppy winked. When she grows up Ill send her to drama school, or ballet, or singing lessonsso she never loses her stagepresence. Right, Ellie? she sang sweetly to the baby. Will you be an actress? And you, Mark, what will you study?

She tried to fix his tiny hat.

Mark reached out, clumsily trying to grab Poppys finger, while Ellie twirled in her pram, clearly curious about the fuss.

Those are the first tentative steps toward future relationships, Poppy mused, catching Rebeccas eye. Imagine what will happen when theyre grownif they stay as close as we are now.

That would be brilliant, Rebecca smiled, picturing it. And if they fall in love? How wonderful! Wed be inlaws, grandmothers together, sharing grandkids!

Exactly! Poppy brightened. Theyll have known each other from the bottlefeeds, share all our quirks and their own. Itll be easier for them to understand each other. I never thought of that, but itd be grand.

Neighbours with dogs and strollers shuffled by under umbrellas, nodding politely.

—

Years slipped by unnoticed.

Mark and Ellie really did grow up side by side. Their first steps were taken together, their first words echoed each others. Nursery, then reception, then Year1 they trod the same path, hand in hand. It seemed the mothers predictions were hitting the mark. Mark, a calmplaying sort, always gave Ellie the most interesting toy. Ellie, ever the leader, decided which game to play, when to do homework, and whose backpack to carry on the playground.

But by Year5 things changed.

Mark, now more independent, stopped taking Ellies generous offers for granted. Where hed once handed over a toy because it was easier, he now asked, Why should I?

Mark, give me that car! Ellie demanded, snatching his hand. You never play with it anyway.

I wanted to take it, Mark replied.

And what? I wanted it too, but Ill let you have a turn only when I feel like it! Listen to me! Ellie triumphed as usual.

Mark remembered his mothers advice: they were supposed to stay friends forever. Their mothers were practically fused, and it would be foolish to sour that bond with childish spats. So he enduredEllie taking the best seats on the bus, bossing the group games, looking down on his hobbies.

Eventually Ellie fell for him, still commanding but now with a crush. Mark, however, simply endured.

When they turned twentyfive, Marks patience had hardened into a dull habit, and Ellies oncecharming cheekiness turned into clingy obsession. She still hovered, waiting for the moment Mark would finally see her as his destiny.

Mark, love, you look pensive this morning, Rebecca tried to draw him out over breakfast. Whats with the gloom? Time to think about serious thingslike a family, perhaps?

Mark, more interested in his phone than a motherdaughter chat, gave a vague grunt.

You know, Rebecca fumbled for the right words, you get along so well with Ellie. Shes a wonderful girl, a bit loud, but maybe thats exactly what youre missing. Imagine if you two got marriedwouldnt that be splendid? You two are a perfect match.

Mark had heard this spiel for years.

Mum, were just friends, like you always said. I dont want to marry her.

Well, friends Rebecca said, and youve known each other forevernursery, school, sharing a desk. Its more than friendship, its fate, Mark! Where else will you find a girl who knows you so well?

Ive never felt anything for Ellie beyond friendship, Mark wanted to end the conversation. Honestly, Im not even that friendly anymore. As a kid I tolerated her because she was a handful and I didnt want a fight. Now shes just an old acquaintance. Im not interested at all.

But she adores you! She says youre brilliant

She says that to everyone she likes, Mark shrugged.

Mind games? Rebecca asked. Do you think shes…lying?

No, Mum, she isnt. She just wants attention, loves being centre stage. I cant give her more than a friendly chat. I dont feel that romantic spark.

I understand, love. Rebecca sighed, feeling sorry for Poppy, who still dreamed of the perfect union.

Meanwhile, Ellie was scrolling through Marks social media, smiling at his rare photos. He seemed different, not like the boys whod tried to win her over with cheesy lines.

When will you realise? she whispered to herself.

Ellie, love! her mother called.

Hi, Mum! Whats up? Ellie replied.

We were just chatting with Rebecca. She keeps talking about Markhow stubborn he is, not thinking about the future. Well try to persuade him.

