Fate Repeats
It was one of those English winter evenings that dropped like a heavy, woolen curtain upon the city. By half past five, darkness had long since swelled over the crooked chimneys and narrow roads, and the street lamps glowed with a sturdy amber, pooling honey-coloured light into puddles on the pavement. In Edmunds living room, warmth rolled lazily about: the lamps golden pool spread over the armchairs and the low bookcase, dancing into corners and teasing out the strange, elongated shadows one only notices when the world goes quiet. On the coffee tablejust beside a little blue tin of shortbreada fine steam curled from two generous mugs of tea, spoiling the air with hints of mint and honey. Through the window, large, voluptuous snowflakes flirted with the glass, pausing like indecisive spirits before drifting down to join their companions on the windowsill.
Edmund had carefully arranged everything with an almost ceremonial intent: his favourite mugs sat side by side, the biscuits neatly displayed, and a small lavender-scented candle burned, sending lazy loops of fragrance to mingle with the tea. At that precise moment, the doorbell rang, vibrating out of the scenes silence. Edmund hurried to the hallway, flung open the door, and thereon the threshold, cheeks red and hair tousled, stood Harold.
“Regular British weather, this,” Harold muttered, stepping over the threshold and swatting at the snow clinging stubbornly to his overcoat. Little ice pearls still sparkled on his brow and lashes, melting as though the front was a border to another world. “Weather like this, only sensible place is indoors.”
“And thats precisely where we are,” Edmund replied, plucking the coat from his friends shoulders with a warm, half-teasing smile. “Come on through, Margaret and I are just about to start our tea. I thought you could do with something hot.”
In the living room, Harold made straight for the coffee table like a parched wanderer in the desert, lowering himself heavily into the old green armchair. He gripped a mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. For a moment he shut his eyes, soaking up the comfort as if it were sunlight, and let a long breath slip away.
“Whats so pressing that youd rather see me on a Friday than go visiting your in-laws?” Edmund teased, a trace of irony in his voice but his gaze openly curious. He sipped his tea; Harold experimented with a cautious taste and nodded, satisfied by its familiar steadiness.
“I know, I should be there tonight,” Harold said, twisting his mouth. “But I didnt go.”
“Makes sense. How are Alice and Jamie, then?”
Harold rolled his empty mug nervously between his palms, flecks of tension twitching in his knuckles. His gaze scurried over the bookshelves, then across a faded print above the mantelpiece, then settled on a spot by the table, as if some answer were stitched there in the wood grain.
“Theyre fine, really,” he replied, pushing coolness into his voice, though one note in it betrayed a darker current.
Edmund watched his friend. Harolds movements had a mechanical edgesqueezing the mug, twisting it, setting it down, as if by repeating the motion he might somehow organize his thoughts into something manageable. At last Harold exhaled, quieter than the boiling of a kettle.
“Ive filed for divorce.”
The room flattened. Edmunds fingers tightened around his mug, sending a tremor across the teas surface. He searched Harolds face, looking for a sign of confession or perhaps a retraction, as if the words might collapse under scrutiny.
“Are you serious?” he whispered, voice slipping up half a note. “With Alice?”
Harold nodded, eyes never straying from the window, as if hoping for a message in the world of drifting snow beyond.
“Yes. I met someone. Siobhan. She makes things feel new. Its like theres a light in the window again, you know?”
“You sure this isnt just a passing fancy?” Edmund forced his words to stillness, though a frustration bristled beneath. “Youve got Jamiehes only two! Hows he to manage? Youve lived this before!”
A stubbornness flickered in Harolds eyes, as if Edmund had lit a familiar fire. Harold sat up, his jaw set.
“Im sure,” he replied, hard as marble. “Ive thought about this long and well. I cant go on pretendingwaking up each morning in a part I never chose for myself. Its just routine. A rut. With Siobhan I feel somethingambition, even hope. And as for Jamie, Im not walking away. Ill be nothing like my father was to me.”
Edmund paused, and for a moment his mind was hijacked by a younger scene: an autumn morning, the old schools brick playground, the faint chill clinging to everything. They had sat together on the benches during break, and Harold with all his boyish certainty had once declared, “Ill never abandon my familynot ever. If I marry, Ill fight for that family till the bitter end.”
