“Your mum doesn’t like me. Why? I’ve never done anything wrong to her,” asked Emily.
“Oliver, where are you rushing off to? Eat properly,” snapped Veronica Williams sternly.
“Mum, I’m late.” Oliver crammed half a sandwich into his mouth, gulped down his tea, and dashed out of the kitchen.
“You’ll ruin your stomach,” grumbled Veronica as she shuffled after him on her short, sturdy legs. “In such a hurry to see your Emily? What do you even see in her? Sophie’s gorgeous, posh, and head over heels for you. She’s much more your type. You’d make a lovely couple.”
Oliver silently tied his trainers, chewing the last of his sandwich.
“Like a little boy,” his mother sighed, shaking her head. “If Emily waited five minutes for you, she wouldn’t drop dead.”
“Mum, enough.” Oliver straightened up, adjusting his jumper. “It’s my life. I’ll decide who’s right for me.”
“Oh, you’ll decide? And by the time you realise, it’ll be too late. A girl like Sophie won’t stay single forever—” The door clicked shut before she could finish.
Veronica huffed and stomped back to the kitchen. She polished off the rest of Oliver’s sandwich, scowling at the wall, then furiously scrubbed the hob—her usual vent when upset.
When the doorbell rang, she assumed Oliver had forgotten something. Instead, Emily stood there, thin and smiling with big grey eyes full of hopeful excitement, like a child on Christmas morning.
“Mrs Williams, hello. Is Oliver—?”
“Left five minutes ago. Missed him?” Veronica forced a tight smile. It was impossible to tell if she was pleased or smug about crushing the girl’s hopes.
“Oh. Could you tell him I stopped by? Mum and I are visiting Gran—she’s been admitted to hospital.”
“I’ll pass it on. Why not just call him?”
“I tried. His phone’s off.”
Veronica always insisted on silence at home, claiming endless notifications gave her migraines.
When Oliver slunk back twenty minutes later, she feigned innocence. “Back so soon, love?”
“She didn’t show. Isn’t at home either. Mum—did Emily come by?”
“Should she have?” Veronica blinked. “Anything could’ve happened. She’ll turn up.”
Later, Oliver left for training, and Veronica, after scrubbing the hob to a shine, headed to the shops. There, she ran into Sophie—Oliver’s old schoolmate.
Veronica firmly believed a woman’s prospects hinged on beauty, and Sophie was stunning—unlike that scrawny, wide-eyed Emily. Even better, her father worked in city government. With Sophie’s connections, Oliver could secure a prestigious job, a flat—he couldn’t stay an athlete forever. Veronica wasn’t greedy, but she wouldn’t leave her son’s future to chance.
“Sophie, darling! It’s been ages,” she cooed.
“Hello, Mrs Williams. I’d visit, but Oliver’s taken.” Sophie pouted.
“Oh, nonsense. Be persistent—ask him to the cinema, for a walk.”
“I’ve tried. He’s always busy.”
“Busy with *her*,” Veronica waved dismissively. “Emily’s gone for a week. Drop by tonight—we’ll have tea.”
Sophie did. Veronica “put the kettle on,” pointedly nodding towards Oliver’s room. Sophie knocked and entered. Oliver lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Hi. Ran into your mum earlier. She invited me over. Why so glum? Fancy the cinema?”
“Soph, I’m knackered from training. Rain check?” He sat up reluctantly.
“Fine, but I’m holding you to it.” She perched on the bed, chatting about football and his matches—anything but Emily. Later, over tea, Veronica hinted Oliver should walk Sophie home—“A pretty girl shouldn’t walk alone after dark…”
****
Emily adored her gran. She’d become a doctor because of her. Gran was often ill but hated hospitals.
“I’ll grow up and treat you myself,” young Emily had vowed. Now, she was in her fourth year at med school.
The doctor said Gran’s high blood pressure wasn’t serious—just a week’s observation. Relieved, Emily packed her bags.
“Leaving already? It’s break. Oliver won’t vanish,” her mother muttered.
“Gran’s better. Stay with her, and I’ll swap when Oliver’s at his tournament.”
