Luba and William met at university, both living in student halls. They knew they’d be together but agreed to wait until after graduation. Life, as always, had other plans. In her final year, Luba fell pregnant.
“William, what do we do?” Luba stared at him, desperate. “You know how strict my mum is? She barely let me come to uni. I promised I wouldn’t end up like her—no baby before marriage. And now? How do I go home? She’ll kill me.” She bit her lip, fighting tears.
William was scared too but decided to do the right thing. His parents hadn’t set conditions when they let him study in the big city, and seeing Luba so broken, he proposed. Finals loomed—no time for a wedding.
He called his parents, confessed everything, said he’d return with a degree and a wife. They scolded him, of course, but relented.
Luba hid her growing stomach behind William in his parents’ cramped hallway. His father frowned; his mother shook her head, chiding them for rushing into parenthood, marrying without blessing. Bad luck to start life this way. They grumbled but sold their holiday cottage, scraped together savings, and bought the couple a one-bed flat.
“We’ve done what we can. The rest is up to you,” his father said.
Two months later, Luba had a daughter.
William worked, but money was tight. His parents had given all they could. Shame kept him from asking for more—time to earn properly. An old schoolmate suggested selling computers.
“Solid business. Everyone wants them now. I’ve got supplier contacts. You know tech; I’m still learning. We’ll make a killing!”
The risky ’90s were over—legal business now. William agreed but needed a loan to start.
They bought cheap, outdated stock. William refurbished, installed software, sold at a markup. It worked. He repaid the loan and upgraded to a two-bed flat.
Their daughter grew; nursery time. Luba wanted work.
“Stay home. We’re fine,” William grumbled. “Time for a son.”
“Let me breathe. I’ve barely left nappies behind. Never worked after uni. And Alice needs friends—how else will she manage school?”
Nursery spots were scarce. They offered Luba a job as a teaching assistant if Alice enrolled. She agreed instantly.
“A teaching assistant? With your degree? Embarrassing,” William scoffed.
“Just for a year, till Alice settles. Then I’ll find proper work. She’ll be right there—isn’t that good?”
Back then, remote work wasn’t common. William grumbled but agreed.
Their business thrived, stirring envy. Then disaster struck. A new laptop shipment vanished overnight, the theft masked as a fire. Debts mounted; William’s partner turned to drink.
William refused to crumble—family first. Selling the flat would clear debts, but where would they live? Beg his parents?
He hunted jobs, done with business. Chance intervened: a stranded car, a processor on the back seat. The driver, hearing William’s skills, offered IT work—setting up systems, repairs, simple coding. Perfect. He took it.
Debts cleared. Life stabilised. Alice grew, nearing university. Past troubles seemed gone.
Then, catastrophe.
William worked late. Luba cooked; Alice played music with a friend. The friend left.
“Mum, I’ll walk her home!” Alice called.
“Be quick!” Luba shouted as the door slammed.
She switched off the stove, stared at the telly, lost in a film until William returned.
“Quiet. Alice home?” He rubbed cold hands. “Frost out there.”
Luba jolted—Alice had left ages ago. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? She rang the friend.
“Alice isn’t back? We parted ways ages ago,” the friend said.
Panic. Luba blamed herself—why let her go? She dialled hospitals between sobs.
“Yes, a Jane Doe arrived an hour ago,” one said.
Luba wailed.
“She’s alive. Stop crying. Let’s go,” William snapped.
Alice lived, but in a coma. No prognosis. Luba begged her awake. No miracle came. Three days later, head injuries took her.
Early November: sleet, wind. That night, black ice. Alice, walking home, met a skidding car on summer tyres. Brakes screeched; her scream drowned. A horrific twist of fate.
William stayed strong, though shattered. Luba? He feared she’d break. Post-funeral, she haunted the cemetery, silent, then hysterical, blaming him.
“If your failed business hadn’t buried us in debt, I’d have had another child—”
He knew—she needed saving before grief consumed her.
Coworkers suggested a pet—distraction, purpose. The cleaner said, “Find what she loves. Art? Music? Best cure for heartache.”
True—Luba had drawn well as a child. Too poor for art school. She dragged him to galleries, though he knew nothing of art.
At home, Luba sat blank-eyed before the silent telly. He sat beside her, musing, “I once wanted to tame lions.”
“I wanted to paint. I was good. And music—I sang well,” she murmured.
Art schools refused—too late. Online, he found a tutor, though the price stung. A café meeting: a lanky twenty-something in black, hair tied back.
“Buy whatever’s needed. Just—no talk of children. I’ll pay you,” William said.
Next day, the tutor arrived. Luba hesitantly began but soon lost herself in painting. William praised her clumsy efforts.
“He says I’ve a great eye, steady hand. What do you think?” she’d ask, glowing.
“Definitely talent there.” Her joy was worth the lie.
Then, disaster.
No easel. A torn canvas. Luba, hollow-eyed.
“What’s wrong? Did he cancel?”
“His mother’s ill. Needs surgery—expensive.” Her voice was dead.
“You’re upset he’ll be gone? He’ll return—”
“He wept for her. So much love—but no money.”
William tensed. “Wait. He cried for her, or her bills?”
“For her! But he can’t afford the op.”
“And you gave him money.”
Their savings—for Alice’s uni. Forgotten, remembered. He opened the box—empty.
His fault. He’d brought this stranger in, spilled their grief, made her prey. The man played her pity, spun a dying mother tale, took the cash.
William dialled. Number dead.
“Luba, you gave him everything?”
“Forgive me,” she wept.
“Not your fault.” He seethed at himself. Left her alone—could’ve been worse.
“Where’s his mother?”
“Leeds, maybe.”
Of course. Far enough.
He reported it. The bobby hemmed—hopeless case. William bribed with free IT help.
They traced the tutor. No sick mother—just a pregnant girlfriend, eviction looming, a quick scam. Played Luba’s grief, took her offer, vanished.
Caught in time—most money recovered.
Luba trashed her art, gifted the supplies to a neighbour’s thrilled daughter. The shock jolted her awake.
Then, a knock. The neighbour’s girl held a grey kitten.
“For you. Mum’s allergic,” she said.
“Cats heal. Trust me,” the man added.
William took it.
“A kitten? So tiny!” Luba cuddled the shivering ball. “What’s his name? Do we have milk?”
“Milk’s here. Name him—”
“Tosh. Alice’s teddy’s name, remember?”
William braced for tears. None came.
“Buy a litter tray,” she murmured, nuzzling Tosh. “And food. Growing boys need meals.”
William smiled. Should’ve got a cat ages ago. No artists needed.
