History Repeats Itself

Fate Repeats Itself

The winter evening swirled around the city well before sixa navy hush devouring the skyline, while lamplight bloomed on every deserted street in a syrupy, golden hush. Inside Matthews flat, it was snug and warm, the glow from the standard lamp slicking the living room in honeyed comfort, stretching the shadows so they huddled in each corner as if trying to eavesdrop. On the coffee table, beside a modest plate of shortbread, two mugs of tea sent up soft wisps of steam. Mint and honey drifted through the air, twining with the sullen outside frost. The window revealed fat snowflakes flitting in waltz patterns, sometimes pushing cheeky against the glass, sometimes dozing on the sill and building up a winsome little drift.

Matthew had just finished setting the tablehed been oddly diligent, choosing his favourite mugs, placing out the biscuits, even lighting a quietly fragrant candle to lure in an extra shimmer of cosiness. As soon as the candles aroma melted into the air, the doorbell rang. He hurried to the entryway and opened upstanding on the mat was his friend Simon, tousled and pink-cheeked from the cold, a startled and slightly comedic snowman.

Frozen stiff, I am, Simon mumbled, stepping inside with a shiver, flinging snow from his dark peacoat. His collar was tufted in white, melting flecks clinging to his eyebrows and lashes. Weather like this, only sensible thing is to hibernate indoors.

Well, youve found the right burrow, Matthew countered warmly, taking his friends coat. Come in, Sophie and I were just about to have some tea. You look like you could do with it.

They strolled into the lounge. Simon made straight for the coffee table and collapsed into an armchair, wrapping both hands around a steaming mug and soaking in its warmth like a cat curled up in a sunbeam. Breathing in, he closed his eyes, sinking into the comfort as sensation returned to his fingers.

So he said at last, eyeing Matthew with a curious squint over his mug. Whats so important that you hauled yourself round here on a Friday night? Youre supposed to be at Helens mums with your lot, arent you?

Supposed to be, but I gave it a miss, Matthew replied, lips tugging at a lopsided smile, and took a sip of his own tea.

Simons brow twitched. Hows Helen, hows Jamie?

Simon turned the mug in his hands, knuckles whitening and relaxing, gazing everywhere except Matthew: the bookshelf, the lopsided Monet print, the dark edge of table leg. He seemed to be stalling, searching for words that wouldnt come. Then with a long exhale, his voice barely more than a whisper, he said, Ive filed for divorce.

Matthew stopped moving. His hand trembled minutely, creasing a ripple across the mug of tea. He stared at Simon, startled, reading his old friends face for any sign it was a joke.

Seriously? You and Helen? Matthews voice was a glancing note higher, urgent, disbelieving.

Simon nodded, still staring out at the snow, as if that swirling emptiness hid the answer he craved.

Yes, he said after a beat. Met someoneRebecca. With her, I feel alive for the first time. Shes like a light in the window, you know?

Matthew tried to keep his tone even but something sharp crept in around the edges. And youre dead certain this isnt just some passing fancy? Youve got a two-year-old, remember. Hows Jamie meant to grow up without a dad? You ever think about your own childhood?

Simons head snapped up and there was a steely flicker in his eyes Matthew had never seen in their schoolboy years. I have thought, Simon said, voice flat as winter glass. Ive thought myself in knots. I cant keep waking up and pretending to be someone else each morning. It isnt living, Mattits just trudging through mud, day after dull day. But with Rebecca, I want to be awake, I feel like I have dreams again I finally want things. As for JamieIm not going anywhere, Im not my father.

Matthew was silent, thoughts drifting back to their school days, an autumn morning in a playground, benches lacquered with dew. Teenage Simon, fierce and stubborn, had sworn, Ill never be like my dad, just upping and leaving. If I get married, Ill fight for my family till my last breath.

Those words echoed now, pulsing with memory and regret as Matthew looked at his friendno longer the brash boy, but a man hunched in his armchair. He asked softly, almost conspiratorially, Do you remember what you said in school? That youd never repeat your fathers mistake?

