Good Morning, My Love.

**”Good morning, love.”**

**”Good morning, love.”**

As usual, he woke up a minute before the alarm. A habit left over from his army days. Without opening his eyes, he rolled off the bed, hit the floor, and did a few push-ups. The blood rushed pleasantly through his veins, shaking off the last dregs of sleep.

**”Ill go wake the lads, Ellen.”**

The “lads”his ten-year-old twin boyswere fast asleep in the next room, two smaller versions of him, mouths slightly open as if sharing the same dream. The heating had been dodgy all night, so hed decided against their usual morning run. No need to wake them early. He paused, admiring their sturdy little frames.

At their age, hed been the oppositescrawny, awkward, hunched over. Shy, which his classmates mistook for cowardice. Schoolwork came easily; the taunts did not. He never fought backhe knew he was weaker. In PE, hed give it his all, but the coachs sneers crushed his spirit. As for sports clubs? His mother had been firm:

**”I didnt raise a clever, bookish boy just so he could learn to break noses.”**

Timidity got in the way there too, so his dream of being strong lost another round. Not that Mum was often strictmostly, she smothered him in affection. Which, ironically, was why hed bolted straight to the army after school. Two years later, he returned a trained athletethe scrawny, shy boy replaced by a burly boxing hopeful. To his mothers dismay (and his sports colleges delight), he pursued it professionally.

University opened a new worldcompetitions, dorms, friends. Then came the next hurdle: girls. Boxing trophies didnt erase his shyness. Asking one out at twenty felt no easier than at ten. Until *she* appeared.

Ellen was the colleges rising stara champion diver, all long limbs and blonde hair, with green eyes that always seemed a little lost. Clever, smiling, but quiet, like she wasnt quite of this world. Hence the nickname: *The Alien*. They became friends instantly.

They could walk for hours without a word, cheer each other on at matches. After their first kiss, he proposed straight away.

**”The Martian Wedding”** was how their course remembered itcelebrated for their kindness, their openness.

A year later, Ellen took a leave of absencepregnant. He started evening shifts at Kings Cross, hauling luggage. Oddly, it was then he first *felt* strong. Not from lifting crates, but from realising: *I can do this. Ill provide. Ill raise them right.* He was strong, and he had her.

Ellen fretted endlessly, but the doctor reassured herthe pregnancy was textbook. He even joked:

**”Only one downsideif you dont like kids, its twice as bad. Youre having twins.”**

At night, theyd dream aloudimagining their children grown, their future seaside home But thats what nights are fordreaming.

The day before the birth, she gripped his hand, eyes serious.

**”Promise me. No matter what, you wont leave them.”**

He was stunned, almost offendedthen nodded.

The labour was long, brutal. For almost a day, she drifted in and out, doctors baffled by the bleeding. By the time they knew why, it was too late.

What happened that night, he barely remembers. A blur. He woke at dawn on Kings Cross station floor, head pounding, stomach churning. The booze hadnt worn off, but one thought sobered him instantly: *Two boys are waiting.*

He graduated well, quit competitions. The sports committee gave him a flat, where he raised the “lads.” His mum helped at first, then it was just the three of them. He coached at local clubs, but once the boys started school, he took a job there too. Still did shifts at Kings CrossPE teachers wages being what they arethough now he supervised, no more heavy lifting.

Life settled. But inside? Still that weightlike he had so much to say, but without Ellen, hed gone mute.

Friends tried setting him up. He never lasted an hour. One womans glance would remind him of Ellen; anothers hair-tucking gesture

So he started talking to her at night. At first, it angered him*hearing*, not *feeling* her. Then it became habit. Hed share, ask advice. Like last nightthe boys bragged about acing a test:

**”I told them men dont boast, that its shameful *not* to aim for top marks. But God, I was proud. Theyre clever, strong, decentjust like we hoped. My old army coach said courage is ‘the art of hiding your fear.’ So I bite back praise, never say I love them But they know, dont they, Ellen?”**

For a second, his throat tightened. He nearly got up, went to hug them, say it outright But notoo late. Let them sleep.

The kitchen was chilly. Outside, an elderly neighbour swept the courtyard, muttering to herselfor was she? Then the “lads” burst in. The elder (by five whole minutes) put the kettle on. The younger grabbed the frying panhis turn to cook.

Suddenly, one nudged the other. Awkwardly, they hugged him.

**”Dad We know you talk to Mum sometimes. Tell her we dont remember her much but we love her loads. And you too.”**