Stubborn? Why? He never tells me anything

He says he has no feelings for you. Can you imagine? All these years side by side, and no feelings?

But Ellie began, but hes always been there for me, listening.

Exactly! Youve known each other since the nappies. Feelings are weird; they can appear. Just stay close and dont give up. Mark just hasnt realised youre unbeatable.

Im not giving up, Mum.

Rebecca, at home, felt uneasy. She cherished her friendship with Poppy but also saw how tired Mark was of the constant matchmaking.

You know, Poppy, she said one evening on the phone, I think I may have overcooked this idea. Mark truly feels nothing for Ellie. He told me the pressure is getting to him.

Pressure? Poppy was surprised. What pressure? That we want happiness for our kids? Itd be easier if he just said yes, for Ellies sake. Ive always told her theyd end up together.

For us, itd be lovely. But for them? They should live their own lives. If Mark feels nothing, then he feels nothing.

What am I supposed to tell Ellie? I cant see anyone else for her but Mark.

—

Ellie was still around, meeting Mark occasionally by chance. Shed had a few boyfriends, none lasting long.

Mark was too busy with work to think about dates, but when he met Alice, things got complicated. Rebecca first dismissed it as a fling, then, when Mark introduced them, panic set in.

How do you picture this? she scolded Alice after she left. We celebrate holidays with Poppys family like one big clan. How will I tell Ellie youll be coming to all the gatherings with a new girl? Shell lose it, and Poppy wont forgive me.

Mum!! Mark shouted, Can you calm down? Youre overstepping with your matchmaking. Aunt Poppy will be furious!

Im not telling anyone, love, but Ellie does love you.

Rebecca stayed silent, yet Poppy had recently threatened that if Mark brought another woman into the mix, she would cut ties with the whole family, which meant losing her dear friend.

I cant return the feeling. Not at all, Mark said plainly.

But shes suffering, Mark!

I see, Mum. Im sorry. I just cant give her what I dont have. It would be a lie to both of us.

Could it be you just havent noticed? Youve known her forever; maybe youve become blind to it?

Nothing. No spark. No desire to spend every moment together. Were just very different.

Poppy never forgave Rebecca for that. They drifted apart, only bumping into each other at mutual friends gatherings.

One wedding, Mark and Ellie ended up sharing a table.

You look great, Ellie, Mark broke the silence.

You too, Mark, she replied, Ive never stopped thinking about you.

I know, Mark sighed. And thats why its so hard. I cant meet your expectations. Im not the man who can make you happy the way you want.

Why not? Im ready to do anything!

Because I dont love you, Ellie. I dont think I ever will. Our mothers have stopped contacting each other over this, but I cant change how I feel. Im sorry.

Ellie, finally dropping the ultimatums her mother loved, whispered, I understand, Mark. Forgive me. I think Ive lived in a fantasy for far too long.

