Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…
Barry sat at the kitchen table, blankly staring at the wall in front of him. There was nothing interesting there—no answers to his questions. He sighed and glanced with distaste at the half-drunk tea in his mug, diluted to the point of being flavorless. There was no more tea left, nor money to buy any. Barry got up, poured the tepid water down the sink, rinsed the mug, and filled it again from the kettle. He drank it in one go.
How had he ended up here? He’d had everything once—a job, a flat, a wife, a daughter… Now there was nothing.
***
Barry was fifteen when his mum brought a man home. She clung to his arm, pressing close.
“This is Uncle Paul. He’ll be living with us now. We got married,” she said shyly, fiddling with the collar of her floral silk dress.
Uncle Paul looked much older than Barry’s mum, shorter and painfully thin. He studied the sulky teenager with calm indifference.
Barry wasn’t a child—he’d guessed his mum had been seeing someone. She often slipped out in the evenings, lying about visiting a friend. She’d return with a dazed, guilty smile and smudged lipstick. He hadn’t minded the freedom.
Everyone said his mum was young and beautiful. He liked hearing it, though he never saw her that way. She was just his mum—no better or worse than anyone else’s. But young? Anyone over thirty seemed ancient to him.
He’d never known his dad. His mum refused to talk about him. And now she’d brought Uncle Paul into their home. Hadn’t they been fine on their own? Barry turned and walked to his room.
“Barry!” His mum’s voice cracked as she called after him.
He slammed the door.
“Love, he’s a good man—steady. Life will be easier with him. Don’t be jealous, you’ll always be the most important thing to me,” she said later, stepping into his room. “I’ll fry up some potatoes for dinner. Try to be civil with him.”
His mum fluttered around Uncle Paul, her cheeks flushed, her gaze misty. Barry burned with jealousy. Guilt made her generous—she gave him extra pocket money, as if that could make up for it.
“Don’t be cross with your mum. She’s a good woman. You’re nearly grown. In a few years, you’ll have your own family—think how hard it’ll be for her alone. I won’t hurt her,” Uncle Paul tried to reason with him.
Barry scowled in silence, though he knew the man was right. To his credit, Uncle Paul never pried about school or asked what Barry wanted to be.
After finishing school, Barry announced he wouldn’t go to uni—he’d join the army instead, feeling like an outsider in his own home.
“Good call. The army builds character. Respect. You can always study later, part-time. Education matters. Serve first, then figure things out,” Uncle Paul said firmly, cutting off his mum’s protests.
A year later, Barry returned home tougher, broader. His mum hugged him endlessly, laid out a feast. For the first time, he let Uncle Paul embrace him too. They drank together as equals, Barry getting drunk fast from inexperience.
“What’s next?” Uncle Paul asked. “Too late for uni now. What can you do?”
“Let him rest,” his mum interjected, patting Barry’s shoulder.
Barry mentioned he’d gotten his driving license in the army—could handle almost any vehicle, even fix them.
“Good. A mate of mine runs a garage. I’ll talk to him about taking you on. Pay’s decent, but you’ll work hard,” said Uncle Paul.
“I’ll take it,” Barry said.
A month later, with his first paycheck, he announced he wanted his own place.
“I won’t allow it!” his mum protested. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll just run wild, bring women—”
“Quiet, Lucy. Were you never young?” Uncle Paul cut her off. “He’s right. Can’t bring lasses home to us. No need to rent, though.” He left and returned with keys. “Live in my old flat. Small, bit rough round the edges, on the outskirts. Good for one. Got it in the divorce. Tenants are there, but I’ll call—they’ll clear out.”
“Be smart with women. No rushing. And go easy on the drink,” Uncle Paul advised.
With those words, Barry started his own life. His mum visited at first, bringing soups and cutlets while he was at work. A boy needed hot meals! Then he met a girl, and the visits stopped. He and Stacey lived together nearly two years. By then, Barry was studying engineering part-time at the polytechnic.
