Blood Calls Against Fate
“Lucy, as your husband, I have one condition. Forget this madness with that young lad. But I beg you—give me a son,” my voice trembled, pathetic as a beaten dog.
“Alright, Oliver, I’ll try,” my wife murmured, her eyes avoiding mine. The agreement came with pain, like a knife to her heart.
Lucy and I had raised three daughters: thirteen-year-old Emily, ten-year-old Sophie, and nine-year-old Lily. Where this twenty-two-year-old charmer Ryan came from, I couldn’t fathom. He stormed into our lives like a hurricane, tearing everything apart. Grief, not years, gnaws at the soul, turning hair grey before its time.
Our girls were confused. Their mother, once warm and tender, had become a cold shadow. She was polished yet ghostly, as if her mind wandered far away. The house fell into chaos—dust piled in corners, dishes stacked in the sink, and I grew more irritable, desperate to bring her back.
It all began a year ago. Lucy took the girls to Lake Windermere for a holiday. She returned distant, lost in thought. She answered vaguely, stared through me, stopped hugging the girls. I sensed trouble but stayed silent. Admitting her affair would hurt too much. I hoped time would mend it. Yet time was merciless.
“Dad, Mum was always holding hands with Ryan,” Sophie blurted one day, unaware of the wound she opened.
“Tell me more, love,” I said, pale but steady.
“At the lake, he was always with us. Mum laughed at his jokes, and he walked us to the train station. He was handsome, stylish, younger than you.” Her words shattered me.
It couldn’t be! Just a fling, a holiday romance. Could this vain boy truly fall for a thirty-five-year-old woman with three children? Weren’t there enough young girls chasing summer flings by the lake? But I was wrong. Lucy and Ryan’s love defied reason, our daughters, and my despair. Our marriage collapsed, and with it, my peace.
Lucy did give birth to a son, Henry. But he wasn’t mine. I saw him only twice. Ryan raised him. A year later, Lucy took Henry and left for good. I stayed with my three girls, and my world turned dark. I wanted to end it all, but frozen as my heart was, love for them lingered.
“Dad, since Mum left, we’ll cook, clean, and iron your shirts,” Lily said, wiping my tears, trying to comfort me.
I cried for the first time, unable to stifle the storm. Grief spent, I steadied myself. I had three little women to raise. I taught them to cook, clean, sometimes snapping, scolding them unfairly. But the house grew tidy again. Emily loved washing up, Sophie swept floors, Lily battled dust. I cooked as best I could.
Lucy visited occasionally, but her presence was poison. The girls sobbed after she left, missing her, so I asked her to stay away.
“Oliver, I love them. Are you asking me to abandon them for you?” she protested.
“Not for me, Lucy—for them. If you love them, let them heal. When they’re older, they’ll decide if they need you.” I forced steel into my voice.
“Maybe you’re right. I cry after every visit too. Goodbye, Oliver.” She kissed the girls and vanished.
As teens, my daughters despised Lucy and Henry. They envied their brother, who had a mother to hold. But time softened them. When Emily, Sophie, and Lily married, anger faded into resigned hurt. Emily and Sophie each had three children; Lily had two. They strive to be better mothers, as if proving they won’t repeat Lucy’s mistakes.
I live alone. There have been women, but I called them all Lucy. Who’d tolerate that? Memory kept only one. I’ve made peace with solitude.
At sixty-three, Lucy passed away. A week before, she came to me, weeping, begging forgiveness, lamenting Henry. He’d shocked her, transitioning to Hannah. After surgeries, she claimed newfound happiness.
Before dying, Lucy left a will that sent Ryan to hospital. A successful businessman, he’d signed everything over to her, trusting blindly. Yet her will excluded him, leaving all to our daughters and Hannah. Why? Perhaps blood prevailed. A buried love for our girls surfaced at last.
When they inherited, my daughters offered it to me:
“Dad, take it. You’ve earned it.”
I refused. It burned my hands. I passed it to my grandchildren.
Ryan declared bankruptcy, pleading with my daughters. They replied coldly:
“You stole our mother and childhood. Walk away.”
Hannah, once Henry, married a Frenchman, Pierre. They live in Paris, planning adoption. Lily keeps in touch, sharing updates. Emily and Sophie reject her, refusing to hear Hannah’s name.
This story unfolded in a quiet Yorkshire village, where I’d moved my family hoping for a better life.