“Don’t Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned “These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth have you packed them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly unfamiliar. “We’ll get rid of them. Why do we need this stuff, Mark? They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter duvets and spare pillows—the house is a mess as it is.” With purposeful efficiency, Olga continued stripping the modest jumpers, skirts, and light dresses of her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Mrs. Valerie Harris had always hung her clothes neatly, maintaining their good condition—a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. But Olga’s wardrobes were chaos; every morning, she’d dive among the shelves searching for a top, complain there was nothing to wear, and then attack crumpled shirts with her steamer—the clothes always looking as though a cow had chewed and spat them out. It had only been three weeks since Mark laid his mum to rest. Valerie had required medical care—though it was already a lost cause—and peace. Stage four cancer took her frightfully fast. Mark brought his mother home; she faded within a month. Returning from work that day, he found her belongings tossed carelessly in the hallway, as if they were useless rubbish. Stunned, he wondered—was that it? Was this how his mum would be treated? Thrown out—forgotten without a second thought? “Why are you staring at me like Thatcher at the miners?” Olga retorted, stepping back. “Don’t touch those things,” Mark hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely, he momentarily lost feeling in his hands and feet. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—what do we need this tat for?” Olga snapped, her temper rising. “What is this, a shrine? Your mum’s gone—face it! Maybe if you’d cared that much when she was alive—visited a bit more—you’d have known how ill she was!” Mark recoiled at those words as if whipped. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he forced out over the tension in his throat. “Whatever. Loony.” Olga scoffed. In Olga’s mind, anyone who dared to disagree with her was automatically mad. Mark, still in his shoes, went to the hallway cupboard, opened the top doors, and climbing on a stool, fetched one of their checkered moving bags—of which they had about seven. He packed all Valerie’s things, not haphazardly, but folded each item into tidy rectangles. Her coat went on top, and her shoes in a separate bag. Their three-year-old son bustled around helping, even tossing his toy tractor into the bag. Mark rummaged for a key in the hall drawer and dropped it in his pocket. “Daddy, where are you going?” Mark managed a bitter smile as he grasped the door handle. “I’ll be back soon, champ. Go to your mum.” “Wait!” Olga called, appearing in the lounge doorway, “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, I’m full up with your attitude towards my mum.” “Oh come on, there’s no need for this drama. Take your coat off—where do you think you’re off to at this hour?” Without looking back, Mark left with the bag, got in his car, and drove towards the ring road. He kept his mind blank, let the motorway drone drown his thoughts—work, summer holiday plans, those funny Facebook pages he browsed to relax—all shrank to insignificance. Only one slow, heavy thought crawled through his mind: the real priorities. Everything else burned away. The only things remaining untarnished were the kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself—hadn’t seen enough, never home in time, always some excuse. His mum hadn’t wanted to be a burden, so he’d postponed visits, rang less, cut their chats short. After driving for some hours, Mark pulled up along a country lane by the family home where he’d grown up. Artist: Shaun Ferguson It was pitch black. He fumbled with the garden gate, used his phone screen to light the way—five missed calls from Olga. No, not tonight. The night air was heavy and sweet with the dying scent of cherry blossom, luring moths in the dark. Old slippers stood by the porch, and, by the inner door, Valerie’s worn blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—he’d given them to her years ago. The air inside smelt faintly damp, the sort of musty old furniture scent you never forget. In the lounge, the new sofa and telly he’d bought her stuck out, the fridge door ajar reminded him nobody lived here anymore. Her bedroom—his old one as a boy—was just across. He sat on the bed. The wardrobe there was once his brother’s. Now, the rail held his mum’s things. Mark stared at it as if expecting his mother to appear. He dropped his head in hands, crumpling onto the pillows—and he wept. He wept for the words he never said, for the last time her hand squeezed his, for all the “thank yous” he never voiced—for love, for sacrifices, for making him feel safe and secure. For the strength she gave him. And now, at the moment for words, he’d found none. All he thought of seemed pompous and outdated; nothing would do. Today, people had a vocabulary for cynicism and bravado, not for real feelings. Mark crashed out on the bed, not undressing, not wanting to disturb her orderly world. Miraculously, he slept soundly and woke with the dawn, just as he always had. He put everything back in her wardrobe, folding things neatly the way she liked, hung up her dresses, arranged her shoes. He stepped back, pictured her in this room, in these outfits, that warm, loving smile. He hugged her blouses, breathed in their scent, and stood there, lost in memory. Only later did he fish out his phone. “Morning, Steve. Can’t come in today—family emergency. Will you manage? Thanks.” And to Olga he texted: “Sorry I snapped. Will be home tonight. Love you.” Outside, daffodils and tulips flowered along the garden path. Mark picked them, plus a bunch of lilies of the valley, and made three small posies—for the cemetery, for his brother, dad, and mum. He grabbed breakfast at the village shop. “Mark! Back again?” the shopkeeper called. “Just visiting mum,” he mumbled. “Want some fresh Lancashire cheese? Your mum’s favourite.” He wavered, then nodded, “Alright, thanks, Mrs. Harris. How’s your lot?” She waved him off—her son was still a dead loss, always drinking. Mark ate at the gravesides—flowers and chocolate laid for each loved one. His brother had died young, his father five years ago, and now his mum. He broke off some cheese and chocolate for each stone, smiling to their photos. Recalling mischief with his brother, fishing at dawn with his dad, and his mum calling him in for tea—her voice unmistakable for miles. Oh, to hear it again. Standing by Valerie’s grave, its earth still fresh, he whispered: “Sorry, Mum. I should’ve done more. Life was meant to go on—but without you, it feels so empty. I wish I’d told you just how great you both were, and how lucky I am to be your son. Thank you for everything. I wish I’d been better—forgive me.” Soon it was time to go. Heading home, Mark ran into his old mate on the lane, already half-cut. “Oh, Mark! You back again?” the lad slurred. “Yeah. Family visit. You still drinking?” “Course I am—it’s World Turtle Day!” he exclaimed, waving a calendar scrap. Mark smirked, “Take care of your mum, mate. She’s gold—and she won’t be around forever.” He left his friend standing there, speechless, calling after him, “Alright, Mark. Take care, pal.” “Goodbye,” Mark replied, not looking back.

