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Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you so much for your support, your likes, thoughtful feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and my sincerest gratitude for all donations from me and my five beloved cats. Please, if you enjoyed the story, share it on social media – authors appreciate it more than you’d think!
Marrying Outside the Lines
Thank you all for your support, kind comments, and for following my stories. A special heartfelt thanks from me and my five cats for every donation. Sharing these stories on social media brings joy to the writer, too!
My daughter came home late from the hospital, where she worked as a nurse in A&E. She took a long shower, then wandered into the kitchen in her dressing gown.
There are cutlets and pasta in the pan, her mother offered, watching her daughters face and trying to suss out what was wrong. Tired, Lucy? Somethings bothering you, isnt it?
Im not eating. I look terrible as it is, and if I put on weight, no one will look at me at all, Lucy replied gloomily, pouring herself some tea.
Oh, dont start that again, her mum protested. Youve got everything a girl could wantclever eyes, nice nose, proper lipsstop putting yourself down, Lucy.
Easy for you to say! All my friends are married already, and Im not. Only the really rubbish blokes ever fancy me. The ones I like never notice me. Whats wrong with me, Mum? Lucy asked, waiting solemnly for an answer.
You just havent met the right one yet, thats all. Your time will come, her mum tried to reassure her, but Lucy grew even more frustrated.
Yeah well, my eyes are clever because theyre tiny. My lips are thin and look at my nose! If we had any money, Id get a nose job, but were skint! I might as well just settle for one of the injured lads from the hospitalthere are loads whose girlfriends dumped them after their accidents. What else am I supposed to do? Im thirty-three, I cant wait around forever.
Oh, Lucy, what are you on about? Your dads legs have never been strong, but I hoped at least a son-in-law would help out at the allotment, that would really be something, else how are we going to manage? her mum said, regretting it instantly.
Not that you should think all injured people live poorly, but what good would it do you, love? What about Alex from next door? Hes fancied you for years. Strong lad. Youd have healthy babies together, and
Mum, please. Alex cant hold down a job, and he loves a pint too much. I cant have a conversation with him! Lucy protested.
Why do you need to talk that much anyway? I can tell him to dig over the garden, then we have lunch. Or I can send him to the shops. Hes a good lad, hardworking too, maybe youd get on? her mum tried, but Lucy just pushed aside her half-finished tea and stood up.
Im going to bed. I thought you saw me differently, but youre just like everyone elsethink Im some sort of freak.
No, Lucy, love her mum called after her, but Lucy just waved her away. Thats enough, Mum!
And with that, she closed her bedroom door right in her mothers face.
Lucy lay awake for ages, thinking of the young man theyd recently brought into A&E. Hed lost his lower leg after being trapped under a fallen slab in an abandoned building. Hed gone inside for some reason, they hadnt got him out quick enough, and the doctors couldnt save his leg. No one visited him. He was still in his twenties.
At first, after the operation, hed watched Lucy with pleading eyes, holding her hand, needing reassurance. But once hed fully realised his situation, hed just stare sombrely at the ceiling, silent. For some reason, she felt sorry for him most of allperhaps because he had no one visiting.
Do you think Ill ever walk again? he asked her recently, still staring away, and Lucy had replied firmly, Of course you will. Youre young; youll heal.
Thats what they all say. Try living without a legsee how it feels, he snapped all of a sudden, turning away as if it were her fault.
Well, who told you to go inside that building? Lucy shot back. Its your own doing!
Thought I saw something, he muttered grudgingly, and now whenever she came in, hed turn his face to the wall.
Lucy took a good look at himhis eyes were light, cold as ice, but his face was rather handsome. What a pity this had happened to him.
Feeling sorry for me, are you? he caught her looking one day. Thats all I get these dayspity. No one can love a bloke like me.
No one loves people like me, either. And Ive still got all my limbs. Im just wrong somehow, and no one even feels sorry. If Id lost my legs, maybe then they would! Lucy snapped, feeling tears well up.
But, for the first time, he smiled at her, his whole face softening.
Youre daft, you know that? Youre not ugly. I look at you and honestly envy whoever you choose. Think Im joking?
Lucy stared at him, and the funny thing was, she believed him. Without thinking, she asked what had been on her mind for a while:
What if I chose you? Would you marry me? Youre quiet nownot saying anything means youre lying!
She made to leave, feeling stung.
But the young man pushed himself up on his elbows, as if to chase after her. He looked helpless and suddenly called, Marry me, Lucy. I swear, soon no onell even notice about my leg. Ill get back on my feetdont go, Lucy!
Lucy stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears, but suddenly a warm certainty filled her. He was the one.
It didnt matter about her nose or her eyes or his missing leg. Theyd met, and that was it.
Just as Mum had said: the right time comes for everyone.
The manMichael was his namethrew himself into rehabilitation with real determination. With Lucy in his life, he had a purpose: he wanted to stand on his own two feet, quite literally, for their shared future.
