Lucy’s father was a stern man. Even her mother feared him, afraid to say a word out of turn. Yet with other children, he was different—smiling, speaking kindly. But with Lucy and her mother, he only ever raised his voice. For years, Lucy couldn’t understand why her father didn’t love her. She only learned the truth much later, in secondary school.
Lucy studied tirelessly, desperate to avoid his scolding, desperate to please him. Since year six, she had dreamed of scoring well on her A-levels and attending a university in Edinburgh. When relatives or family friends visited, they always praised the bright, beautiful girl and asked what she wanted to be, where she planned to study.
Lucy would glance nervously at her father and say she hadn’t decided yet. She kept her dreams hidden.
“Eleven years of school is enough,” her father would declare. “I’m not supporting her till retirement. She’s grown healthy—let her work. Everyone wants to be a scientist or a manager, but who’ll actually roll up their sleeves?”
“Don’t listen to him, love,” her mother would interject meekly. “Lucy’s clever, top marks in everything. With grades like hers, selling sausages behind a counter? These days, you need a degree to get anywhere. A good job means meeting a better class of husband.”
Her father scoffed. “What’s a girl need education for? Cooking and scrubbing don’t require diplomas. She can have babies without one. Look at you—what good’s yours done?”
Her mother shrank under his glare while guests shifted uncomfortably, silent in the face of his temper.
So Lucy bit her tongue, never speaking of her dreams—until the day she got her A-level results. She was an adult now. Nothing would stop her. She marched home, clutching her certificate, determined to announce she was leaving for Edinburgh.
“Nowhere,” her father growled before she could finish. “I fed you, clothed you—now you’ll support us in our old age. None of this nonsense. I know all about your sort of ‘education’.” He shot her mother a venomous look. “No daughter of mine is throwing her life away.”
When he stormed off, her mother slipped into Lucy’s room. Tears in her eyes, Lucy whispered, “Mum, why does he hate me?”
Her mother told her the truth.
“So that’s why,” Lucy murmured, wiping her cheeks. “In a way, I’m glad he’s not really my father.”
“I’ll try talking to him again. Here.” Her mother pressed a roll of banknotes into her hand. “Not much, but it’ll help. Hide it well. I can’t promise more—he checks every penny.”
“Thank you,” Lucy whispered. “But he’ll hurt you.”
Her mother’s smile was sad. “He’ll shout, maybe hit me. He’s allowed. But you—go. Study. Don’t disappoint me.”
Three days later, while her father was at work, Lucy left.
University life was hard. Her mother’s money ran out quickly, so Lucy took a job as a cleaner in an office near campus, working nights when no one was around. Her roommate, Martha, was a glamorous girl who rarely studied, preferring parties. She had a boyfriend, Richard—fifteen years older, married when they met.
“Why him?” Lucy once asked.
“Money,” Martha replied simply. “Think my parents could afford these clothes?”
One summer, Martha invited Lucy on holiday to Spain. “Richard’s paying. He’s paranoid I’ll meet someone else.”
Lucy hesitated but went. On the beach, two young men approached them. Martha flirted openly. “Relax,” she hissed. “He’ll never know.”
Lucy walked along the promenade with Nicholas, a kind-eyed man who made her laugh. They kissed—nothing more. When Nicholas tried to push further, Lucy refused.
“Still?” Martha scoffed later. “You’re hopeless.”
Back home, Nicholas called often, promising to visit at Christmas. But the calls stopped.
After graduation, Lucy landed a job at a prestigious firm, translating for foreign investors. The office manager where she’d cleaned recommended her. She worked hard, saved diligently, and in five years, bought a flat and her first car. Only then did she return home.
Her mother wept with joy. Her father scowled. “What, rich now? Or is some man footing the bill?”
“I earn it myself.”
“Translator? Escort, more like.”
Lucy’s voice shook. “Funny. If I were really your daughter, you’d be proud, wouldn’t you?”
For once, he said nothing.
Years later, at a business event in London, she spotted Nicholas across the room. “You’re even lovelier,” he murmured.
“You married?”
“Divorced. And you?”
She told him everything—her fear of repeating her mother’s mistakes, her father’s cruelty, her vow never to settle.
Nicholas sighed. “If only you’d told me. I thought you didn’t care.”
Lucy looked at him, really looked. “I want a love story worth telling. One without secrets. Are you willing to wait?”
His smile was soft. “I’ve waited this long.”
She took his hand.
*True love isn’t like a spark—it’s like fine wine. It deepens with time, revealing its richness slowly, patiently. The best things are worth waiting for.*
