Good Morning, My Love.

“Good morning, love.”

“Good morning, love.”

He woke up, as always, a minute before the alarm. An old habit from his army days. Rolling out of bed, eyes still shut, he pushed himself off the floor a few times. The blood rushed pleasantly through his veins, shaking off the last wisps of sleep.

“Right, time to wake the lads, Jen.”

The “lads” were his two ten-year-old twin sons, fast asleep in the next room. Two smaller versions of himself, mouths slightly open, as if sharing the same dream.

The heating had been dodgy all night, so hed skipped the usual morning run and let them sleep in. He lingered a moment, admiring their sturdy framesnothing like hed been at their age. Back then, hed been all knees and elbows, skinny and hunched. Book-smart but painfully shy, which his classmates mistook for cowardice. Gym class was a nightmareno matter how hard he tried, the PE teachers sneers crushed his spirit.

His mother had been firm: “I didnt raise a clever Jewish boy just so he could go learning how to break noses.” So, timid and outmatched, his dream of being strong lost another round. Not that Mum was harshjust the opposite. She smothered him with love and care, so much that hed bolted straight into the army after school. Two years later, he came back lean, disciplined, and a promising boxer. The gentle, awkward boy had become a solid contender for a sports scholarshipmuch to his mothers dismay and his universitys delight.

Uni life was a whirlwindcompetitions, dodgy student digs, new mates. Then came the real challenge: girls. Boxing trophies didnt magically cure shyness. Asking a girl out at twenty felt just as impossible as it had at ten. Until Jennifer.

Jen was the star of the diving teamtall, blonde, green-eyed, and utterly unbothered by small talk. Quiet as a ghost, which earned her the nickname “Moonbeam.” They clicked instantly. They could walk for hours in comfortable silence, cheer each other on at meets. After their first kiss, he proposed right then and there.

The “Alien Wedding” (as their course mates dubbed it) was a raucous affair. Everyone loved themtheir warmth, their easy way with each other.

A year later, Jen took a gap yearpregnancy. He started picking up shifts as a porter at Kings Cross. Oddly, hauling crates was when he first felt truly strong. Not from the weight, but from knowing he could provide. He *was* strong. And he had her.

Jen fretted endlessly, but the doctor assured her it was a textbook pregnancy, even joking, “Only bad news is, if you dont like kids, its twice as badyoure having twins.”

At night, theyd dream aloudthe house by the sea, the men their sons would become. But thats what nights are for: dreams.

The day before the birth, she gripped his hand. “Promise me,” she said, eyes fierce, “no matter what, you wont leave them.”

He was stunned. Almost offended. Then he just nodded.

The labour was long. Brutal. Nearly a day unconscious, doctors scrambling to stop the bleeding. By the time they knew why, it was too late.

The next thing he remembered was waking at dawn on Kings Cross station floor, soaked, head pounding. The booze hadnt worn off, but one thought sobered him instantly: *Theyre waiting.*

He finished uni, quit competing. The sports board gave him a flat, where he raised his lads. Mum helped at first, then it was just the three of them. He coached at a local club, but when the boys started school, he took a job there. Still worked nights at the stationPE teachers wages being what they arethough these days he supervised, no more heavy lifting.

Life settled. But the weight never left. Hed ache to talk, yet without Jen, the words just wouldnt come.

Mates tried setting him up. But no date lasted an hourone girls laugh was *almost* hers, another tucked her hair behind her ear just *so*.

So he talked to her at night. Raged at first that he couldnt *feel* her. Then it became habit. Shared stories, asked advice. Last night, the boys bragged about acing a test.

“I told them men dont brag,” he murmured to the dark. “But God, Jen, I was *proud*. Theyre clever. Strong. Kind. My old army coach said courage is the art of hiding youre scared. But I hide too muchhavent even told them I love them. They know, though. Dont they?”

His throat tightened. Almost got up then, to wake them, say it properly. But it was late. He didnt.

The kitchen was chilly. Minus five outsidedry winter, just missing snow. An elderly neighbour swept the courtyard, muttering to herself.

The lads burst in. The elder (by five whole minutes) put the kettle on. The younger grabbed the frying panhis turn to cook.

Then one elbowed the other. They shuffled over, hugged him tight.

“Dad,” the elder said, “we know you talk to Mum sometimes. Tell her we dont remember much. But we love her. And you. A lot.”