He Wanted a Family
In life, misfortune in love is not reserved for women alone—men suffer it too. Victor was one such man. He often wondered—what was wrong with him?
“I’m thirty-eight, and I’ve never known true happiness, though I’ve been married twice—well, officially once, the other time we just lived together. Neither ended well. Where is my happiness? Why does it always slip through my fingers? Am I meeting the wrong women, or looking in the wrong places?”
Victor was kindness itself, always eager to shield others from hardship. Even his friends told him, “Vic, you ought to be a proper saint. You can’t save everyone, you know.” But that was just his nature.
He lived with his parents in the countryside, in a large house with land to tend. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do—weld, drive, build furniture, fix a washing machine, even handle electrical work. The village relied on him. Still, he worked shifts away to earn a decent wage. Yet whenever he returned home to rest, his neighbours piled on with requests.
“Son, why must you be so obliging?” his mother scolded. “You come home exhausted, and instead of resting, you’re back at work.”
“Mum, people need help.”
“People are cunning, lad. You do everything for free, so why would they pay someone else?”
“Ah, it’s nothing. Won’t hurt me,” he’d say.
At twenty-two, he married Valerie. She was two years younger, lively and sharp. His mother disapproved. “A wife should be modest and steady, not flighty like Val. She’s seen too much for her age, and you married her after a month. What was the rush?”
“Mum, nothing’s ever right by you. What’s wrong with Val? She’s lively—that’s what I need. I’m not quick-witted myself.”
“Fine, I’ll say no more. But don’t come crying later. You could’ve courted Alice next door—quiet, hardworking, never a word against her.”
They lived with his parents, though Victor had his own entrance. When he was away on shift, Valerie’s true nature showed. She’d wait until his parents’ lights went out, slip out through the garden gate, and head to the village dance hall. Sometimes, local lads—or even lads from the next village—would walk her home.
One night, his mother took ill. His father went to fetch Valerie—Victor was away—only to find her gone. Bewildered, he turned to Alice’s mother, who helped tend to his wife.
In the morning, he confronted Valerie. “Where were you last night?”
“Asleep,” she lied, not knowing he’d come by at midnight.
“Don’t lie. Your mother-in-law was ill—we needed you.”
“Well, I was at my own mother’s. She was poorly too,” Valerie shot back.
His parents said nothing, but once, Victor returned early from shift. Late at night, he knocked at the window—their usual signal—but heard shuffling inside. Then, through the kitchen window, a man darted out.
“Who was that?” Victor demanded.
“No one. What’s it to you?”
“So this is the thanks I get? Off you go while I’m gone?”
The next day, Valerie left for her mother’s. Victor filed for divorce.
“Told you about Val,” his mother said.
“Let it go,” he muttered.
Months later, Valerie returned. “I’m with child. Yours.”
“If it’s mine, have it. I’ll provide.”
For nine years since, Victor paid child support, bought clothes, whatever his son needed. His mother grumbled, “Fool—you don’t even know if he’s yours. The boy looks nothing like you.”
“Val says he’s mine. That’s enough.”
After Valerie, he met Anne from the next village, a single mother. He helped her raise her daughter while still supporting his son. They never married, but she got on well with his parents.
“Anne’s a good sort,” his mother admitted. “Works hard, tends the cow—no complaints.”
They lived together ten years before Anne announced, “My mother’s ill. I’m going back to care for her.”
“Let me come. A man’s hands are useful,” Victor offered.
“Not yet. I’ll call if needed.”
He visited often, bringing money. Then a neighbour asked, “Vic, did you kick Anne out?”
“No—her mother’s sick.”
“Sick? She’s fit as a fiddle. Anne’s got another man—playing you for a fool.”
Unconvinced, Victor arrived unannounced—and found another man in her house. Her mother, perfectly healthy, greeted him coolly.
“Soft-hearted fool,” his mother sighed. “Trust, but verify.”
At last, she persuaded him to court Alice next door. Plain but capable, she’d never married. She baked pies, brought them over—Victor was smitten. Quiet, hardworking, home-loving—she’d never stray.
They married. Only then did Alice confess she’d loved him since school.
“Alice, we could’ve had years together!” he groaned.
She smiled. “We’ve time yet, Vic. I’m only thirty-two.”
His mother and Alice’s, already friends, became family. Both were content. Finally, Victor had the home he’d longed for.
