It all began in the eighth year of school, when the teacher decided to rearrange the seating. I, Katherine “Katie” Sutherby, the eternal middling student and the life of the class, found myself sharing a desk with Arthur. Arthur Whitmore. The smartest, quietest, and most unattainable boy in Year 8B.
He was from another world. His uniform was always impeccably pressed, he solved the trickiest maths problems with ease, and his calm, distant gaze made him seem like someone who knew the answers to everything. I was his opposite. My world revolved around school parties, laughing until I cried, and gossiping with my friends at the back of the classroom. Academics were the last thing on my mind.
At first, we barely spoke. He buried himself in his books while I doodled in my notebook, bored out of my mind. Then one day, I couldnt solve a simple algebra problem and flung my pen down in frustration.
“Stuck?” he asked quietly.
I just waved my hand hopelessly. Without a word, Arthur took my notebook, wrote a few neat lines in the margin, and handed it back.
“Look. You just had to factor it out.”
From that moment, the ice began to thaw. He started helping mefirst with algebra, then physics, then essays. I discovered a different Arthurnot the dull bookworm, but a patient, witty, and surprisingly profound boy. We stayed after school, and he explained Newtons laws as if they were chapters from an adventure novel.
I fell in love. Hopelessly, recklessly, forever. Soon, I began to think he felt the same. Arthur smiled more, cracked jokes, and once, walking me home, he said, “You know, Katie, the world seems brighter when youre around.”
That was when I hatched a mad plan. I decided I would become his equal. I wanted him to be proud of me. A week later, I announced I was aiming for a silver certificate at graduation.
Arthur looked surprised. “Youre serious?”
“Absolutely. But I cant do it without you. You have to tutor me.”
He agreed. Bringing friends home was strictly forbidden to Arthur, so we studied at my houseevery other day at first, then every day. He was a tough teacher, never letting me slack. I had to give up parties and idle chatter. Sometimes I wanted to quit, but hed say, “Youre strong, Katie. You can do this.” And I did, because I had a goal and a deep love for my tutor.
At graduation, the headmistress handed me a certificate with just one Bin physicsand that silver certificate. I caught Arthurs gazehe looked at me with such pride and tenderness, it stole my breath. That evening, his arm tight around my waist as we danced, he whispered, “Im in awe of you. You can do anything, Katie Sutherby.”
For a moment, happiness felt within reach.
But there was one person who didnt see me as clever or determinedonly as a threat to her sons future. His mother, Evelyn Whitmore, a widow and the wife of a decorated RAF pilot, loved her son fiercely. A woman with a rigid posture, cold eyes, and hair always perfectly coiled. I often wondered if she styled it herself or visited the hairdresser daily, though I never dared ask.
From the start, Evelyn looked down her nose at me, barely acknowledging my greetings if we crossed paths at the shops or in the street.
Of course, she knew about Arthur and me but acted as if I didnt exist. I never forgot the one dinner I had at their house. Arthur, nervous, had invited me shortly before graduationhe said his mother wanted to talk.
The table was set with a starched white cloth, the glasses and cutlery gleaming. Evelyn, who worked for the Crown Prosecution Service, conducted the conversation like an interrogation.
“You say your parents work at the factory, Katie? Are you their only child? Have they bought their council house yet? I understand youve tried hard in school, but university is far more serious. Arthur must focus on his studies, not distractions.”
I tried to laugh it off, talking about my plans to study teachinghow well Arthur had prepared mebut I felt like a fly caught in a spiders web. Her eyes said it plainly: *Youre not good enough for my son.* Arthur weakly defended me”Mother, enough”but it sounded childish. To her, he was still the little boy she had to protect from bad influences.
After school, Arthur left for London, breezing into a prestigious military academyjust like his late father. I enrolled at the local teachers college. He wrote me two letters, full of love and hopes for our future. But fate had other plans. I discovered I was expecting a childconceived in our first and, as it turned out, last night together.
I wrote to the new cadet at once. His mother replied. In a clipped, formal tone, Evelyn informed me that Arthur must focus on his education and future service, that the child was solely my responsibility, and that her family could not afford such a scandal. Beneath her words, he had scribbled, *”Katie, Im sorry. Deal with this yourself. I cant go against my family.”*
*”Coward,”* I thought in that moment, and suddenly I knew it was time to grow up. I didnt chase Arthur, didnt write again, never sought him out. Pride and hurt outweighed love. My parents never judged meinstead, they supported my decision to keep the baby, even though having a child out of wedlock in the late 1980s was still a disgrace. When I told my mother about the pregnancy and the Whitmores response, she hugged me tight and said, “Children conceived in love are always beautiful and grow up happy.” And so it was.
My son was born a week before my eighteenth birthday. I named him Benedict, gave him my surname, and left the fathers name blank. Of course, I lived with my parents. Id see Evelyn occasionally, but she never once glanced my way. She had convinced herself my child was not her nephew. But we never fought for acknowledgment. “You cant force love,” my mother said. “Dont waste your energy on them.”
With my parents help, I took hairdressing courses, built a clientele, and later opened my own salon with a loan from my father. Life moved on. Benedict and I eventually got our own flat. Years later, on holiday, I met another manAndrewwho loved both me and my son. We moved to Germany, where our daughter was born.
Benedict grew up serious and driven, inheriting the best of both of ushis fathers sharp mind and my relentless spirit. He became a brilliant solicitor, his career soaring. I was proud, truly happy. But sometimes, late at night, a strange longing would wash over mea fleeting ache for the life I might have had with his father.
Arthurs path was different. I heard scraps about him from old friends. He excelled in school, but his military career faltered. The 1990s were hard on servicemen, and he was too principled, too rigidunwilling to play political games. He was discharged after a clash with superiors.
Back in our hometown, he driftedtried the police force, engineering, insurancebut nothing stuck. He never married. After Evelyns death, he lived alone in their old three-bedroom house, which became a mausoleum of his lost hopes. He never saw Benedict, never knew the remarkable man his son became.
The boy who entered my life when I was still a child myself received all the love I had to give. For years, Benedict was my joy, my purpose. He knew from the start he was born from extraordinary love. And though I believed Arthur had loved me, he simply hadnt the strength to defy his mother.
Once, when Benedict was running a successful law firm in Berlin, he asked, “Mum, what if youd stayed with Dad?”
I looked at my accomplished, handsome sonhis fathers sharp eyesand smiled.
“Then you wouldnt be you. And I wouldnt be me. We dont get to choose for others. We just live the moment, do what we can, and call it fate. I made my choice, and Ive no regrets.”
And it was true. My boy was my triumph, the finest outcome of my firstperhaps naïve, but sincerelove. So let regrets stay with that quiet, top-of-the-class boy who once lacked the courage to choose love. His loneliness is his penance. My happiness is my reward for embracing life without bitterness.
Now I knowif you love it, life loves you back.
