Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…
James sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. There was nothing interesting there—no answers to the questions gnawing at him. He sighed and glanced disdainfully at the half-finished tea in his mug, diluted to the point of tastelessness. No more tea leaves, and no money to buy any. He stood, poured the cold brew down the sink, rinsed the mug, and filled it with lukewarm water from the kettle instead.
How had he ended up like this? There had been everything—a job, a flat, a wife, a daughter… Now, nothing remained.
***
James was fifteen when his mother brought a man home. She clung to his arm, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.
“This is Uncle Paul. He’ll be living with us now. We’ve married,” she said nervously, fiddling with the collar of her patterned dress.
Uncle Paul looked much older than her, shorter and wiry-thin. He studied James with a steady gaze while the boy scowled back.
James wasn’t a child—he’d guessed his mother had someone. She often slipped out in the evenings, claiming visits to friends, returning with a dazed, guilty smile and smudged lipstick. He hadn’t minded the freedom.
Everyone said his mother was beautiful and young, which pleased him, though he never saw it himself. A mother was just a mother—no better or worse than others. And young? Anyone over thirty seemed ancient to him.
His father was a mystery. His mother never spoke of him. And now, suddenly, there was Uncle Paul in their home. Had it been so bad, just the two of them? James turned and stalked to his room.
“James!” his mother called, her voice breaking. He slammed the door.
Later, she came in, wringing her hands. “Love, he’s good, dependable. Things will be easier with him. Don’t be jealous—you’ll always be the most important to me. I’ll fry some potatoes for supper. Be civil with him, please.”
She fluttered around Uncle Paul like a moth to a flame, her face glowing. James seethed. Guilt made her generous—she gave him more pocket money, as if that could make up for it.
“Don’t take it out on your mum,” Uncle Paul tried one evening. “She’s a good woman. You’re nearly grown. In a few years, you’ll have your own family—think how hard it’d be for her alone? I’ll treat her right.”
James stayed silent, though he knew the man spoke sense. At least Uncle Paul never nagged him about school or career plans.
When James left school, he announced he wouldn’t go to university—he’d join the army instead, feeling like an outsider now.
“Good choice. The army’ll make a man of you. You can study later, part-time. Education’s important, but service will help you figure things out,” Uncle Paul said firmly, cutting off his mother’s protests.
A year later, a tougher James returned. His mother smothered him in hugs, laid out a feast. For the first time, he let Uncle Paul embrace him too. They drank together—James got drunk fast, unused to it.
“What’s next?” Uncle Paul asked. “Too late for uni now—term’s started. What can you do?”
“Let him rest,” his mother chided, stroking James’ shoulder.
James mentioned his army driving license—he could handle most vehicles, fix them too.
“Right. My mate owns a garage. I’ll talk to him—decent wages, but hard work.”
“I’ll take it,” James said.
A month later, with his first pay, he announced he’d rent a place of his own.
“No!” his mother cried. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll get mixed up with bad company—women—”
“Easy, Linda. Weren’t you young once?” Uncle Paul cut in. “He’s right. Can’t bring girls home here. No need to rent, though.” He fetched keys from the hall. “Live in my old flat. Small, out by the edge of town, but fine for one. Got it in the divorce. Tenants are there—I’ll call, have them out.”
His advice followed: “Be smart with women. Don’t rush. If things go south, don’t lose the flat in a split. And go easy on the booze.”
James listened, then started his new life. His mother visited at first, bringing stews and pies—her boy couldn’t live without hot meals! But then he met Sarah, and the visits stopped. They lasted nearly two years while James studied mechanical engineering part-time.
He couldn’t recall why they argued, but the breakup was clean. Almost as if Sarah had picked the fight to leave. Other girlfriends came and went until fiery-haired Emily, so stunning men craned their necks in the street. James burned with jealousy; she laughed, teasing him.
With a year left of studies, fearing he’d lose her, he proposed. To his joy, she said yes. Right after the wedding, Emily announced she was pregnant. Sarah had used protection—James assumed Emily did too, so the news stunned him.
His mother doubted the child was his, hinting as much. He brushed it off. His worry was space—fine for two, but tight with a baby. Crawling, running… He talked to Uncle Paul, who agreed to sell the flat. With extra cash, James bought a two-bedroom.
When little Sophie was born, his mother murmured doubts—dark hair? James was fair, Emily auburn. Born early yet plump, healthy… She suggested a paternity test.
James ignored it—all babies looked alike to him. Hair would change.
Then, returning from work, he saw Emily in the yard with a dark-haired man. They spoke like old friends. Spotting James, she flustered, claiming the man was lost… James remembered his mother’s suspicions but said nothing. Then he saw the stranger again.
“Oi,” James called.
“Yeah?” The man’s faint accent curled around the word.
“Stay away from Emily and Sophie. See you near them again, I’ll break your legs.” Broad-shouldered now, James loomed over him. The man hurried off.
Inside, Emily fried cutlets; Sophie played on the floor. Normal. Maybe he’d imagined it. But later, Emily confessed—she’d never gotten over Sophie’s real father, who’d left before she could tell him. Then James proposed, convenient. Now the man was back, knew about the baby, and wanted her to leave James.
“Go,” James said.
He watched from the window as Emily, Sophie, and suitcases vanished into the stranger’s BMW. He waited, hoping she’d return, then turned to drink. Lost his job.
At an interview, he bumped into an old schoolmate who owned an auto parts shop and offered work. James took it. Months later, a large sum vanished from the safe. His mate told police he’d seen James by it the day before.
No money was found on James, but suspicion clung. His mate withdrew the complaint—for a price. James sold the flat. Their friendship ended badly.
Now he rented a dingy one-bedroom on the city’s fringe. No wife, no home, no job, no money. Life was crumbling. The landlady threatened eviction if he didn’t pay soon. Where would he get it? His mother had died of cancer by then. And Uncle Paul? He’d forgotten him entirely.
***
A pigeon landed on the windowsill, cocking its head to peer at him.
“Sorry, mate—not even crumbs left,” James said, approaching the glass.
Sunlight flooded the courtyard; fresh grass sprouted, leaves budded on branches. Toddlers squealed on a plastic slide, their mothers chatting nearby. A teen hung upside-down from a pull-up bar. James stared, startled. How long since he’d stepped outside?
He wanted one last breath of spring air. Yanking the window open, he startled the bird—it flapped off, claws scraping metal. James leaned out, chest on the sill, eyeing the shrubs below. Fourth floor—he’d probably survive the jump, end up a cripple.
His brain offered alternatives. He dug through a shoebox of old medicines left by past tenants—paracetamol, aspirin, cough syrup. A kidney-killing cocktail, maybe, but no quick end. The light fixture’s hook tempted briefly—a noose, his tongue swollen…
He ran a bath, caught his reflection—a gaunt, bearded wreck. Corpses looked better. A razor lay on the shelf. He fetched a kitchen knife, but the phone rang, jolting him. Who called anymore? The cheery ringtone drilled his skull.
“James?” A frail old voice.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Uncle Paul. Remember me?”
“Yeah.” Automatic.
“I’m poorly. In hospital. Come visit. Need to talk.”
“Where?” James studied the knife—needed sharpening.
Uncle Paul named the place.
“Right,” James said. Only after hanging up did he realizeJames stood by the freshly placed headstone, the weight of gratitude heavy in his chest, and as Nadia squeezed his hand, he knew life had given him a second chance.