“Fine, go.” Her mum sighed. *“Oliver’s a good lad. But don’t lose yourself in him.”* She remembered her own youthful love—how it had crumbled when Emily was eight. *“Maybe she’ll be luckier.”*
Emily rushed to Oliver’s straight from the station.
Veronica answered, her glare like a brick wall.
*“Ugh, her again. Just when Oliver and Sophie were getting close…”* Forcing a smile, she said, “Oliver’s out. No idea when he’ll be back.”
“Tell him I came by.” The door shut. *“Persistent little thing.”*
Emily redialled Oliver’s number. Nothing. She’d wanted to surprise him—now she waited on the stairwell, watching the street. An old man tutted as she loitered.
Just as she gave up, Oliver appeared—with Sophie. The girl flung her arms around him, kissing his cheek. Not a peck—a proper kiss. Oliver didn’t push her away.
Emily reeled back, stumbling downstairs. At the doorstep, she hesitated, then fled, choking on tears. *“Three days, and he’s kissing Sophie? Mum’s right—words mean nothing.”*
At home, she sobbed, regretting leaving Gran. The next morning, she returned to them.
Two weeks later, Oliver called repeatedly. Emily ignored him. *“Let him lie. I saw it.”*
They finally met when he returned from his tournament.
“Emily, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. But you—I saw you with Sophie. Kissing.”
“When?” He frowned.
“When I came back early. Didn’t your mum tell you? I saw it from the stairs. She hates me. Why?”
“Sophie congratulated me on making the team. It was a *friendly* kiss. I’ve known her since we were kids. I love *you*. As for Mum…” He reached for her.
“Don’t. She’ll never let us be happy.”
At home, Veronica and Sophie giggled over tea.
“Ollie, join us! Sophie baked biscuits.”
“Was this your plan?” Oliver glared at Sophie. “Kissing me so Emily would see?” He turned to his mum. “You schemed together?”
“What nonsense!” Veronica huffed.
“It was just friendly,” Sophie smirked. “If she’s this jealous now, imagine later.”
Emily avoided Oliver. Veronica nagged that Sophie was “proper wife material.” Their lives spiralled—his tournaments, her exams, Gran’s health—always missing each other.
****
Fifteen years later
Oliver coached a youth boxing club. An injury had ended his pro career. His lads came for discipline, self-defence—some dragged in by parents, others fleeing bullies.
One day, a scrawny thirteen-year-old, Daniel, showed up.
“Bullies got you?” Oliver asked.
“Nah. Mum said I need ‘male influence’ since Dad’s not around. Her mate recommended you.”
“Smart woman. Where’s your dad?”
“Mum says he’s some Arctic explorer hero. Doubt it, though. Probably just left.” Daniel shrugged.
Oliver chuckled. “Honest. Show me what you’ve got.”
Daniel attacked like a scrappy terrier—all heart, no skill.
“You’ve got guts. But you’re not watching your opponent. We’ll fix that. Bring your kit tomorrow—and your mum. Need her consent.”
Daniel returned alone with a note: *“Work’s mad—I’m a doctor. He’s got my blessing.”*
Months later, Oliver held a parents’ evening. The meeting had started when a flustered woman rushed in.
“Name?” he asked, hiding his shock.
“Dr Emma Nichols. Daniel’s mum.”
Oliver kept his tone steady, discussing the boys’ progress, stealing glances at Emma. She avoided his eyes—recognising him too.
When the room cleared, he approached.
“Long time. How’ve you been?”
“Daniel won’t stop talking about you. Never imagined it’d be you,” she said lightly.
“Good kid. Independent.”
She glowed at the praise.
“He adores you. I worried I’d spoil him—so I pushed him into boxing.”
“He mentioned his ‘explorer’ dad.” Oliver noticed her flinch.
“What else could I say? Married the wrong man, divorced when he was four months old. And you?”
“Sophie lied she was pregnant“Turns out she couldn’t have kids—we divorced in six months.” Emma sighed, and as she stood to leave, Oliver blurted, “Maybe we could grab coffee sometime?”—just like he should’ve done fifteen years ago, before wasted time and pride taught them that love, unlike second chances, shouldn’t be left to stubbornness or a mother’s meddling.
