“Stingy Man’s Tears”
“Off somewhere fancy, are we?” his neighbour asked, eyeing Cyril in his sharp suit and tie.
“To my son’s graduation,” Cyril replied.
“Blimey! Other people’s kids grow up fast…”
“So do your own,” Cyril said with a faint smile.
“Fair enough… So, soon you’ll be free of child support, eh?”
Cyril shot him a look that made the man shift uncomfortably.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, you must be sick of handing money to your ex-wife by now.”
“I’m not,” Cyril muttered before walking off, leaving his neighbour baffled.
Gradually, his mood lifted. Memories washed over him…
***
The day his life changed forever, Cyril had been numb.
By all accounts, he had it made—free as a bird, earning more than most, living in a posh flat, never short of female attention, thriving in business. So why did he feel so hollow? Nothing brought him joy. He couldn’t be bothered with anything.
Leaving the office, he sensed rain coming. The sky had turned leaden, the wind picking up.
He hailed a cab—no point getting soaked.
His car was in the garage, and Cyril had never owned an umbrella.
Slumping into the backseat, he sank into emptiness.
The cabbie chattered, trying to impress his well-off passenger, while the radio played some dreary tune—not Cyril’s taste at all.
Then, a line snapped him back to reality:
*I lived so careless, wild and free,*
*My reckless heart like drunken wine.*
*Her love once seemed eternity,*
*I never dreamed she’d not be mine.*
*But day by day, I threw it all away,*
*Each hurt I dealt cut deep and true,*
*And lost the love I couldn’t keep,*
*Back in the days when she was you…*
A dull ache spread through him. The pain was sudden, sharp—and then he understood its source.
*Lottie…*
*Lottie love…*
*Charlotte…*
Different names for different chapters.
Their school sweetheart romance led to marriage. No one believed Charlotte Harrington, the golden girl, would ever marry the school troublemaker, Cyril Whitmore.
But he had. Because without her, life had no meaning.
For her, he’d studied, strived, become the man he was.
And she?
She’d been there—loving, caring, inspiring.
Bore him two sons.
Always calm, attentive, beautiful.
Never a complaint, never a nag.
She was happy. Content.
And somewhere along the way, Cyril assumed it would always be so. That she’d never leave. That she’d forgive anything, stand by him no matter what.
So he let loose. Money brought friends, women, late-night parties…
Charlotte stayed silent. Asked no questions. Raised their boys.
He never apologised, never helped.
Provided.
Thought that was enough to keep her happy.
He was wrong.
One day, she said plainly:
“Cyril, I don’t love you anymore.”
“Don’t be daft!” he spluttered. “You’re just tired. Let’s have dinner—”
She set the plates down. “You’re not listening. We’re getting divorced. I can’t do this anymore.”
“What about the boys?” he shot back, then cringed at his own cliché.
“Exactly. They deserve love—not just a marriage.”
“Fine—sod off then!” Cyril grabbed his jacket and stormed out.
Three days he stayed away. Waited for her to call, to look for him.
She didn’t.
When he returned, he found suitcases in the hall. Hers. The boys’.
“What’re you doing?”
“Packing,” she said calmly.
“Why?”
She stared at him, surprised.
“Stop this,” Cyril grimaced. “Don’t… I’ll leave.”
And he did.
Left everything to her and their sons. In his mind, it was the only way.
After the divorce, Charlotte stayed single for years. He knew. So he’d visit on a whim, bring gifts for the boys, demand respect. Felt entitled.
Then—she remarried.
Cyril raged. How dare she? The mother of his children! She should be on her knees thanking him for the house, the generous child support, the extra help!
So he made her life hell.
Especially when drunk—which happened often.
Calls. Texts. Insults.
Even threats.
Charlotte never bit back. Just blocked him one day.
So he ambushed her in the street.
Sober, he’d loathe himself—but never once apologised. Couldn’t face her.
Bit by bit, his life became hatred. For himself. For her. For everything.
He forgot how to feel, how to care.
Nothing mattered.
***
And now—this song.
“Who’s singing?” Cyril rasped.
“Blimeh, mate! That’s Gary Newman! Never heard of him?”
Cyril didn’t answer. A minute later:
“Turn around. Now. Quick!” He gave an address.
Passing a supermarket, he spotted an old woman selling peonies. Charlotte’s favourite.
He leapt out, bought the lot, shoved money at the startled seller.
Now he stood at her door.
His heart hammered. Forgotten emotions surged.
For the first time in years—he felt alive.
Yes. This was it.
He rang the bell.
Charlotte opened the door. Shock. Fear. Then—seeing the once-brash troublemaker shift awkwardly—she smiled. Understood.
“Come in.” She stepped aside.
Cyril handed her the flowers.
“For you. I remember.”
“Thank you.” She buried her face in them, breathing deep.
“Lottie, who’s—?” Her husband emerged from the kitchen, wearing a silly cartoon apron.
Seeing Cyril, the man stiffened. Their past encounters always ended badly.
“Charlotte,” Cyril said softly, meeting her eyes, “I get it now. I was wrong. I ruined my life. My happiness. Because without you and the boys… there’s nothing.”
Charlotte just stared. Didn’t know what to say. Her husband held her hand tightly.
“And you—Nicholas, right? Thank you. For being there for them. When I wasn’t.”
Cyril offered his hand.
A pause—then Nicholas shook it.
“The boys—can I see them?”
“Of course,” Charlotte smiled. “They’ve missed you.”
Dinner followed. Long talks. A decision:
They’d stay in each other’s lives.
***
Years passed.
Cyril lived alone, worked hard—but always made time for his sons.
He became a regular in Charlotte and Nicholas’ home. Holidays. Weekends.
He and Nicholas bonded over fishing. Even got the boys into it.
No one saw Cyril as an outsider anymore. Just family.
He treasured that. Never gave Charlotte or Nicholas reason to doubt him again.
***
Lost in thought, Cyril didn’t notice he’d reached the school.
“Dad!” His eldest waved through the crowd.
“Not late, am I?” Cyril hugged him, shook Nicholas’ hand, smiled at Charlotte. “Walked here.”
“Right on time,” Charlotte said. “It’s just starting.”
*Too late we learn the price of pride,*
*Through loss and hurt and wasted years.*
*Who warms her now, who’s by her side,*
*Who wipes away her tender tears?*
*For all I lost, for all I failed to see,*
*Let God protect what once was mine,*
*For all the love she gave to me,*
*Back in the days when she was mine.*
Cyril never became a Gary Newman fan. But whenever that song played, stingy man’s tears rolled down his cheeks.
