“You know, I never loved you…”
Oliver stopped the car a few streets short of home. Stepping out, he walked the rest of the way to the riverside. The day had been brutal—work was a mess, a crucial meeting had nearly imploded, forcing him to scramble for solutions.
He needed to clear his head, and the evening was deceptively calm. The slow drift of the Thames soothed him. The setting sun cast a golden glow. Couples strolled arm in arm, elderly pairs ambled by, parents pushed prams with sleeping infants.
Young women cast lingering glances his way. Fair enough—he was handsome, unaccompanied. But he averted his eyes, silently dismissing them.
*Maybe I should indulge. How long can a man stay alone?* He and Fiona had walked these paths too, once. He’d loved her—bright, flirtatious, impossible to resist. Six months after they met, they married. The first few months were bliss. Then, something shifted. She nitpicked, picked fights. They made up, but resentment festered. Each reconciliation grew harder. Their marriage became a taut wire.
After fights, they’d freeze each other out for days before tentative peace returned—briefly. Two weeks after one such truce, Fiona announced she was pregnant. Most women would rejoice. Not her. She sobbed, saying it ruined her plans, that Oliver had taken advantage during their ceasefire.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to terminate—fearful it might leave her barren. Her demands grew worse: midnight cravings for pickled onions, tears over nothing. Oliver endured, believing it was just pregnancy hormones. Once the baby came, surely things would settle.
At the hospital, when he cradled his newborn daughter, he was mesmerised by her tiny face, the funny expressions she made in her sleep. But joy turned to exhaustion—the girl refused to sleep unless held. The moment she touched the cot, she wailed. Oliver and Fiona took turns pacing the flat all night, ragged and hollow-eyed.
Eventually, the baby slept. The fights resumed. Oliver stayed late at work, dreading home. His parents scolded him—Fiona needed him. So he returned, only to face her suspicion.
“Where were you? Out with someone else, weren’t you?”
His friends had wives and kids, but none fought like this. As their daughter grew, taking her first steps, her resemblance to Oliver enraged Fiona. *She carried her for nine months, yet the girl is all him.* At least he knew she was his.
One night, Fiona accused him of cheating—why else would he stay out? He swore there was no one, that he still loved her.
“You know, I never loved you,” she said suddenly.
“Then why marry me?”
“I thought I could learn to. Forget *him.*” She confessed then: her first love had vanished to Scotland, promising to return. A year of silence. Then Oliver appeared. Her mother adored him, pressed her to marry. Then the other man came back. Oliver was in the way.
Now he understood the fights, the cruelty. At least the girl was undeniably his. He noticed something else—Fiona had started dressing up, got a stylish haircut.
“I can’t live without him. I’m leaving.”
“What about me?” Oliver stammered.
“You’ll find someone. She’s young—she’ll adjust to a new father.”
“I *am* her father!”
“You’ll have other children.”
“You’ve decided everything, haven’t you?” He shouted for the first time. She sat silent, head bowed. He slammed the door on his way out.
When he returned, Fiona was gone—no note, just empty drawers and a missing child. He roared, tore through the flat. She never loved him, but *he* loved *her*. He raced to her mother’s. No trace. Her mother promised to call if Fiona surfaced.
Fiona called days later, pleading forgiveness. Six months passed, but the ache didn’t fade. Now he escaped the flat not from fights, but loneliness.
One evening by the river, he saw a woman staring across the water, lost in thought.
“Waiting for your prince?” he quipped, cringing at his own cliché.
She turned, smiling. “Just admiring the view.”
They began walking together. Oliver confessed: his wife left him, took their daughter.
“Do you still love her?” Emma asked abruptly.
“I don’t know. We fought constantly. Let’s not talk about it.”
Their romance began quietly. With Emma, he felt peace. She was independent, undemanding. Slowly, he forgot Fiona. Soon, she moved in.
Emma was perfect—except she refused to cook. Takeaways suited her fine. She loved parties; Oliver felt ancient beside her friends. Eventually, he stopped going with her.
Then, on one of those hollow nights, Fiona’s mother called.
“Oliver—it’s awful.” Her voice cracked. “Fiona’s dead. I begged her not to trust that bastard. If she’d stayed with you—”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“That ex of hers—drunk, jealous. He hit her. She fell, cracked her head on the table. He’s in custody.”
Oliver couldn’t process it. Fiona—gone.
“What about Lily? Our daughter?”
“With me. Social services will take her unless you step in.”
He hesitated. He hadn’t seen her in months. Would she even remember him? Fiona adored their child, barely let him near her.
“Oliver? You need to claim her.”
“Fine. Where do I go?”
He said nothing to Emma, rehearsing his words. Morning would be clearer.
“Emma, we need to talk,” he began gently.
“Now? My head’s splitting,” she groaned.
“We have to take Lily. Fiona’s dead.”
“*Your* child? I told you—I don’t like kids. Especially not with someone else.”
“If we don’t, she goes into care. Do you understand?”
“You’re her father. I’m nobody.”
“I can’t do this alone. Please.”
“How’d your wife die?” Emma interrupted.
“Her lover killed her. Lily needs us.”
“*Your* daughter. Not mine.”
“I thought we—”
“You’ve decided. Fine. Take her. But I’m leaving.”
She packed in silence. Oliver didn’t stop her.
At Fiona’s mother’s, Lily clung to her grandmother, clutching a doll.
“Lily, this is Daddy.”
The girl studied him—blonde, wary—then fled.
“She’s scared,” the woman said.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“She likes fish fingers and chips. I’ll help. Where’s your wife?”
“Gone. Fiona lied about us.”
Lily followed him home, silent. He opened the door—and froze.
Emma stood in the hallway.
“You?”
“Who else? Why the shocked face?” She knelt before Lily. “Is this her? Look, I brought you a teddy.”
Lily nodded, following Emma inside.
Oliver sagged onto a chair. Women—say one thing, do another. But relief flooded him. Emma was back. They’d figure it out—together.