He wanted Lucy to be happy and know she mattered dearly to someone. He needed her, he truly didlife only made sense with her by his side.
Youre in love, arent you? her mum asked slyly. Look at you blooming! Didnt you say you werent the pretty one?
Lucy didnt even deny it. She was floatingher one wish now was for Michael to master his prosthesis and walk confidently.
They spent longer and longer togetherfirst in the clinic courtyard, then along festive, brightly lit streets as Christmas drew near.
One night, I saw it there, the old building, Michael pointed out. The spot where I was trapped.
And why did you go in? Youve never told me, Lucy remembered.
Youll laugh. There was this stray puppyscrawny, black with white freckles. I thought hed freeze, wanted to bring him home. Didnt fancy living alone, he explained.
Isnt that a dog over there, skinny looking soul, watching us but too wary to come closer? Lucy pointed.
Thats probably him! Michael said, delighted, as the dog followed them all the way home, keeping a careful distance.
At least Lucy landed herself a handsome husband, younger than her, with his own flatand no mother-in-law! her friends laughed at the wedding.
Her mother shed a tear when Michael started calling her Mum. Hed been raised in a childrens home with no family at all. He was a good, kind manand, most importantly, they loved each other. May happiness be theirs.
Forget about the allotmentit can wait. Besides, Michael took on every chore with gusto, and always succeeded!
For now, Lucy, Michael, and the dognow called Busterlive together. But soon therell be four, as Lucy and Michael are expecting a daughter.
Never give up hope, or you might just miss your chance at happiness. Lifes true beauty lies in its glorious unpredictability.
“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.
Dont you dare touch my mothers things, said her husband. These clothes belong to my mum. Why have you packed...
Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you so much for your support, your likes, thoughtful feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and my sincerest gratitude for all donations from me and my five beloved cats. Please, if you enjoyed the story, share it on social media – authors appreciate it more than you’d think!
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“I Gave Birth to Your Son, But We Don’t Want Anything from You” – The Mistress Called Lera’s husband looked at her like a chastened dog. “That’s right, you didn’t mishear me, Lera. I… I had someone else, half a year ago. Just a few times—nothing serious, just a fling. And now, she’s given birth to my son. Recently…” Lera’s head was spinning. Talk about earth-shattering news! Her steady, loving husband, a child on the side! The meaning of what he said barely penetrated. For a moment, she simply stared. He sat across from her, shoulders hunched, hands squeezed tight between his knees. He seemed smaller than usual—deflated somehow. “A son, then,” repeated Lera. “So, you, a married man, now have a son. And it wasn’t your wife who gave birth. Not me…” “Lera, honestly, I didn’t even know. I swear.” “You didn’t know how babies are made? You’re forty, Nick.” “I didn’t know she’d… well, that she’d choose to keep it. We broke up long ago, she’s with her husband now. I thought that was it.” He fumbled with his words. “Then, yesterday, a call: ‘You’ve got a son. Seven pounds, healthy.’ And then she hung up…” Lera stood, legs unsteady, knees like jelly as if she’d just run a marathon. Outside, autumn raged. Lera found herself distracted by the view—beautiful, even now. “So what now?” she asked, her back to him. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Oh, great answer. A real man’s answer. You don’t know.” She spun around. “Are you going over there? To see him?” Nick, panic in his eyes, managed to mumble, “Lera, she gave me the hospital’s address, said discharge is in two days. She said: ‘Come if you want, don’t if you don’t. We don’t want anything from you.’” “Very noble of her…” Lera echoed. “‘We don’t want anything.’ How naive…” The front door slammed—her two eldest had returned. Instantly, Lera slipped on a smile. Years in business had taught her to keep her head up, even when a deal was falling apart. Their older son poked his head into the kitchen—a tall, broad-shouldered lad, twenty. “Hey, Mum, Dad. You both look glum! Mum, is there any food? We’re starving after training.” “Manty in the fridge, heat it up,” she replied automatically. “Dad, you promised to look at the carburettor on my rust-bucket,” called out her younger son, clapping Nick’s shoulder. The family scene stabbed at Lera’s heart. They called him Dad. Their real father had faded into the background years ago—now just money transfers and the occasional postcard. Nick had raised them: taught them to drive, patched scraped knees, handled school issues. He was their real dad. “I’ll take a look, Alex,” Nick smiled. “Give Mum and me a minute.” They left, clattering plates. Lera turned to him. “They love you,” she whispered. “And yet you…” “Lera, stop it. I love them too. They’re my boys. And I’m not leaving. I’ve told you—it was a mistake, an error in judgment. Nothing serious.” “Nothing serious—just the kind of mistake that leads to changing nappies,” she shot back. Their six-year-old daughter, Maisie, then burst in, and Lera’s composure cracked. Maisie leapt into her dad’s lap. “Daddy! Why are you sad? Did Mum scold you?” Nick pulled her close, burying his face in her pale