Those words, fossilized over years, now echoed in Edmunds mind. He looked at his friendno longer a boy but a manand softly asked, almost a whisper:
“Do you remember what you said in school? That youd never repeat his mistakes?”
Harold stiffened. His hands clenched, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.
“I remember,” he replied, wary as a hedgehog in a dogs world. “So what?”
“Youre doing just what he did,” Edmund answered, voice firm but gentle, not looking away. “Leaving your wife and boy behind. Youre giving fate a second run-through.”
Harold sprang to his feet, pacing the small space like some cornered character. He turned, eyes ablaze with an energy that was either anger or desperation or just the need to be believed.
“Its not the same!” he cried, then forced his tone low. “Dad ran away. Didnt say a wordjust vanished. Im being honest with Alice. At least Im not hidingpainful as it is, Im trying to do right. Ill still be in Jamies life! Im not disappearing!”
Edmund drew a thoughtful finger round the coffee table, mulling before he spoke. His gaze was steady but his eyes betrayed a deeper worry.
“And you think Jamiell be comforted by your honesty? He wont care about explanations. Hell care that Dads not coming home, not reading stories, not building block towers. You think your reasoning outweighs that hurt?”
Harold faltered, arrested mid-step, gazing down at the carpet as if its simple weave could untangle the impossible.
In Harold, the old reel of memory flared: age seven, sat on a chipped bench, staring at the black railings while waiting for Mum, who was always late. The wind pressed through him, cold and patient. Then thirteen and at a window, hiding his face from classmates who jeered, “Wheres your dad? Didnt he care enough to come?” Hed bitten back tears, staring outside until the world blurred. Sixteenstrumming the battered guitar his absent father had sent late for a birthday, hurling it across the floor in a fit of rage that still hummed unpleasantly in his ears.
Meanwhile, Edmunds childhood seemed like something out of a quietly exceptional novel. His father had been the reliable sortfixing punctures, teaching fishing, turning up at every parents meeting, always interrupting a busy day for his son.
“Your dads just about Superman,” Harold once sighed, watching Edmund glue a model Spitfire to the worktop while his father gave neat, gentle tips.
Edmund just smiled. “He loves me. Thats what it comes down to.”
Years later, Harold understood the depth of it, though hed never have admitted it aloud.
Now, sitting across from Edmund, Harold felt a hot surge of conflicting feelings. Memory smothered himso fiercely that real life seemed to waver, the old joys and wounds shimmering through the candlelight. But Edmund called him back.
“You dont get it,” Harold said, his defensiveness wobbling. He searched for words, for a sentence that would open up the pain hed packed away for years. “Im not like him. Im not runningIm trying to build something new, not bolt.”
Edmund met his eyes, careful and unjudging, always cutting to the marrow of the thing.
“But did you really try to fix the old life?” he asked softly. “Or did you just decide it was easier to begin again?”
A flush rose in Harolds cheeks. His hands knotted tight.
“I tried. Year after year. Nothing changed. Ruts so deep we never saw daylight. We both ended up numb.”
Edmund leant forward, voice not sharp but insistent.
“And when did you last bring Alice flowers, just because? Or take her out? Did you ever tell her she looked beautiful, for no reason at all?”
“Enough!” Harolds words snapped out, sharper than he intended. “Its easy for you, with your perfect family and your perfect dad. You dont know what its like.”
There was no rancor in his tone, just a bruising, long-standing hurt. He shook himself, loosening clenched hands.
Edmund stayed still, breathing slow and deep, as if clearing away emotional dust.
“Its not about perfection,” he said. “Its about making choicesnot repeating what you hated.”
Harold spun round. His face trembled under a sudden, pure tension.
“What do you want me to do?” he snapped. “Youll never understand what its likewanting your dad and being made to feel youre simply surplus! Thats what I was.”
Slowly, Edmund stood, not closing the distance, simply opening his stance to invitation rather than challenge.
“And so youd put your son through the same? You say youre not like your father, but the steps are your fathers, one by one.”
Harold halted at the door, hand on the knob but unwilling to turn it. He looked back and, in that moment, his face was stripped barenot angry now but bewildered, almost lost, as if the dream had soured.
