He left to find work and vanished. When he came back—it was too late.
“Right then, Becky, pack my bag,” ordered Nicholas, slamming the kitchen door behind him. “I’m off to find work—can’t sit around broke any longer. I’m a man, not a piece of furniture!”
Rebecca only nodded in silence. She wasn’t one to argue with her husband. She worked at the local bakery, rising before dawn each day to walk two miles to the next village. And Nicholas? Well, he left. Returned months later with money—more than anyone in the village had seen. Then off again. Rebecca packed his bags, pressed his shirts, waited.
Years passed. God never blessed them with children, but they hoped, lived simply. Until one day, Nicholas disappeared.
A month went by, then another. No letters, no word. Phones weren’t common then, and despite her fear, Rebecca decided—she’d go after him. He’d told her the town, the company where he worked.
At the boarding house where she arrived, a woman in a dressing gown, cigarette dangling from her lips, met her.
“And who are you to him?”
“His wife,” Rebecca answered, flustered. “Nicholas—my husband—hasn’t come home in ages, so I—”
The woman gave her a pitying look.
“Gone off with our Lucy. Fell head over heels, they did. Said they weren’t coming back—moved to Wales, her hometown. Everyone knew. Proper love story, that.”
Rebecca went numb. She couldn’t believe this was her Nick. Kind, caring. How could he?
She returned home, told his parents. They only sighed bitterly. And waiting for her there was Peter.
He’d stumbled into her life unexpectedly. Late one autumn evening, returning from work, Rebecca tripped over a shadow on the ground. A man groaned, clutching his leg. She helped him up, brought him home, and at dawn, drove him to the clinic with a neighbour.
That was the start. Peter was homeless, alone, with a bad leg and a heart just as broken. His wife had thrown him out; no children. He stayed—first in the shed, then helped around the house. The village whispered, but Rebecca stayed silent, loyal to a man who’d left her.
When she learned the truth, her heart turned cold. Nicholas hadn’t just vanished—he’d started a new life. And her? Left with faith, pain, and emptiness. But Peter didn’t push. He quietly mended fences, lit the stove, made supper.
A year passed, then another. Peter found work as a mechanic for a local farmer, became part of the village. Some pitied Rebecca; some judged. But she knew—she’d betrayed no one. She was just living.
Then, eight years later, Nicholas returned. Older, with a boy—seven-year-old Ethan.
“Meet your mum,” Nicholas muttered, avoiding Rebecca’s eyes.
“My mum’s dead,” the boy whispered. “She’s not my mum.”
Rebecca froze. She hadn’t known pain could return so sharp.
Later, Nicholas’s mother arrived, hugging her son, weeping. Ethan ate at Rebecca’s table—quick, hungry. Starved, clearly. Then Peter returned, and Rebecca told Nicholas everything.
“Yeah,” Nicholas scoffed. “Knew you’d replace me quick.”
“I waited years!” Rebecca snapped. “I searched Scotland for you! And you ran off with her! My conscience is clean!”
Turned out, Nicholas’s wife had died. Ill for years. After burying her, he’d come back—hoping Rebecca would forgive him, take him and the boy in.
But it was too late.
He left, moved in with his parents, didn’t fight for the house. And Ethan? The boy started coming round on his own. Rebecca gave him treats; Peter taught him to whittle, tinker, talked to him like an adult. Then one day, two years later, the boy stood in the doorway.
“Aunt Becky… can I live with you? You’re like my mum. And Uncle Pete—he’s brilliant, like a dad.”
“’Course, love,” Rebecca whispered, hugging him. “’Course you can. He’ll be chuffed.”
Ten years on, Ethan grew strong, steady. Went to university, built a small farm nearby. And Rebecca and Peter? They always called him their son. Because he was. By love. By fate.
That’s the story. How one pain takes, and another gives life. How even when everything crumbles—you can stand again. Find happiness. Just don’t let your heart harden. Just keep your soul alive.