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you all for your support—your likes, heartfelt comments, and generous donations from me and my five beloved cats. Please share your favourite stories on social media—it truly means a lot to the author! Lucy came home late from the hospital, where she worked as a nurse on the trauma ward. She took a long shower, then appeared in the kitchen wearing her dressing gown. “There are meatballs and pasta in the frying pan,” her mother offered, peering into her face and trying to gauge her mood. “Tired, Lucy? What’s wrong, love?” “I’m not eating—not that anyone would look at me anyway, but if I stuff my face, no one definitely will,” Lucy replied gloomily, pouring herself some tea. “What are you talking about?” her mother fussed, “There’s nothing wrong with you! You’ve a clever look in your eyes, your nose and your lips are just right—don’t go criticising yourself, Lucy!” “It’s just that all my friends have been married for ages and I’m still single! The only men who fancy me are total duds. The ones I like don’t even glance my way. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” Lucy asked, frowning, waiting for an answer. “You just haven’t met your soulmate yet, your time will come,” her mother tried to reassure her, but Lucy got even more wound up. “Oh, my ‘clever eyes’ just means they’re beady!” Lucy retorted. “My lips are thin, and look at the state of my nose! If I had money, I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re skint! So I’ve decided I’ll marry someone disabled—there are lads at the hospital whose girlfriends dumped them after accidents. What else am I to do? I’m thirty-three! I can’t wait forever!” “Oh Lucy, don’t say that…” her mum blurted, then let slip, “Your dad had trouble with his legs, I’d hoped at least your husband could help out on the allotment. It really helps us, you know? How are we supposed to cope otherwise?” She hurried on apologetically, “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy, but not everyone lives in luxury, and why would you want a disabled husband? Look, that neighbour, Alex—he’s a good lad, always had his eye on you. Strong fellow, your children would be healthy, and—” “Mum, stop. Your Alex can’t hold down a job, likes a drink, and what would we even talk about?” Lucy protested. “What do you need to talk about?” her mum insisted. “I’ll ask him to go dig the veg patch, then we’ll have lunch. Or send him to the shops. He’s a good enough lad, he tries—maybe it could work?” she suggested hopefully. Lucy just pushed away her tea and got up. “I’m going to bed, Mum. You really don’t get it. I thought at least you saw me as a person, but you’re just like everyone else—you think I’m a lost cause …” “Lucy, darling, don’t say that—” her mother followed, but Lucy just waved her hand. “That’s enough, Mum.” She closed the door in her mother’s face. Later, Lucy lay awake, thinking of the young man who’d recently arrived at the ward—he’d lost his leg at the ankle. A collapsing building had pinned his leg with a concrete slab. The house was already marked for demolition, but for some reason he’d gone inside. They’d rescued him too late to save the limb. No one had come to visit him, though he was young—not even thirty. At first, right after surgery, he’d looked at Lucy, holding her hand and searching her eyes pleadingly. Later, realising the full extent of his loss, he’d simply stare up at the ceiling, withdrawn. For some reason, Lucy felt especially sorry for him, maybe because he had no visitors at all. “Do you think I’ll ever walk again?” he’d asked her the other day, not looking her way. “Of course you will,” Lucy replied resolutely, “You’re young, you’ll recover.” “Everyone says that. Try living with no leg yourself—then say whether life’s worth living or not,” he snapped, turning his back to her as if she were to blame. “Why