“But He’s the Real Deal”
“Natalie, how on earth are you raising your daughter like this?” Marina would constantly ask her sister. “She’s a girl, not a boy!”
Natalie and Marina were sisters, both long married with children of their own. Natalie had a daughter, Emily, and a son, while Marina had just one precious little girl—Sophie.
The sisters met often, usually with Marina and Sophie visiting Natalie’s place—a charming house in the countryside with a well-kept garden, perfect for sitting in the summerhouse or letting the kids run about. Marina, meanwhile, lived in a flat in town.
Marina was utterly convinced her Sophie was brighter, prettier, and far more talented than Emily. The girls were only a year apart, with Emily being the elder.
“Natalie, your Emily’s climbed that tree again—what on earth is that about?” Marina huffed, trying to influence her sister’s parenting.
“And?” Natalie shrugged. “She’s a child. Let her explore.”
“But tree-climbing is for boys, not girls!” Marina insisted, though her sister just smiled.
The cousins got along, though Sophie might’ve secretly longed to scramble up a tree too. But her mother kept a strict eye on her—no such nonsense allowed.
Emily never envied Sophie, though Marina was certain she should. As a child, Emily couldn’t have cared less. She was too busy living life at full throttle—nimble, quick, and always in the thick of things.
She was the ringleader in a skirt, never backing down from the lads, climbing trees right after them, scrapping when needed, and even hopping fences to raid orchards for apples. Dolls bored her; ribbons and dresses even more so. Her favourite place? Her dad’s garage, fiddling with spanners, bolts, and screws. She loved tidying up in there—though her father always grumbled, “Love, I’ll never find anything after your ‘tidying’! Just hand me the 13-millimetre spanner.” And she would—instantly. He’d praise her, and she’d glow with pride.
Sophie was Emily’s opposite—dressed like a porcelain doll. Frilly dresses, spotless knee-high socks with tassels, enormous bows. Emily thought Sophie’s outfits looked like something from a Victorian tea party.
Marina’s shrieks were constant:
“Sophie, don’t sit in the sandpit—you’ll ruin your socks! Stay away from the door, there’s a draught! Don’t touch that toy, it’s filthy! Why on earth did you pick up that apple—it’s covered in germs!” It was always “don’t.”
Emily couldn’t stand her aunt’s fussing. Sophie wasn’t even allowed past the garden gate.
“Aunt Marina, let Sophie come with me—no one’ll bother her,” Emily would argue.
But Marina would fix her with a stern look. “Absolutely not. Sophie stays put.”
At school, Emily threw herself into athletics, played for the netball team, and later took up kickboxing. Marina nearly fainted when she heard.
“Is that how girls should be raised?” she’d demand.
“Let her do what she loves,” Natalie would reply.
Meanwhile, Sophie was packed off to piano lessons, ballroom dancing, and art classes—though she had no talent (or interest) for the latter. That didn’t last.
At uni, Emily met Tom at kickboxing. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he had a warm grin and mischief in his eyes.
“Alright?” he’d said, sidling up. “Been watching you—you’re brilliant. I’m Tom, by the way. Did my homework—you’re Emily.”
She’d laughed. Easy, like they’d known each other forever.
“You don’t go here, do you?”
“Nah, I’m a mechanic. Studying part-time at the automotive college,” he admitted.
They hit it off—training together, strolling in the park, catching films. Shared passions kept them close.
“Mum, Dad—Tom’s coming round tomorrow. Met his mum already. Time you met him,” Emily announced.
Tom won them over instantly, especially her dad. They bonded over cars, engines, and football—cheering for the same team.
Later, Emily dropped another bombshell:
“We’re moving in together.”
Natalie balked. “Love, it’s too soon! Focus on your studies!”
But her father—unexpectedly—backed her. He liked Tom.
Marina, however, was horrified.
“Natalie! How could you let Emily live with a boy like that? It’s unthinkable!”
Natalie just shrugged. “What’s the fuss?”
Then, a year later, Sophie did the same—moving in with Hugo, a posh, polished chap finishing his second degree. Marina bragged endlessly: “Oh, Hugo’s perfect—handsome, brilliant, cultured, always complimenting! And his family’s loaded.”
At Sophie’s birthday dinner, Emily and Tom were invited. Emily dreaded the Hugo-worship but went to keep the peace.
Hugo was exactly as described—charming, witty, pouring wine, cracking jokes. Emily caught herself thinking, “Sophie’s landed a good one.” She glanced at Tom, sitting quietly, and sighed.
But an hour in, Hugo’s charm wore thin. His chatter turned relentless, especially after wine. “He’ll talk my ear off,” Emily groaned inwardly.
When Marina left, things unravelled. Soon, Hugo staggered from the table, flopped onto the bed, and bellowed, “Sophie! Water! I’m dying!”
“Shouldn’t have drunk so much,” Sophie snapped.
“Shut it, you nag,” Hugo slurred.
Sophie huffed but fetched the water. Neither seemed embarrassed—clearly, this was normal for them. Tom looked shell-shocked.
Hugo reappeared, dishevelled, chugged a beer, then lurched to the loo before collapsing—snoring within minutes.
“Right, we’re off,” Emily said hastily.
At Hugo’s own birthday, history repeated—polished at first, then sloshed and snoring by dessert.
“Lovely chap,” Emily thought dryly. “Thank God he’s not mine. Tom’s worth ten of him.”
No, Tom wasn’t a smooth talker. Not classically handsome. But he was real—no pretence, no vanishing charm. Just solid, kind, hers.
Now, Emily and Tom are married, expecting a son. Sophie and Hugo? They split. So much for her “perfect” man.