Simon tensed, his hands curling tight and his chin lifting defensively. I remember. So what?

I mean, right nowyoure doing exactly the same thing, Matthew answered, firm and steady. Youre leaving Helen. Youre leaving your little lad.

Simon leapt to his feet as if stung, pacing the room. When he turned, Matthew caught a glint of desperation in his eyes.

Its not the same! Simon shouted, but instantly reined himself in. Dad just disappeared, no word, no reason. Im being honestHelen knows, we talked it through. Im not running, Im trying to do this the right way Ill see Jamie every weekend, pick him up, spend time. Its not the same, Matt. I am not him.

Matthew traced his finger along the tables edge, taking a long pause before looking up, his eyes shadowed with concern. Are you sure about that? You reckon Jamie wont feel itjust because you explained? To him, it doesnt matter if its honest or not. Whats real is no stories at bedtime, no playing with cars, no dad coming home when it snows. Do you really think your honesty will save him from that ache?

Simon came to a halt, eyes dropping to the carpet as if the swirling pattern might yield some riddle. Memory flashed through his mind: seven years old, jacket tatty, shivering after school, watching the gate and waiting for his mum as dark crept in. He remembered, too, the taste of shame at thirteenother boys jeering in the classroom, Wheres your dad then? Not even at parents night. Hed told himself he was strong, pretending to stare out the window to stop the tears. Another flashsixteen, holding the cheap guitar his father had bought as an afterthought, hurling it into the corner with a crack that lingered like a broken dream.

He always watched Matthew with quiet envy: Matthews dad was solid, always there with steady handsunhurried fishing trips, careful bike repairs, parents meetings, simple kindness. Your dads a proper hero, Simon had once sighed, watching father and son craft an airplane model.

He just loves me, thats all, Matthew had said, not looking up. Only now did Simon grasp how true that was.

Simons mind spun, emotions scraping him rawuntil Matthews voice called him back to earth.

You dont get it, Simon stammered, the fight washing out of his voice. Im not him. Im building something new, not running away.

Matthew met his gaze, gentle but unsparing. Did you try to save what you had? Really try, or just decide it was simpler to start over?

Simon paled; for a heartbeat, he was silent, fists clenching and unclenching. I tried, he insisted. Year after year. We talked, we tried, but everything wound back round to the same old rut. It was as if we were both stuck in a loop with no joy in it.

Matthew leant forward, a quiet force in his voice. What did you do? I mean, did you ever buy Helen flowersa just-because surprise, not for her birthday? Take her out to dinner, tell her she was beautiful for no reason?

Simons frustration cracked the air. Youve always had the perfect lifethe perfect family, perfect dad. Its easy for you to judge! His voice wasnt angry so much as bitter, the bitterness settling heavily in the room.

Matthew let out a slow, worn sigh, running a hand over his face as if to brush aside dust. Its not about perfect families, he said quietly. Its about choices. About not repeating other peoples mistakes.

Simon darted around, voice raw. You cant know what its like, growing up without a dadfeeling unwanted, useless! The confession, old and bloodied, burst out without frills.

Matthew stood, but didnt move closer, simply unfolding his body in an open gesture. So now youre passing that same pain to your own son? he asked, almost whispering. You say youre not your father, but youre following his very footsteps.

In the doorway, Simon hovered, hand on the handle, the last dregs of anger fading into lost bewilderment, as if he barely recognised himself.

You just dont understand his voice was small, almost pleading.

Understand what? Matthew broke in, shaking his head. That youre leaving your wife and child for someone new? Youre rightI dont think I ever could.

Simons face folded, and he snapped, Keep your sermons to yourself! as he slammed the door behind him.

The echo rolled out through the flat, a deep shudder in the plaster and the silence that swelled after. For a minute, Matthew just stood, staring at the empty chair, half-expecting Simon to burst back in, apologise, laugh the tension away. But nothing.

