Divorce is as common as rain in the English countryside, yet when Paul wed Eleanor he thought it would be the final chapter. He adored hershe seemed the very picture of grace and charm. Their son, Oliver, arrived soon after, and Paul fell for the boy with a madness that surprised even him; before the child he could not imagine loving anyone more than his wife. Yet the world of dreams has a way of folding back on itself.
Their happiness was brief. When Oliver turned three and began at the nursery, Eleanor returned to work, and there she met the man who would later untangle Pauls life. She felldeeply, irrevocablyin love. Perhaps she still loved Paul, but not with the same fierce certainty. She never cheated; one afternoon she simply said she was leaving for another.
Paul, dont think I wasnt faithful. I truly hoped this feeling would pass, but it wont. Simon loves me dearly. Im sorry she whispered.
Paul said nothing. What could he say? There was no point in pleading when she had already decided, and arguing would only add bruises to a situation already raw. Their son was the reason to keep a civil peace.
They divorced, and Paul found himself alone. Eleanor tried to reassure him, insisting he would find someone who could value all his qualities and love him truly. Paul, however, had been burned once and swore he would not let another flame scorch him.
Oliver grew, and Paul visited often. The two exspouses arranged everything amicably; Eleanor even waived any claim for maintenance, saying, If you can, give what you can. Guilt must have lingered for the way things turned out. Paul, a responsible man, knew how costly a child could becreche fees, afterschool clubs, and the rising price of a simple loaf. Each month he sent what he could afford.
It was Oliver who first told Paul that his former wife was pregnant. The news arrived like a cold wind in a foggy dream: bitterness, envy, pain, perhaps even a flicker of relief that Eleanors life was moving forward. But joy was out of place. When Eleanor gave birth to a daughter, Simon abandoned them, slipping away to another life, leaving both mother and child behind. They were never marrieda warning bell that Eleanor, blinded by love, failed to hear.
Paul stepped in. He helped with the childs needs, chipped in money that creaked in his already thin wallet, and offered his time. When he collected Oliver, he would also spend an hour with the little girl, escorting her to the doctor or staying while Eleanor rushed off for an urgent errand. They never planned a future together; Paul understood things would never be as before, and Eleanor felt it would be unfair to her exhusband. Yet they kept a friendly tie for Olivers sake.
When the girl turned two and Oliver started school, tragedy struck: a drunken driver ploughed into a bus stop, sending the car into a crowd waiting for the number73. Three people perished, Eleanor among them, before she even reached the hospital. The news hit Paul like a sudden thunderclap. He still felt a lingering affection for herno longer love, but something close. Grief had no room; he had to arrange a funeral and soothe his son.
During the arrangements, Simon, the father of the little girl, announced he would not take her. At a meeting before the burial, he brushed Paul off.
Ive got another family; where would my child fit? he said.
But shes my exwifes daughter, Paul protested.
Its a baby. Shell find a good home, Simon shrugged.
What about other relatives?
Theres Eleanors sister, if anyone wants her. Its not my concernthis isnt about your son.
Paul knew the sister: a chronic drinker living in a crumbling cottage in a Norfolk hamlet, three children of her own, hardly a suitable guardian for a toddler.
When Paul gathered Olivers things, little Veranamed for the fleeting vision of a white dovewatched from the doorway. A neighbour took her in temporarily, but she too declined custody.
Im nearly fifty, my own children are grown. I have no room for this infant, she said.
That night Paul lay awake. Vera was not his blood, yet the father who abandoned her cared not for her; no decent relatives were willing. She would end up in a childrens home, the same place her mother had once fled. The thought tore at his heart.
The next morning Oliver asked, Dad, will Uncle Simon take Vera?
No, Oliver. He cant, Paul replied, always honest, believing the bitter truth was kinder than a lie.
Then what? Will she go to a home? Will they read her stories at night? She hates porridge; can they give her something else? Can we visit?
Paul smiled at his sons compassion. It was rare to see a brother love a sister hed never known. If they were torn apart, that love would die. And when Oliver grew, he would understand how wrong it all had been.
What if Vera lived with us? Paul suggested.
Really? But Im not her father.
We could try, Paul said.
After navigating the maze of social services, Paul secured guardianship of Vera. When he fetched her from the neighbours house, she ran into his arms and clung tightly, knowing him better than any father ever had. The moment she saw her brother, she beamed; though she was too young to grasp that her mother was gone, that ignorance made the grief easier to bear than it would have been for Oliver.
Months later Vera began calling Paul Dad, and he never corrected her. He had taken on the role, so the title fit. Her biological father sent occasional, meagre payments, but Paul needed none of that. He found a place for Vera in a local nursery, fitting her into his world as seamlessly as a dream folds into waking.
Vera grew, her features echoing Eleanors. Paul, Oliver, and Vera loved each other fiercely, and each day Paul felt he had made the right choice. He loved Vera as if she were his own child, and anyone unaware of the past would never suspect she was not his by blood. Sometimes Paul even thought she looked like him.
When Vera turned six, Paul finally met the person he had promised himself he would never love again. He swore he would never marry, never let anyone into his life, yet love slipped through the cracks of his resolve.
His new partner accepted both boys and the girl, and Vera, after a while, began calling her Mum, because she had no memory of her own. Oliver treated his fathers wife with respectful kindness. Paul asked for nothing more from his son.
He never lied to Vera, just as he never lied to Oliver. Vera understood she was not his biological daughter, yet she embraced him as such. Only when she grew older did she fully realize what Paul had done: after tragedy, he had taken not only his own son but also a completely unrelated girl and raised her as his own.
One evening, as Vera finished school and prepared for university, she approached her father.
Thank you, Dad, she said.
For what, love? Paul smiled.
For not abandoning me, for giving me a happy childhood, for keeping me with my brother, for becoming my true father and bringing a mother into my life.
Pauls eyes glistened with tears.
Youre welcome, Vera. And thank you for coming into my life. I finally have a real, loving daughter.