did you go in there anyway?” Lucy retorted, now annoyed herself. “It’s your own fault.” “Thought I saw something,” the man muttered, and from then on, when Lucy came into the ward, he’d turn to the wall. Lucy watched him: his eyes were light-coloured, cold as ice. Yet he was a handsome man—it was such a shame. “Pitying me, are you?” he caught her gaze one day, “I can see it—you’re feeling sorry for me. That’s all I’m good for now, isn’t it? Men like me, we aren’t loved.” “And women like me aren’t loved either—even with arms and legs—all because something about me is ‘off’. No one even feels sorry for me. Maybe I’d be better off like you—at least someone would pity me then,” Lucy snapped and, to her own surprise, felt tears sting her eyes. But then, Michael suddenly smiled at her for the first time, “You’re daft, you know that?” he said. “You think you’re not pretty? Are you mad? I look at you and honestly, any man you choose, I’ll just envy him. Do you believe me?” Lucy stared at him, and—strangely—she did believe him. She blurted out what had been pricking her tongue for days: “Well, if I choose you, will you marry me?” He stayed silent. “See, you’re lying, I knew it!” Lucy said, her lips trembling as she got up and headed for the door. But Michael propped himself up on his elbows as best he could, sitting up as if he might chase after her—then remembered he couldn’t, and called after her: “Marry me, Lucy! I swear, soon nobody will even notice I’ve got a bad leg. I’ll recover—don’t leave, Lucy!” Lucy stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears, but now she sensed, deep down—he was The One. It no longer mattered that her nose was too big, her eyes too small, or that something had happened to his leg. They’d found each other—that was all. Her time had come, just as her mother had said… Michael threw himself into rehab with new passion. Now, he had a goal—he wanted to marry the wonderful girl he loved, and he needed to get back on his feet for both their sakes. He wanted Lucy to stop feeling sad or unwanted. He needed her—needed her so much there was no one else he wanted but her. “You’ve finally fallen in love, haven’t you, love?” her mother teased her gently one day. “Look at you—positively glowing! And you said you weren’t pretty.” Lucy just floated on air. Her biggest hope now was that Michael would walk again and get used to his new prosthetic. They went on ever longer walks—first around the hospital grounds, then through the twinkling pre-Christmas streets sparkling under snowy lights … “The old house, where I got trapped—that’s it, all levelled now,” Michael showed her once. “And why did you go in there anyway? What did you see? You never told me…” Lucy remembered. “You’ll laugh, but I saw a stray puppy—thin, all black with white patches. I thought he’d freeze, so I wanted to bring him home—didn’t want to be lonely anymore,” he told her. “Oh, look—there’s a skinny dog over there, eyeing us warily.” “Looks like him! That’s definitely the one!” Michael grinned, and the dog started following them at a distance—all the way home. “Lucky Lucy, found herself a handsome husband, younger than her, with his own flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends teased at the wedding. Lucy’s mum shed a tear of joy when Michael started calling her “Mum”. He’d been raised in care; no family at all. But he was such a kind, good soul—and most importantly—they loved each other. That’s all that mattered. And as for the allotment veggies—who really cares? Besides, Michael’s the practical type, and everything he tries, he manages! These days, Lucy, Michael, and the dog—Kuzma (now renamed Tommy)—all live together. But soon there’ll be four: Lucy and Michael are expecting a little girl. Never despair, or you might miss the happiness fate has in store for you. After all, life’s greatest beauty lies in its unpredictability…