“You just dont want to know” he murmured, voice muffled by exhaustion.
“Dont want to know what? Why youre leaving a young wife and child just because someone new crossed your path?” Edmund shook his head sadly. “No, youre right. I dont.”
“Save me your lectures!” Harold shot back, and the door cracked shut behind him, a single boom that echoed strangely through the houses bones.
For a while, Edmund simply stood there, eyeing the empty chair, half-expecting Harold to return at any moment, muttering some apology. But there was only the thinning steam from the mugs, and the hush that always makes painful silences crueler.
He sank onto the sofa, scrubbing a hand across his tired face. His thoughts scattered like a dropped box of pins, impossible to sort. A little while later, Margaret padded in wearing a soft dressing gown with a towel tossed over one shoulder, fresh from the bath. Her brow furrowed with concern as she surveyed the half-open door and Edmunds hunched form.
“What happened?” she asked gently, settling beside him on the settee. All her warmth folded inside her question.
Edmund sighed, fighting the weight in his chest. He didnt want to retell it all; it was too raw, too close.
“Harolds left his family,” he said at last. “Says hes found someone else. Hes filed for divorce.”
Margaret gasped, her hand pressed instinctively to her heart and her gaze filled with confusion and gentle pity.
“But little Jamie?” she whispered. “And Alice she always looked so happy with him, even last week at the bonfire night party.”
“Thats the worst part,” Edmund replied, twirling his finger along the sofas arm. “Hes become his father, without seeing it. History folds over and over, like an old map.”
Margaret nodded, considering his words. She was careful not to rushshe knew that advice often floats away unheard. Instead, she said,
“Maybe hes just lost. Sometimes people tangle themselves up, and when the world feels stale theyll do anything for change.”
“Hes not even trying,” Edmund murmured. “He hates what he became, but hes doing just the same. I never would have thought it of him. Never.”
Margaret squeezed his shoulder in quiet support, saying nothing more. Instead, she simply sat with him in the hush, letting the weight of the room settle without pressure.
Outside, snow thickened, blanketing streets, the citys edges softening. The stillness drifted through the rooms, the hours ticking gently away with the old grandfather clock, as if time itself needed comforting, too.
**********************
A week later, Edmund and Margaret stood before Alices door. The cold air threatened to rearrange every snowdrift on the street, and Margarets hands curled round a pie, neatly boxed with navy ribbona gesture of gentle care rather than unwanted intrusion.
Edmund adjusted his scarf, nodded in silent reassurance, then pressed the button of the doorbell. A mild chime sounded within, and after a pause, Alice answered with an uncertain glance, surprise fluttering on her features.
“Edmund? Margaret? Did you” she faltered, searching for words.
“We just wanted to check on you,” Margaret said warmly, extending the box. “May we come in?”
Alice lingered, measuring the offer, before stepping aside. “Yes, of course. Come through.”
Inside, the house felt suspended. It wasn’t the lively home they remembered: no clatter of Jamies trains, no cartoons, only a hospital-like hush, bristling with empty space. Margarets gaze wandered, searching for the familiar chime of little feet.
“Hes at nursery,” Alice explained, catching her look. “They’ve got a puppet show today. Ill collect him later.”
They drifted into the kitchen. Alice switched on the kettle by habit, washed mugs, lined everything up as though following invisible choreography. When she set the tea down, her hands paused on her own mug, as if warmth alone could anchor her.
“How are you coping?” Edmund asked gently, barely above a whisper.
Alice studied her cup, then drew her gaze away, hunting solace in the checkered tablecloth.
“We get by,” she replied softly, but then, bracing herself: “Work helpsgives me something to arrange. Less time left for thinking.”
She paused, examining a pattern on the table edge before admitting, “Jamie still asks for his dad sometimes. I say hes busy at work.” Her voice trembled, but she stiffened her chin, willing herself not to break.
Wordlessly, Margaret reached over, her palm folding over Alices. There was no dramatic gesture, just simple human warmth, the fill of a kindness sometimes more healing than explanations. Alice squeezed her hand, nodding thanks, gaze shy.