He couldn’t remember why they fought. But the split was easy—almost like Stacey picked the fight to leave. Other girls came and went until fiery-haired Katya. Blokes turned heads when they walked down the street. Barry seethed; she laughed and teased.
A year left of studies. Fearful of losing her, he proposed. To his joy, she agreed. Right after the wedding, Katya announced she was pregnant. Stacey had been on the pill—Barry assumed Katya was too. The news stunned him.
His mum doubted the child was his and hinted as much. Barry brushed it off. His worry was space—a one-bedroom flat was fine for two, but tight with a baby. He talked to Uncle Paul, who agreed to sell the flat. With extra cash, Barry bought a two-bedroom place.
When little Iris was born, his mum murmured that the baby didn’t look like him. Where’d the dark hair come from? Barry’s was light brown, Katya’s red. Born early, yet sturdy. She suggested a paternity test.
Barry ignored her. All babies looked alike to him. So what if Iris had dark hair? It’d change.
Then, coming home from work, he saw Katya in the courtyard with a dark-haired man. They spoke like old friends. Spotting Barry, she flustered, claiming the man was lost… Barry recalled his mum’s doubts but said nothing. Days later, he saw the man again.
“Oi,” Barry called out.
“Yeah?” The man’s accent was faint but there.
“Stay away from Katya and my kid. See you near them again, I’ll break your legs.” Barry had filled out—taller, broader, far more intimidating.
The man hurried off.
At home, Katya fried cutlets, Iris played on the floor. Everything normal. Maybe he’d imagined it. Then she confessed—she’d never gotten over Iris’s real father. He’d left suddenly; she hadn’t told him about the baby. Then Barry proposed. Now the man was back, knew about Iris, wanted her to leave Barry.
“Get out,” Barry said.
He watched through the window as Katya and Iris climbed into the man’s shiny car, suitcases in hand, not believing it was real. He waited, hoping she’d return. Then he drank. Lost his job.
At an interview, he ran into an old schoolmate who owned an auto parts shop. Offered him work. Months later, money vanished from the safe. The mate claimed Barry had seen him stash it there.
No cash was found on Barry, but the evidence was damning. His mate dropped charges in exchange for repayment. Barry sold the flat. They parted bitterly.
He rented a dingy one-bedroom on the outskirts. No wife, no home, no job, no money. His life was collapsing. The landlady threatened police if he didn’t pay up soon. Where would he get the money? His mum had died of cancer by then. And he’d forgotten all about Uncle Paul.
***
A pigeon perched on the sill, eyeing him beadily through the glass.
“Sorry, mate. Not even crumbs here,” Barry said, approaching the window.
Sunshine flooded the courtyard; fresh grass sprouted; tiny leaves budded on trees. Two toddlers slid down a plastic slide while their mums chatted nearby. A teen hung upside-down from the climbing frame. Barry stared, startled—how long since he’d stepped outside?
He craved one last breath of spring air. Yanking the window open, he startled the pigeon—its claws scraped metal as it fled. Barry leaned out, chest on the sill. Below, shrubs and lawn greened. Would he even die jumping from the fourth floor? More likely he’d just break bones, end up disabled.
His brain suggested alternatives. He dug out an old shoebox of medicines left by the previous tenants—paracetamol, aspirin, cough syrup. Not enough. Swallowing them all might wreck his kidneys, but it’d be slow agony. He eyed the ceiling light, picturing himself swinging from it…
Barry ran a bath. The mirror showed a gaunt, bearded stranger with hollow eyes—a corpse in waiting.
On the shelf lay a razor. He fetched a knife from the kitchen. The phone rang—a jarring, cheerful tune. He hadn’t heard it in weeks.
“Barry?” A frail, elderly voice.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Paul here. Remember me?”
“Yeah,” Barry answered robotically, eyeing the knife’s dull edge.
“Been poorly. In hospitalBarry put down the knife, closed his eyes for a moment, then turned and walked out the door toward the hospital, knowing that even in the darkest moments, life still has a way of offering a second chance.