Eventually he slumped onto the sofa, pressing his hands to his face as if the gesture could squeeze the past minutes out of his skin. He leaned back, closed his eyes, but the memories whirled and scattered, never quite settling.

Sophie crept in, still trailing steam from her shower, hair bound up in a towel. She scanned the roomopen door, the tense airfrown knotting her brow.

What happened? I heard shouting, she asked gently, couching herself beside him. Her tone was soft, nonjudgmental, anxious with care.

Matthew hesitated; he didnt want to retell, not while his nerves prickled and his thoughts swerved. Simons left his family, he said distantly. Met someone else. Filed for divorce.

Sophies hand fluttered to her heart, mouth falling open in shockgrief caught in her eyes; it seemed impossible after all those birthdays, all those holidays, watching Helen and Simon together, sharing laughter.

Hes just doing what his father did, Matthew said with a rueful, hollow laugh. And he cant even see it! Like a story looping back, but now hes the one in the old script.

For a while, Sophie was silent. She chewed the news over, quietly considering before she said, Maybe hes just lost. Sometimes people believe they need change, so they run, thinking itll fix the pain but in the end, theyre just trying to rearrange themselves.

Matthews eyes were faraway, voice subdued. Maybe so. Or maybe hes so afraid of hurting that he doesnt notice hes doing exactly what scarred him for life. He swore hed never be his dad and yet here we are.

Sophie squeezed his shoulder in quiet comfort, not trying to fix what couldnt be fixed. She just stayed, a steady weight beside him while the ticking clock counted out a future that seemed suddenly more uncertain.

Outside, snow drifted down, covering the city in woolshed silence. The room was blanketed in hushonly the clock spoke, tapping time gently away.

**********************

A week later, Matthew and Sophie stood shivering in the breezy cold outside Helens flat. Drifts of snow brushed the kerb; Sophie cradled a fresh-made Victoria sponge in a neat box, prettily tiedjust neighbourly enough, not an intrusion but a whisper of care.

Matthew thumbed his coat collar and pressed the buzzer. Through the chime, faint footsteps, and Helen appeared, startled at the sight of them, lines of confusion drawn across her face.

Matthew? Sophie? What For a moment she faltered, struggling for words.

We only wanted to check how youre doing, Sophie said softly, offering the cake box as a talisman against the dark. Her tone was gentle, direct, stripped of false cheer. Can we come in?

Helen blinked, weighing up their presence, then nodded, stepping back. Of course, come inside.

It was heavy and still inside the flata quiet pooled in every corner. Usually the place was a bustle: Jamies giggling, the TV blaring cartoons, the hum of chatter. Now, silence dropped with the snow. Sophie listened, missing a childs footstep or outburst, but nothing stirred.

Hes at nursery, Helen explained, seeing Sophies searching look. Theyve got some puppet show visiting todayso Ive another hour or two before I fetch him.

In the kitchen, Helen moved methodically: kettle, cups, teaspoons, the routines propping her up like scaffolding. Her motions were neat, but her eyesa little glassy, as if she was watching it all through a thin, invisible veil.

Sit down, please, she offered, pointing to the table.

Sophie set down the cake, untying the ribbon, and the sugary aroma of sponge and jam unfurled. Helen made the tea and sat, but only wrapped her hands around her mug as though it were a relic from a different life.

How are you coping? Matthew asked softly, taking care to keep his words gentle and honest.

Helens shoulders tensed and relaxed. She stared at the tabletops floral print, then shrugged. I get by, she whispered, bracing her voice. Work helpskeeps me too busy to think.

She paused, searching for steadiness. Jamie He doesnt really grasp it yet. Sometimes he asks for his daddy. I say Daddys busy, working hard. Maybe he believes me, I dont know. At least hes not crying.

Pain flickered at the edge of her words. Sophie reached out, placing her hand over Helens in silent solidarity. Helen squeezed back, letting the comfort flow for a heartbeat, her eyes fixed on her cup.

If you need anythinga hand with Jamie, with errands, anythingwere here, Sophie said, her words so firm they needed no embellishment. No need to say it twice. Were close by, always will be.