“If you need anythingwith Jamie or even just a chatjust ask,” Margaret told her quietly, but in a voice that left no doubt. “We’re here. Always.”
Alice looked up, eyes glinting, grateful tears quivering unshed. She let one fallpermitted herself not to wipe it away.
“Thank you,” she whispered, voice haunted, but no longer alone. “Really. I hadnt realised just how empty it could feel, until now. All those friendswhen things go wrong, they vanish. Suddenly, there’s no one left to ask for help.”
Edmund leant forward, earnest and steady-eyed.
“You never need to ask us. Were your people,” he said, matter-of-fact, promising nothing grand but a sturdy loyalty.
Alice wept nowquiet, honest tears, but the kind loosened by relief. Relief that the weight of her solitude would not outlast her strength.
Margaret slipped her hand away, opening the box. “Lets have the tea before it goes cold. And try the pieI did try my best, though I might have left it in a shade too long.”
Alice smiled tremulously, dabbing at her cheeks. “Yes, lets not waste it.”
She reached for a fork, and in that prosaic movement foundperhaps for the first time in daysa small, stubborn hope, as though the earth was solid under her again.
***************************
Three years rolled by; the park was bright with June, and Jamienearly five, legs growing too long for his shortswas shrieking his laughter through the air, chasing a bright red football across clipped grass. His giddy cheer tangled with the birdsong, drawing passing smiles from the Sunday strolls. Margaret sat on a nearby bench, rocking a pram where their daughter lay dozing, the shifting lace bonnet flickering with sun.
Edmund sat beside her, eyes soft with affectionhed grown close to Jamie, a care so deep it felt nearly paternal.
“Hes so grown up now,” Margaret laughed, shaking her head fondly. “And absolutely tireless. Hard to keep up!”
“Alice has done so well, all things considered,” Edmund admitted. They both watched as Jamie celebrated another imaginary goal, fists pumping the air, inventing a stadium from the sky.
Margarets smile faltered, a shadow clouding her. She adjusted the prams blanket, voice low. “Shes strong, but shes struggling. Especially when Harold forgets Jamies birthday, or when he cancels last minute. He said hed take him last weekendtexted at dawn to say, ‘Tough time at work’.”
Edmunds jaw tightened. Three years had taught him frustrations slow, bitter taste: Harold would appear in Jamies life like a magicianlavishing expensive toys, then vanishing after a hasty chat, or, just as often, cancelling outings with hurried apologies. Sometimes he would arrive midweek, attempt some awkward man-to-man talk, then rush the minutes, leaving before Jamie could understand why hed come.
“Ive tried to speak to him,” Edmund said, brushing a hand along the wooden bench. “Told him Jamie needs steadiness, not trinkets; a father, not a visitor. He just tells me, ‘You dont get it things are difficult now.'”
“Things have been difficult for three years,” Margaret answered quietly. “And Jamie grows up regardless. Last night, he asked Alice, ‘Does Daddy not love me anymore?’ Nearly broke her.”
Edmunds hands balled, but he forced himself to relax. His eyes strayed to Jamie.
“Harold cant bring himself to see the truth,” Edmund whispered. “Always swore hed never be his fathersaid he’d never make his child feel replaced, yet here we are.”
“And all the while justifying it to himself,” Margaret observed. “He says hes searching for himself, but really, hes running away.”
Jamie pelted up, face flushed, hair wild, pride beaming bright. “Edmund, watch what I can do now!” He showed off his new trick, then dashed away giggling.
Margarets gaze followed him, gentle and fierce at once.
“He knows youre there for him,” she said. “Not just today, but always. To Jamie, youre the steady thinghe knows you wont vanish. That matters most.”
Edmund nodded, determination finally settling as certainty inside him. If Harold was unable or unwilling to be the anchor Jamie needed, then Edmund would be there instead. He would ensure that history, so keen on repeating itself, found an interruption. With sunlight dappling the grass, and Margaret nearby, Edmund silently vowed that this child would not feel alone as Harold once had.
The world spun on, green and golden, while Jamies laughter rang bright, Margarets hand rocked the sleeping pram, and Edmund watched, promisingwithout wordsthat some fates, at least, could be rewritten, one gentle act at a time.
