“I don’t think your mother likes me. Why? I’ve never done anything wrong to her,” asked Emily.
“Oliver, where are you rushing off to? Sit down and eat properly,” Veronica snapped.
“Mum, I’m late.” Oliver shoved half a sandwich into his mouth, gulped his tea, and bolted from the kitchen.
“You’ll give yourself an ulcer,” Veronica muttered, hobbling after him on her short, plump legs. “Running off to see your Emily, are you? What do you even see in her? Charlotte’s far prettier, more striking, and she adores you. You’d make such a handsome pair.”
Oliver bent to tie his trainers, still chewing, refusing to answer.
“Like a child,” Veronica sighed. “Emily wouldn’t drop dead if she waited five minutes.”
“Mum, enough,” Oliver straightened, smoothing his t-shirt. “It’s my life. I’ll decide who suits me.”
“You will. And by the time you realise your mistake, it’ll be too late. A girl like Charlotte won’t stay single forever—” The door slammed behind him as she finished.
Pursing her lips, Veronica shuffled back to the kitchen, finishing the abandoned half of his sandwich while staring at the wall. Then, with sharp, angry motions, she scrubbed the hob clean—her way of working off frustration.
The doorbell rang. Expecting Oliver, she hurried to open it—only to find Emily standing there instead. The slight girl smiled up at her with wide grey eyes, the hopeful look of a child awaiting some promised wonder.
“Hello, Veronica. Is Oliver—?”
“Gone five minutes ago. Missed him, did you?” Veronica forced a smile, impossible to tell if she was pleased or smug at the disappointment she’d caused.
“What a shame. Could you tell him I stopped by? My grandmother’s been hospitalised, so Mum and I are leaving town.”
“Of course I’ll tell him. Why don’t you call him yourself?”
“I tried. His phone’s off.”
Veronica always insisted he silence it at home—claimed the constant ringing gave her migraines.
When Oliver trudged back in twenty minutes later, she asked sweetly, “Back so soon, darling?”
“She never showed. Isn’t even home. Mum—did Emily come by?”
“Why, was she supposed to?” Veronica feigned innocence. “She’ll turn up. That girl’s not going anywhere.”
Later, Oliver left for training, and Veronica polished the hob to a shine before heading to Tesco. There, she bumped into Charlotte, Oliver’s old classmate.
Veronica firmly held that beauty mattered for a woman—and Charlotte was stunning, unlike that waif Emily. More importantly, Charlotte’s father worked in city administration. With connections like that, Oliver’s future would be secure—no need to rely on sports forever. Veronica wasn’t mercenary, but she refused to leave her son’s fate to chance. One had to be clever about these things.
“Charlotte, darling! It’s been too long,” Veronica cooed.
“Hello. I’d visit, but Oliver’s taken,” Charlotte pouted, playing along.
“Nonsense. Be persistent. Ask him out—cinema, a walk.”
“I’ve tried. He’s always busy.”
“I know *exactly* what he’s busy with,” Veronica waved dismissively. “Between us, Emily’s gone away—said she’d be gone a week. Don’t waste the chance. Come by tonight for tea.”
Charlotte did. Veronica tactfully “put the kettle on,” nodding toward Oliver’s room. Charlotte knocked and entered. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Hi. Ran into your mum earlier—she invited me over. Why so glum? Fancy catching a film? Lovely evening.”
“Charlotte, I’m wrecked after training. Another time, yeah?” Oliver sat up reluctantly.
“Fine, but I’m holding you to that.” She perched beside him, chatting easily about training, competitions—everything he cared about besides Emily. Later, over tea, Veronica hinted Oliver should walk Charlotte home—*such a pretty girl shouldn’t wander alone at night…*
***
Emily adored her grandmother. She’d chosen medicine for her sake—Gran was often ill but despised hospitals.
“I’ll grow up and heal you myself,” Emily promised as a child. Now, she was in her fourth year at medical school.
The doctor insisted it was just high blood pressure—a week’s observation, then discharge. Relieved, Emily packed to leave.
“Where are you off to? It’s break. Oliver isn’t vanishing,” her mother grumbled.
