— Right, I’m off… Emily.
— Go on, then.
— I’m leaving, Emily, hear me?
— Go, Arthur, go.
Only once the door shut behind Arthur did Catherine let her tears flow. She sat curled up in her grandmother’s old armchair, weeping as quietly as she had as a child, afraid someone might hear. She cried until she hiccuped like a little girl.
How could she go on without him? Without the man she’d shared all these years with?
Catherine stood to make supper, then stopped. What was the point? Arthur wasn’t here. She slumped back into the chair, and the tears came again in a flood.
Then she remembered the children. Soon, her daughter Lucy would be home from university lectures, hungry as always. Later, her son James would return from football practice. They needed feeding. Catherine forced herself up, wiped her eyes, and went to the kitchen.
Thinking of all the years with Arthur, she wept again. How? How without him?
That evening, the children burst in as usual, shoving and teasing each other. But they quickly noticed their father’s absence.
— Mum, where’s Dad? Away on business? — Lucy asked.
— Yeah, where is he? — James chimed in.
Catherine couldn’t hold back. Tears spilled as she sagged onto a chair, sobbing uncontrollably.
— Mum, what’s wrong? Is he in hospital? — Lucy went pale.
— No… he’s gone… — Catherine forced out. — For good… to another woman.
— What? — the children gasped in unison. — Mum, is this a joke?
It wasn’t.
James’ lip trembled. Though he was an athlete, at thirteen, he was still just a boy. He looked helplessly between his mother and sister, on the verge of tears.
— Right, — Lucy rubbed her forehead firmly. — James, go wash up and do your homework. Mum, enough with the waterworks. We need to think.
Lucy was sharp, quick, decisive. James obeyed without protest.
Later, she peered into his room.
— Crying?
James shook his head without looking up.
Lucy hugged him, ruffling his hair.
— We’ll manage, Jamie. Hear me? We’re a family—he’s the one who’s alone now. He’s worse off.
— Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? — James burst out.
— Sorry for him? Now there’s a thought. We’ll be happy—the happiest. And he’ll realise what a mistake he’s made.
Once she’d calmed her brother and mother, Lucy slipped into the bathroom and finally let herself cry. How? How could their dad—the best dad in the world—do this? He wasn’t some dashing bloke, just an ordinary man with a bit too much weight from Mum’s pies. His jokes were middling—only Mum ever laughed. He drove an old car he fixed himself, worked as a manager in a small factory department, earning a modest wage.
But their family had always been happy. Lucy had bragged to friends that her father was the only one who stayed faithful. And now… this.
Tears rolled as she splashed cold water on her face.
Life settled into a rhythm—steady, but without Father. The word “Dad” vanished from their vocabulary, replaced with “him” or “Father,” and even that grew rare.
One day, Lucy heard footsteps behind her.
— Luce, Lucy, wait up!
She turned. There was Arthur—awkward in a tight three-piece suit, his tie strangling him—panting as he hurried after her.
Lucy spun away, quickening her pace.
— Darling, please! — he begged.
— What do you want? — she snapped.
— Here, take this… — Arthur shoved a wad of banknotes at her. — Plenty there. Come and visit. Lydia, she’s lovely—she sells fur coats. We’ll get you one. And for your mum’s birthday—mink! Lydia lets me do what I want. We’re off to Greece again soon, hunting furs—
— Sod off… — Lucy cut in.
— Eh?
— Go chase your furs. Can’t say what I’d like—raised better. Dad.
Arthur froze like he’d been doused in ice water. He knew money was tight at home. They’d lived modestly, and now he’d gone and tangled himself up with Lydia.
It had started with his colleague, Geoff. He’d invited Arthur to meet his friend, and there was Lydia. At first, Arthur hadn’t liked her—too flashy, brash, built like a wardrobe. She’d eyed him like a wolf would a lamb. He’d left early, guilt gnawing at him as he lied to Catherine, saying he’d been held up at work. His conscience burned so fiercely he’d nearly fallen ill with fever.
Then Geoff coaxed him back—Just for half an hour!—and there was Lydia again.
— Come on, Art! She imports fur coats from Greece—two market stalls! She’ll get your Cathy a fur, whatever you like!
— Why would I want that? I’ve got my Cathy.
— Oh, go on, you old stick! She’ll be lonely without you. What’s it cost you? A mink coat for Cathy—want one?
— I do…
And he went. Again and again. All for that blasted fur coat. Before he knew it, he was in bed with Lydia. He’d wept driving home, sick with shame. Then Catherine found out… and threw him out.
Lydia was thrilled.
That evening, Lucy was stormy.
— Luce, did he come to you? — James mumbled.
— And you?
Her brother nodded.
— Told him to sod off. Hate him. Traitor.
Lucy nodded too.
Arthur was miserable.
— What’s the matter, love? — Lydia asked.
— The kids won’t speak to me. Nor Catherine… I offered them money, but they’re too proud. I know they’re struggling—
— Well, she chucked you out, — Lydia shrugged.
— She did… But how’d she even know? We were careful…
Lydia rose from her lavish bed—the likes of which Arthur had never seen—and set her champagne glass down. She drank it often, forcing him to join, though he hated it, and always served strawberries, which he was allergic to.
— I told her, — she said airily.
— You what?
— Just like that. She didn’t believe me, so I described that mole of yours and… well, how you cry after—you know.
— You?! Why?! She threw me out!
— So? How else would you’ve come to me? Art, where’re you—?
— Home. To my wife. To my kids.
— She kicked you out, you daft git!
— Doesn’t matter. She’ll forgive me. She’s kind. If not—I’ll sleep in the hall.
— Art, we got her that fur—
— Keep it, Lydia. And don’t look for me.
— Cathy, love—
— I’ve said all I need to, Arthur.
— Just listen! I never wanted it… You understand? Just wanted to get you that mink coat. It was Geoff’s idea—said if I saw her, she’d give you one. Then she told you. I never meant… just the coat… for your birthday. And you threw me out.
— Go, Arthur.
— Still there? — Catherine asked Lucy.
— Yes, Mum. Started raining. He’ll catch his death.
— Bloke’s a fool… Says he wanted to get me a coat. Mink, for my birthday.
— Should we call him in? — Lucy murmured.
— Dunno… Jamie, what d’you reckon? Let your father in? He’ll freeze.
James sniffed, silent.
— Let him in, — Catherine decided. — Still a person, pity him.
They called him in. Sat him at the kitchen table with tea, none meeting his eye.
— Forgive me… Cathy, please. Kids, son, love, forgive me—
— What’ve we got to forgive? — the children said. — You hurt Mum.
Then they all wept, arms tangled together.
— Art, what’s Greece like? — Catherine asked.
— Oh, love, — Arthur brightened, spinning tales of places he’d barely seen.
He never spoke to Geoff again. And Catherine got her fur coat years later—not mink, but sheepskin.
