It all began in Year 8, when our form teacher decided to rearrange the seating. I, Katie Whitmoreeternal middling student and the lifeblood of our classfound myself sharing a desk with Arthur. Arthur Blackwood. The cleverest, quietest, most unreachable boy in 8B.
He was from another universe. His blazer was always crisply pressed, he solved starred equations without blinking, and his calm, distant gaze made you think he knew the answers to everything. I was his opposite. My world was school discos, laughing till I cried, and whispering with my mates at the back of the classroom. Studying was the last thing on my mind.
At first, we didnt speak. He buried himself in textbooks while I doodled in my exercise book, bored out of my skull. Then one day, I couldnt solve a basic algebra problem and slammed my pen down in frustration.
Stuck? he asked quietly.
I just waved a hand helplessly. Arthur took my book without a word, scribbled something in neat columns, and slid it back.
Look. You just needed to factor it out.
From then on, the ice thawed. He started helping mefirst with algebra, then physics, then essays. I discovered a different Arthurnot some boring swot, but a patient, wry, unexpectedly deep boy. Wed stay after school, and hed explain Newtons laws like they were adventure stories.
I fell for him. Hopelessly, recklessly, forever. Soon, I was sure he felt the same. He smiled more, cracked dry jokes, and once, walking me home, he said, You know, Katie, the worlds brighter when youre around.
Thats when the mad idea took root. Id make myself worthy of him. I wanted him to be proud of me. A week later, I declared I was going for a silver medal in my exams.
Arthur blinked.
Youre serious?
Deadly. But I cant do it without you. You have to tutor me.
He agreed. His mother forbade him from bringing friends home, so we studied at minefirst every other day, then daily. Arthur was a strict tutor, no leniency. I gave up parties, even my usual chatter. Sometimes I wanted to quit, but hed say, Youre stronger than this, Katie. Youve got this. And Id keep going, because I had a goal and a massive crush on my tutor.
On graduation day, the headteacher handed me my certificateone B in physicsand that silver medal. I caught Arthurs eye across the hall. He looked at me with such pride and tenderness, it stole my breath. That night, his arm tight around my waist during our dance, he whispered, Im in awe of you. You can do anything, Katie Whitmore.
Happiness felt so close.
But there was one person who saw me not as clever or driven, but as a threat to her sons future. His mother, Evelyn Blackwood, widow of an RAF pilot, loved him more than life. A woman with a spine of steel, icy eyes, and hair always immaculate. I used to wonderdid she style it herself or visit the salon daily? I never dared ask.
Evelyn had always looked down her nose at me, never bothering with greetings if we passed in the shops or on the street.
She knew about Arthur and me, of course, but pretended I didnt exist. Ill never forget our one dinner at theirs. Arthur, sheepish, invited me over just before graduationsaid his mum wanted to talk.
The table was laid with starched white linen, glasses gleaming. Evelyn worked in the Crown Prosecution Service, and it felt like an interrogation:
Katie, where do your parents work? Oh, factory workers Only child? Council house or owned? Youve done well in school, but university is another matter. Arthur needs to focus on his studies, not distractions.
I tried jokes, talked about applying to teacher trainingArthur had prepped me wellbut I felt like a fly in a spiders web. Her eyes said it plain: *Youre not good enough for my son.* Arthur weakly defended meMum, enoughbut it sounded childish. To her, he was still her little boy, to be shielded from bad influences.
After school, Arthur left for London, aced the competitive entry to Sandhurst, where his late father had trained. I applied to the local teacher training college. He wrote me two letters, full of love and plans. But fate had other ideas. I found out I was pregnant. Yes, it happened that firstand lastnight together.
I wrote to the new cadet straight away. His mother replied. In cold, formal tones, Evelyn stated that Arthur must focus on his career, that the child was my responsibility alone, and that her family couldnt afford a scandal. At the bottom, a scribble in his hand: *Katie, Im sorry. Sort it out yourself. I cant go against my family.*
*Coward,* I thought then, and suddenly, I knew it was time to grow up. I didnt chase him, didnt write again. Pride and hurt outlasted love. My parents didnt judgethey backed me, even in the late ’80s, when having a baby unmarried was shameful. Mum just hugged me and said, Babies made in love turn out beautiful and happy. She was right.
My son was born a week before my eighteenth birthday. I named him Benedict, gave him my surname, left the fathers name blank. We lived with my parents. Id see Evelyn sometimes, but she never once glanced our way. Shed convinced herself my boy wasnt her grandson. We decided early not to force it. You cant make anyone love you, Mum said. Lets not waste time on them.
With my parents help, I trained as a hairdresser, built up clients. Dad took out a loan so I could open my own salon. Life moved onBenedict and I got our own flat. Years later, on holiday, I met Andrew, who loved us both. We moved to Germany, had a daughter.
Benedict grew up serious, driven. He got the best of both parentshis fathers sharp mind, my fire. He became a brilliant solicitor, his career skyrocketed. I was so proud, so happy. But sometimes, deep at night, Id ache for the life I mightve had with his father.
Arthurs path was different. I heard bits from old friends. He excelled at Sandhurst, but his military career falteredthe ’90s were hard on soldiers, and he was too principled, too stiff for the games officers played. He clashed with superiors, was discharged.
Back in our hometown, he driftedpolice force, engineering firm, insurance agent. Never married. After Evelyn died, he lived alone in their old three-bed, now a tomb of lost dreams. He never saw Benedict, likely never knew what a remarkable man his son became.
The boy whod entered my life when I was still a child myself got all my love. For years, he was my joy, my reason. He knew he was born from extraordinary love. I believed Arthur had loved mejust couldnt defy his mother.
Once, when Benedict ran a top law firm in Berlin, he asked, Mum, what if youd stayed with Dad?
I looked at my brilliant, handsome sonhis fathers sharp eyesand smiled.
Then you wouldnt be you. And I wouldnt be me. We dont choose for otherswe live in the moment, do what we can, and call it fate. I chose, and Ive no regrets.
It was true. My boy was my triumph, the best outcome of my first, maybe childish, but real love. So let regrets stay with that quiet boy who once didnt dare choose love. His loneliness is his burden. My happinessmy reward for not letting bitterness win. Life always returns what you give.
