“You’re terrible. I’ll go live with Dad.”
Every day, young people pass each other by without a second glance, no spark, no connection. Then one day, by chance, she catches sight of him, and suddenly her heart races, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. And he feels it too. Just like that, life apart becomes unthinkable—they’re meant to be together, no fighting fate.
That’s how Lucy fell for Barry. One frosty Sunday, she went ice skating with her girlfriends. Lucy wasn’t exactly graceful on the ice—more cautious than quick, stopping often. Her friends, impatient, skated ahead, leaving her behind. She was in the way of the confident skaters, who swerved around her with ease.
Exhausted, legs aching, she decided to shuffle toward the barrier and wait. Just a couple of meters left when—bang—someone crashed into her.
The impact sent her sprawling onto the ice, her hip and knee throbbing.
“Sorry—are you hurt? Can you get up? Here, let me help,” a voice said. Before she knew it, strong hands lifted her back onto her skates.
Her knee protested sharply, and she gasped, swaying—but he steadied her just in time, pulling her close. Their eyes locked, faces inches apart, and for a moment, everything else vanished.
“You alright?” he asked.
Lucy blinked, the world rushing back—laughter, blades scraping ice, chatter. But she clung to his sleeves, frozen.
“Will you stay upright if I let go?”
“Dunno,” she whispered, still staring.
He released her. She didn’t fall.
“Good. Now, let’s get you to the barrier. I’ve got you.”
With him, she *glided*, no more clumsy shuffling.
“Maybe we should leave. There are benches by the exit.”
Lucy nodded. Leaning on him, she reached a bench and slumped down.
“Hurt bad?” He sat beside her. “You here alone? Need me to walk you home?”
“I’m with friends.”
“Call them, let ’em know. Gimme your ticket—I’ll grab your shoes.”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait.” She weakly resisted.
“You’ll freeze.”
He was right—the cold seeped through her coat. Reluctantly, she handed over her ticket and phone. While he fetched her boots, she called her friends.
Walking home, they talked. Solid pavement felt blissful after the slippery ice, but Lucy kept grabbing his arm, dizzy, as if the ground tilted beneath her. His name was Barry—four years older, already working. She confessed she was in uni, living with her mum. The connection was instant. When he asked her to skate again next weekend, she shook her head.
“Let’s see a film instead.”
“Deal. I’ll call.”
But Barry didn’t wait—he rang the next day and took her to a café. No point lingering in the cold. Fate had literally crashed them together, and after that, they were inseparable.
Lucy fell hard. How had she ever lived without him? It felt like they’d known each other forever. Spring came, and Barry’s parents started spending weekends at their country cottage, leaving the flat to them.
Summer flew by in a blink. Autumn brought rain and frost. With his parents home more, they had nowhere to meet.
“What now?” Lucy murmured, curled against him.
“I’ll sort something,” he promised.
One day, Barry visited, and Lucy’s mum confronted him: “How long d’you plan to mess my daughter about?”
“I was gonna propose at New Year’s. Haven’t even got the ring yet. But if it’ll ease your mind, I’ll ask properly right now,” Barry said.
Lucy flushed, equal parts embarrassed and thrilled.
“Fair enough. Save the ring for New Year’s. At least now I know your intentions,” her mum relented.
They married that spring, snow melting, sun warming, birds singing. Barry had saved for a flat, and wedding gifts covered the mortgage deposit. Happily, they moved in, agreeing to wait before starting a family.
Years passed. Lucy graduated, got a job. She brought up kids more often.
“We’ve still got the mortgage. What’s the rush? We’ll manage, sure—but why add stress now? Pay it off, *then* think about kids. Makes sense, right?” Barry reasoned.
Logically, yes—but pregnancy took nine months! By then, they’d have paid it off…
“Let’s not argue,” Barry cut in.
Arguing was pointless. But her friends pushed prams; one even had a second baby. Lucy—first to marry—was last to start a family. She brought it up again.
“Fine, have one if you’re desperate,” Barry surrendered. “But don’t ask me for help—nappies, night feeds, none of it. I earn the cash; you handle the kid. No complaints later. Agreed?”
She nearly snapped back—then swallowed it.
“Scared I’ll love the baby more than you?” she guessed.
“Drop it. Have it if you must.”
Lucy stopped her pills. Two months later, two pink lines appeared.
Barry didn’t share her joy. Then came the nausea—he’d vanish with mates while she stayed in. A wall rose between them. No belly rubs, no noticing her bump. “He’ll change once the baby’s here,” she told herself.
But after their daughter, Emily, was born? Nothing. He’d grimace at her cries, never held her. When Lucy mentioned nappies or clothes, he’d transfer cash without a word.
“Spare me the details.”
Once, he eyed a stain on her dressing gown.
“You used to take care of yourself.”
Next evening, she swapped pyjamas for jeans and mascara. He didn’t even notice.
Emily grew—walking, babbling. She’d run to greet him, chattering.
“Go to Mum. Let me get changed,” he’d brush her off.
Lucy’s heart cracked.
“At least hug her. She’s *yours*,” she pleaded.
“Didn’t ask for her. Don’t expect me to love her.”
She bit her tongue, honouring his one rule: no involvement. He only asked if she was back on birth control.
Friends envied her. “Lucky man—good job, no drinking, owns a home. So what if he’s distant? Few blokes help with kids anyway.”
When Emily started nursery, Lucy planned to work.
“Stay home. I earn enough,” Barry said. “I want a clean house, dinner ready.”
Arguing was futile. Plus, Emily kept catching bugs.
Then, shopping one day, Lucy spotted Barry with another woman leaving a café. That night, she confronted him.
No denials. “I provide, don’t I? No complaints. A man’s entitled to some fun.”
Lucy snapped. “I won’t tolerate this. We’re leaving.”
“Go on, then. What’ll you live on? You’re used to comfort.”
“I’ve thought it through.”
Barry just turned up the telly.
Next morning, she packed, called a cab, moved to her mum’s.
“Want Daddy!” Emily wailed in the strange flat.
Her mum urged reconciliation. Barry sent money but ignored visits.
“Why doesn’t he love her? Is she even his?” her mum pried.
“Don’t be daft! He never wanted kids. I had Emily for *me*—while he was out gallivanting!” Lucy sobbed.
They stayed put. Lucy switched Emily to a local school. The girl grew more like Barry—stubborn, demanding. If refused, she’d sulk: “Dad never makes me!”
Odd—he’d never taken her sledging or bought gifts.
“What’s so great about him? If I’m so awful, go live with him!”
“I will!”
Pleading fell on deaf ears. “He lives with another woman—she’ll never love you like I do!” Emily stayed silent.
“Leave her be,” her mum said.
Next day, Emily vanished after school. A friend confessed: “Her dad picked her up.”
Lucy rang Barry.
“Yeah, she asked. What kind of mum drives her kid away?”
“I’m coming for her.”
“She refuses. She’s staying.”
“School’s miles from you!”
“Yvonne’ll drive her.”
Lucy crumbled. “I raised her—sleepless nights, everything! He gave nothing but cash! Now *I’m* the villain? She’d rather live with *her*?!”
“Wait. She’ll come back,” her mum soothed.
Lucy called daily.
“Yvonne’s cool! She lets me do anything!” Emily bragged.
“Yvonne said? What—skip school? And Dad?”
“Ugh, stop! She bought me new boots. Stop calling!” Click.
A week passed. Two. Then, her mum called: “She’s back. Crying. ComeLucy held Emily tight, whispering promises of love and new beginnings, realizing that sometimes the deepest bonds are forged not from perfection, but from weathering storms together.