“Gran’s better. Stay with her till Oliver’s away at matches—then I’ll take over.”
“Go on, then,” her mother sighed. *Oliver’s a good lad. But this obsession isn’t healthy.* She remembered her own youthful passion for Emily’s father—love that was supposed to last. Yet he’d left when Emily was eight. *Maybe she’ll have better luck. God willing.*
Emily rushed to Oliver’s without stopping home.
Veronica opened the door, disapproval radiating like a wall.
*Ugh. This clingy girl again. Just when Oliver and Charlotte were getting somewhere…* She forced a sour smile. “Oliver’s out. No idea when he’ll be back.”
“I’ll tell him you called,” she said, shutting the door. *Persistent little thing.*
Emily redialed Oliver. No answer. She’d wanted to surprise him, hadn’t said she’d return early. She lingered on the landing, watching the courtyard. An old man scowled as he passed.
Just as she gave up, she spotted Oliver approaching—with Charlotte stepping out to meet him. The girl flung her arms around him, kissing his cheek—not a peck, but lingering. Oliver didn’t push her away.
Emily stumbled back, descending slowly. At the door’s click below, she froze, listening. Charlotte’s laughter, Veronica’s cheerful greeting: “There you are! Dinner’s ready—” The door shut.
*She never welcomed* me *like that.* Emily fled, tears choking her. *Three days apart, and he’s kissing Charlotte. Mum’s right—words mean nothing.*
At home, she wept, regretting leaving Gran, her mother. By morning, she resolved to return to them.
When she and her mother came back weeks later, Oliver was away competing, as Veronica informed her.
He called, but Emily ignored it. She’d seen the truth. They finally met after his return. He moved to embrace her, but she stopped him.
“Emily, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong with *me*. But you and Charlotte—I saw you kissing.”
“When?” Oliver looked genuinely baffled.
“I came back early. Didn’t Veronica tell you?” Emily shrugged. “I saw you from the stairs. Your mum hates me. Why? I’ve done nothing to her.”
“Charlotte congratulated me on making the team. A friendly kiss. Was I meant to shove her? We’ve known each other since childhood. I love *you*. And Mum…” He reached for her again.
“Don’t. Just go. She’ll never let us be together.”
At home, Veronica and Charlotte chatted like old friends over tea.
“Oliver, join us! Charlotte baked biscuits,” Veronica simpered.
“You planned this?” Oliver glared at Charlotte. “Kissing me where Emily could see?” He turned to his mother. “You set this up?”
“Oliver, what nonsense!” Veronica huffed.
“It was just a friendly kiss,” Charlotte smiled. “If she’s jealous now, imagine later. Best be off. Lovely tea, Veronica.”
Emily avoided Oliver, ignored calls. Between his matches, her exams, Gran’s relapses—missed chances piled up.
***
Fifteen years later
Oliver coached at a youth sports club, his own career cut short by injury. His self-defence class drew all sorts—rowdy lads, bullied teens. One day, a scrawny thirteen-year-old appeared.
“Someone giving you trouble?” Oliver asked.
“Nah. Mum said I need male guidance. No dad.”
“Smart woman. Where’s your father?”
“She says he was an Arctic explorer. But I reckon he just left. Being a hero’s kid sounds better,” Daniel admitted.
“Honest. Show me what you’ve got.”
Daniel attacked like a scrappy terrier—all enthusiasm, no technique.
“You’re brave, but you don’t watch your opponent. Defence needs work. Bring sports gear tomorrow. And your mum—need her permission.”
Next day, Daniel came alone with a note and cash.
“She’s a doctor—always working. Doubt you’ll meet her.”
Months passed. Before summer break, Oliver called a parents’ meeting. Some he’d never met—like Daniel’s mum.
Midway, a harried woman slipped in.
“Name, please?” Oliver kept his tone even, though he knew her instantly.
“Nicola Taylor. Daniel’s mother.”
He spoke about the boys’ progress, avoiding her gaze—though he caught her glancing away too. AsAs the years passed, Oliver, Emily, and Daniel became a family—proof that second chances, though delayed, could still stitch the frayed edges of the past back together.