hair. For her, Lera knew, he would do anything. “No, princess. Just adult stuff. Go pop on cartoons, I’ll be in soon.” With Maisie gone, silence fell again. “Everything’s changed, you know,” Lera said quietly, sitting again. “There’s a son out there, and he needs a dad. That woman says ‘nothing now’, but give it time—when there’s winter coats to buy or doctor’s bills, she’ll ring. And you’ll go. You’re kind-hearted, Nick—you always have been.” He said nothing. “And the money, Nick? Where are you going to get that?” Lera’s words hit their mark. His business collapsed two years ago—their debts paid from her earnings. He scraped by now, but everything important—home, cars, holidays, the kids’ education—came from her. Even his bank card was one attached to her account. “I’ll figure it out,” he muttered. “Driving Ubers at night? Or dipping into my purse to support your lovechild? I bankroll us, and now you’ll bankroll them—with my money?” “She’s not my mistress!” Nick barked. “It was over six months ago!” “Children have a way of binding people closer than any marriage certificate. Will you go to the hospital when they discharge her?” The question hung in the air. Nick covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know, Lera. Human decency says I should—after all, it’s not the child’s fault.” “And what about human decency toward me? Toward Maisie and the boys? You’ll hold that child, and you’ll get attached. Soon it’ll be weekly visits… then weekends away. You’ll start lying—to me, to the kids.” Nick grimaced. “She’s eight years younger than me, Nick. Thirty-two. She gave you a son—your own, flesh and blood. My sons aren’t yours by blood, as much as you raised them. That boy out there—he is.” Nick protested: “Nonsense. The boys are mine. I raised them.” “Men always want a legacy. Their very own.” “We have Maisie!” “She’s a girl, Nick…” Nick stood abruptly. “Enough! Stop pushing me out the door. I said I’m staying. I can’t just ignore the fact that somewhere there’s my own son. If you want me gone, I’ll leave—right now, pack my things and be gone. But don’t try to blackmail me, Lera!” Lera froze. If she said “leave” now, he would go—foolish, prideful, and broke. But he’d go straight to them. There, he’d be a hero, a savior, father—albeit a penniless one, but theirs. And then she’d lose him for good. Despite the pain, she didn’t want that. The children loved him. She did, too. “SIT,” she whispered. “No one’s throwing you out.” He hesitated, breathing heavily, then sat. “Lera, I’m sorry. I’m such a fool…” “A fool,” she agreed. “But MY fool…” That evening, Lera helped Maisie with homework, checked work emails… but her thoughts kept drifting. She pictured the other woman, young and beautiful, probably feeling victorious. “We don’t want anything!”—the most damning move of all. No demands, no drama, just presenting the facts. That pricks a man’s pride—makes him want to be the hero. Nick tossed and turned at night; Lera lay awake, staring into the dark. She was forty-five: gorgeous, stylish, successful—but aware that youth was not forever. The future belonged to that other woman. * The next morning was harder still. The boys ate quickly and left. Maisie cornered her father: “Daddy, braid my hair? Mum doesn’t do it right!” Nick obliged, his large hands strangely gentle. Lera sipped her coffee and watched: here was her husband—warm, familiar, hers. And out there was another child, who had the same claim. How was this fair? “Nick,” she said, as Maisie rushed off to dress. “We need to decide—now.” He set the brush aside. “I thought about it all night.” “And?” “I’m not going to the hospital.” Lera felt something tighten in her chest, but hid it. “Why?” “Because if I go, I’ll give hope—to her, to myself, to that child. I can’t be a part-time dad, split between two homes. I don’t want to lie to you, Lera. I don’t want to steal time from Maisie or the boys.” He looked at her, exhausted. “I chose you eleven years ago. You’re my wife. This—this is my family.” “And the boy?” Even she was surprised to hear herself ask it. “I’ll pay support. Through the courts or with a bank account—whatever’s needed. But visits? No. Better he grows up never knowing me, than waiting for a father who’s just watching the clock, desperate to get home to his real family. That’s fairer.” Lera was silent, rolling her wedding ring around her finger. “You’re sure you won’t regret this?” “I probably will,” Nick admitted. “I’ll worry, I’m sure. But if I go, I lose you—and you won’t stand for that. You’re strong, but not made of stone. You’ll start to hate me, and I can’t let that happen.” He crossed the kitchen, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want another life. I want you—and the kids. The rest is the price for my mistake. I’ll pay in money, and only in money. No time. No attention. That’s all I’ve got to give.” She placed her hand over his. “Your own money?” she smirked. “I’ll earn it. I’ll find a way. I’ll never ask for your help with this.” And with that, she was at peace. Her husband may not have behaved honourably toward her, but these were exactly the words she had needed. No sharing. The other woman could deal with her choices. Nick never went to the hospital. The mistress soon flooded his phone with angry voicemails. He told her bluntly: she could expect financial support, nothing more. She hung up, and for half a year—there wasn’t another word from her. Lera was more than satisfied with that.
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