**Following in His Footsteps**
*—Danny, what’s wrong with you? Just look—English, a failing grade, maths—barely scraping by, and you skipped literature entirely! Why won’t you study? Why do you keep skipping? What am I supposed to do with you, you little sod?* — Lauren sighed, flipping through her son’s school diary. The boy was in Year 9, and the reports only got worse.
*—Dunno.* Danny muttered, turning away.
*—Lauren, leave the lad alone! English, biology… I skived off too, and I turned out all right!* Her husband, Gary, slurred from the couch in the next room, half-drunk as usual.
*—Oh, clearly! Instead of talking to your son like a proper father, you’d rather stay plastered for days on end!* Lauren snapped.
*—What’s the harm? I’ve got the right! Not like I’m spending your money! And besides, it was Mick’s birthday—his fiftieth, mind!* Gary flopped back onto the cushions and dozed off again.
Lauren had been raised in a cultured, well-to-do family. Her parents had given her more than just good manners—they’d ensured she had a proper upbringing. She’d excelled in school, got into a prestigious uni. Yet fate, with cruel irony, had thrown her together with Gary.
They’d met at a student party. Lauren was in her final year, while Gary had already finished trade school and started working at the factory. She’d been drawn to his rugged charm, those piercing eyes that made him seem older than he was. Back then, she’d had no idea how thoroughly he’d unravel her orderly life.
They started dating, married the summer she graduated. At first, it was fine—but Lauren quickly noticed how Gary never missed a chance to drink. Any occasion, no matter how small, became an excuse for a raucous night out.
Eventually, she realized her mistake—they were all wrong for each other. She’d nearly filed for divorce—until she found out she was pregnant.
She couldn’t bring herself to end it. Raising a child alone wasn’t ideal either. Ever the optimist, Lauren hoped fatherhood might steady Gary. But when he’d stumbled into the maternity ward, drunk off his face, she knew—he’d never change.
And he hadn’t. Gary drank heavily, often. He barely lifted a finger at home, either hungover or off to another pub crawl with his mates.
Lauren never complained. She worked hard, earned decent money, kept the flat tidy, made sure Danny wanted for nothing. But as he grew older, he became more like his father. She barely recognized herself in him—the disinterest in school, the outright refusal to join any clubs.
By Year 8, he was completely out of control.
*—Mrs. Hart, you need to speak with your son. He’s rude, disruptive, and his grades are abysmal… It’s heartbreaking…* His form teacher’s words haunted her after every parents’ evening. She’d walk home, silently cursing herself—what was she doing wrong?
At first, Danny would promise to do better. Empty words.
He scraped through his GCSEs. Sixth form was never an option—trade school it was. Lauren dreaded it. He was following Gary’s path exactly. And by then, Gary was a full-blown alcoholic. She’d drag him out of benders, endure the shouting matches, even plead with his foreman not to sack him.
Danny didn’t fare much better at college—skiving, mouthing off, picking fights.
*—Mum, maybe I should just drop out, work at the factory with Dad. Start earning proper cash,* he said one day.
*—Danny, don’t talk like that! You need qualifications. You can always study further. Do you really want to end up like your father?*
*—What’s wrong with how Dad lives?*
*—Exactly! What’s wrong? Why you nagging the lad? Let him work if he wants! We’ve got connections there anyway,* Gary cut in.
Somehow, Lauren convinced him to finish college. She begged his tutors to overlook his behaviour, to give him one last chance.
He barely graduated, then immediately announced he’d join Gary at the factory. Lauren begged him not to—she knew how it would end. Danny was Gary’s spitting image, in looks and temper. There was nothing of her in him.
But like any mother, she hoped he’d come to his senses. Fate wasn’t that kind. Her worst fears came true—Danny got placed on Gary’s shift. Soon, they were drinking together.
One evening, Lauren came home and tripped over something in the hallway—Danny, dead drunk, sprawled on the floor.
*—Danny! Danny, wake up! Are you hurt?* She dropped to her knees, shaking him.
*—Mum… leave me alone… just went out with the lads…* He waved her off and passed out again.
The stench of booze hit her. He’d drunk himself senseless, just like Gary at his age.
She stepped past him into the kitchen. Gary was slumped over the table, snoring. She nearly shook him awake, ready to scream—but stopped herself.
Grabbing her bag, she walked out. She didn’t know where to go—no close friends to vent to, nowhere to stay. She ended up on a park bench, watching happy families stroll by, wondering what she’d done to deserve this.
A dog suddenly darted up—a border collie, gripping a red ball in its teeth. Lauren jumped.
*—Oi, sorry about that! Baxter, heel!* A man called, and the dog trotted obediently back.
*—You all right?* He eyed her tear-streaked face.
*—Fine, just… startled.*
*—I’m Anton. You?*
*—Lauren.*
*—Lovely name. This is Baxter. Fancy a coffee?*
To her own surprise, she agreed.
They talked for hours. For the first time in years, Lauren felt alive. They exchanged numbers, kept in touch. Eventually, she told him everything. Anton offered her a way out—she took it.
*—Look at her! Found herself a new bloke! Abandoning us now, eh? Who’d want you, you daft mare!* Gary jeered as she packed.
*—Mum, you serious? What about us?* Danny asked.
*—You’ll manage. You always do.*
*—Yeah… suppose so.*
*—Well, son, let’s toast your mum leaving—special occasion!* Gary sneered.
Lauren walked out. Anton waited by the car, loading her suitcase. She glanced up at their flat—the kitchen light was on. She could picture them already, cracking open beers, celebrating another night of misery.
*—Ready?* Anton asked.
*—Yes. Quickly.*
His world was nothing like Gary’s. His flat was spotless, tastefully furnished. It took her weeks to adjust—no shouting, no binges. Just quiet.
She filed for divorce. Danny only called to borrow money. She gave it, but never invited him over.
*—Lauren, how’d you feel about moving to London?* Anton asked one evening.
She hesitated. *—Hadn’t thought about it…*
*—They’ve offered me a transfer. Better pay, better position. I wanted your say.*
She thought for a moment. *—I’m in. I’ll find work there. Nothing’s keeping me here.*
Before leaving, she met Danny one last time. He showed up tipsy.
*—What d’you want?*
*—To say I’m leaving. London. For good.*
*—With that bloke of yours?*
*—Danny, look at yourself. It’s not too late—I could ask Anton, get you a proper job—*
*—Piss off! I’ve got a job! Sod off to London then. And if you’re not coming back, me and Dad’ll sell the flat—too big for us anyway. We’ll move into the factory digs.*
*—Do what you want. I’m done.*
Two weeks later, she was on a plane. Anton held her hand.
*—Penny for your thoughts?*
*—Just thinking about home. My parents are buried here.*
*—Regrets?*
*—None. Not a single one.*
And she meant it.