Helen lifted tear-bright eyes, gratitude trembling on her lashes. She blinked, and soft tears slipped free, but she let them fall instead of brushing them away.

Thank you, she breathed, her voice strong with feeling rather than weakness. Ive been so lonely, but didnt know who to call. You dont realise how few friends you have until you need them.

Matthew leaned forward, meeting her gaze. Us, he said quietly, absolutely. You dont have to ask. If you ever need us, well just be there.

Something relaxed in Helenher sobs were gentle, not desperate, as though the weight had at last grown bearable. Sophie squeezed her hand again, then reached for the knife.

Lets have our tea before its cold. And the cakes at its best today, even if I did leave it a bit long in the oven, she said, matter-of-factly, resetting the mood with the anchored weight of daily comforts.

Helen managed a grateful smile, wiped away her tears, and fetched a spoonsimple actions, yet they eased her back towards solid ground, one tiny step at a time.

*************************

Three years later, the park glimmered with sharp June sunlight, a day so dainty it felt painted. Five-year-old Jamie scampered across the green, chasing a bright red football. His shrieks of laughter soared, drawing smiles from passing dog walkers and mothers with prams. Over on the bench, Sophie gently rocked their newborn daughters pushchair, the breeze tugging fondly at her frilly bonnet.

Matthew sat beside them, watching Jamie, his gaze fond and unwavering. Over time hed grown to love the boy as his ownsteady, sure, present.

Hes turned into a right whirlwind, Sophie said, watching Jamies hair turn to gold in the sun. Helen does so well with him. Never gives herself credit.

Matthew agreed, watching as Jamie bundled in a trampoline kick, inventing a goal from two trees. Helens been remarkable. She puts everything shes got into him.

Sophies eyes grew sombre as she tucked the blanket around the baby. But it wears her out, all the juggling. Especially when Simon cancels Jamies birthday again, or bails out of a weekend last minute. She said he texted at breakfast to say he couldnt make it todaywork, apparently.

Matthews expression clouded. The same cycle had repeated for years, watching Simon dip in and out of Jamies life, like a child flicking the lights on and off. Sometimes hed show up with lavish presents, obviously bought in a supermarket flurry; or promise a trip to the zoo, only to send a hasty sorry, cant do text an hour before. Occasionally hed pop round midweek, lecture Jamie about being a good man, then fidget until his next appointment.

Ive tried to talk to him, Matthew admitted. Remind him Jamie isnt some toy to pick up and toss aside. That what matters is being there, giving him some certainty, not gifts. All he says is, You wouldnt get it, Im going through a tough patch.

Sophies sigh was quiet, tinged with loss. A tough patch thats lasted three years, she murmured. And Jamies not daftnot any more. Yesterday he asked Helen, Does Daddy not love me anymore? She nearly broke down right there.

Matthew clenched his hands, then released them, forced himself to loosen his jaw and breathe.

Somehow Simon cant look in the mirrorhe swore hed never be his father, remember? Always dropping in and out, never really present. But now

Now hes just repeating it, Sophie finished softly, but without malice. Except he pretends its about finding himself, like the old story just needs a new ending.

Jamie raced up, breathless and blazing with pride. Uncle Matt, watch this! And before they could reply, he dashed off after his football, laughter sparkling behind him.

Sophie watched with a tenderness that was almost maternal. Hes lucky to have you, she said softly. Youre always here. Jamie knows someones on his sidehe feels safe.

Matthew nodded, his eyes resolute as he watched the boy tumble back into his game. In that moment, he made a silent promise: if Simon wouldnt be the father Jamie needed, then he would do everything possible to fill that gap. This time, history wouldnt loop back on itselfthis time, care would not flicker and go out.

The sun gilded the afternoon. Jamie laughed. The baby slept. And in Matthews heart, a quiet vow glowed: that the past might echo, but the present could always be shaped by those who stayed. For children didnt need perfect parentsonly someone who would never vanish.