**Youre Not Good Enough for My Son**
It all began in Year 8 when our form teacher decided to rearrange the seating plan. Me, Katie Sullivanperpetual C-student and class clownfound myself sharing a desk with Arthur. Arthur Whitmore. The smartest, quietest, most *unreachable* boy in 8B.
He was from another world. His uniform was always pressed, his solutions to starred maths problems flawless, and his gaze carried the calm detachment of someone who already knew all the answers. I was his opposite. My world was school discos, laughing until I cried, and whispering with my mates at the back of the class. Schoolwork barely held my interest.
At first, we sat in silence. He buried himself in textbooks while I doodled in the margins, bored out of my mind. Then one day, I couldnt solve a simple algebra problem and slammed my pen down in frustration.
*”Stuck?”* he asked quietly.
I just sighed, defeated. Without a word, Arthur took my workbook, wrote a few neat lines of working, and slid it back.
*”Look. You just needed to factor it out.”*
That was the beginning. He started helping mefirst with algebra, then physics, then essays. I discovered a different Arthurnot the uptime swot Id imagined, but patient, wry, and far deeper than Id realised. We stayed after school, and hed explain Newtons laws like they were adventure stories.
I fell for him. Hopelessly, completely, *forever.* Soon, I convinced myself he felt the same. He smiled more, cracked dry jokes, and once, walking me home, murmured, *”You know, Katie, the worlds brighter when youre around.”*
Thats when I hatched my mad plan. Id prove myselfbecome someone he could be proud of. A week later, I announced I was gunning for a silver commendation award.
Arthur blinked. *”Seriously?”*
*”Dead serious. But Ill need your help. Tutor me.”*
He agreed. Bringing friends home was strictly forbidden in the Whitmore household, so we studied at mine. First every other day, then daily. Arthur was a merciless tutorno slacking, no shortcuts. I gave up parties, weekends, all of it. Some days, I wanted to quit, but hed say, *”Youre stronger than this, Katie. You can do it.”* And I *did*, because I had a goal and a massive crush on my tutor.
At prom, the headteacher beamed as she handed me my certificateone B in physics, and that silver commendation. I caught Arthurs gaze across the hallpride and something softer shining in his eyes. That night, his hand firm on my waist during our dance, he whispered, *”Im in awe of you. You can do anything, Katie Sullivan.”*
Happiness felt so close.
But one person saw me not as clever or drivenbut as a threat to her sons future. His mother, Evelyn Whitmore, a widow of an RAF pilot, loved Arthur more than life itself. A woman with a spine of steel, ice in her stare, and hair always immaculateI used to wonder if she styled it herself or visited the salon daily. Never dared ask.
From the start, Evelyn looked down her nose at me, ignoring my greetings if we passed in Tesco or the high street.
Of course, she knew about Arthur and mebut pretended I didnt exist. Ill never forget the one dinner at theirs, just before prom. Arthur, nervous, said his mum wanted to *”talk.”*
The table was set with starch-stiff linen, cutlery gleaming. Evelyn, a Crown Prosecutor, conducted the conversation like an interrogation:
*”Katie, where do your parents work? Oh, factory workers Only child, then? Have they bought their council flat?”* Her smile was razor-thin. *”I admire your school efforts, but university is another matter. Arthur must focus on his futurenot distractions.”*
I tried jokes, talked about my teaching degree plans*Arthurs taught me so much!*but felt like a fly in a spiders web. Her eyes said it plain: *Youre not good enough for my son.* Arthur weakly defended me*”Mum, stop”*but it sounded childish. To her, hed always be her little boy.
After A-levels, Arthur left for London, aced the entry exams for Sandhurstjust like his late father. I stayed local, applying for a teaching degree. He wrote me two letters, full of love and plans. Then fate intervened. I discovered I was pregnantour first and last night together.
I wrote to him immediately. His mother replied. In clipped tones, Evelyn stated Arthurs future lay in *”education and service,”* the child was *”solely my responsibility,”* and her family *”couldnt afford a scandal.”* At the bottom, a scribble in his hand: *”Katie, Im sorry. Sort it out. I cant go against them.”*
*Coward.* That single word seared my mind. I didnt chase him. Didnt write again. Pride and hurt smothered whatever love remained. My parents didnt judgethey *supported* me, even in the late ’80s, when having a child out of wedlock meant whispers. Mum hugged me tight and said, *”Babies made in love turn out happy.”* She was right.
My son arrived a week before my 18th birthday. I named him Benedict, gave him my surname, left the fathers name blank. We lived with my parents. Id see Evelyn sometimesshe never so much as glanced our way. Maybe shed convinced herself Ben wasnt her grandson. *Good.* Mum said, *”You cant force love. Dont waste time on them.”*
With my parents help, I trained as a hairdresser, built a clientele. Dad took out a loan so I could open my own salon. Years later, Ben and I moved into our own flat. On holiday, I met Andrewa man who loved us both. We moved to Germany, had a daughter.
Ben grew up serious, driveninheriting Arthurs sharp mind and my fire. He became a brilliant solicitor, his career skyrocketing. I was *proud.* But sometimes, in the quiet dark, Id wonder about the life I *might* have had.
Arthurs path diverged. Rumours trickled backtop of his class, but his military career faltered. The ’90s were harsh on soldiers, and he was too principled, too rigid for the backroom politics. Honesty and intellect meant nothing next to connections. He left the Army after clashing with superiors.
Back in our hometown, he driftedpolice force, engineering, insurance. Never married. After Evelyn died, he lived alone in their old three-bed, a mausoleum of lost potential. He never met Ben. Never knew what an extraordinary man his son became.
That boywho entered my life when I was still a child myselfgot every ounce of love I had. For years, Ben was my joy, my purpose. And he always knew he was born from something rare. Maybe Arthur *had* loved mejust not enough to defy his mother.
Once, when Ben was running his Berlin law firm, he asked, *”Mum what if youd stayed with him?”*
I looked at my brilliant, beautiful sonhis fathers eyesand smiled. *”Then you wouldnt be *you.* We cant choose for others. We live in the moment, do our best, and call it fate.”*
No regrets. My boy was my triumphthe best outcome of those first, fierce, foolish feelings. Let the quiet boy who chose fear over love bear his loneliness. Its his penance. My happiness? Thats my reward for choosing to love life anyway. And lifeshe *always* loves you back.
