It all started in Year 8 when our form teacher decided to rearrange the seating plan. Me, Emily Cartereternal middling student and the class clownended up sharing a desk with Arthur. Arthur Whitmore. The smartest, quietest, and most unattainable boy in 8B.
He was from another universe. Immaculate school uniform, solving starred maths problems without breaking a sweat, with this calm, distant look in his eyes like he already knew the answers to everything. And I was his polar opposite. My world was school parties, laughing till I cried, and whispering gossip with my friends at the back of the class. Schoolwork? Bottom of my list.
At first, we didnt speak. He buried himself in textbooks; I doodled in my exercise book, bored out of my mind. Then one day, I got stuck on a basic algebra problem and threw my pen down in frustration.
“Struggling?” he asked quietly.
I just waved a hand hopelessly. Without a word, Arthur took my book, wrote a few neat lines of working, and handed it back.
“Look. You just had to factorise it.”
After that, the ice broke. He started helping mefirst with algebra, then physics, then essays. I discovered a different Arthurnot some boring swot, but patient, dryly funny, and way deeper than he seemed. Wed stay after school, and hed explain Newtons laws like they were adventure stories.
I fell for him. Hard. Completely. Forever. Soon, I was sure he felt the same. He smiled more, cracked jokes, and once, walking me home, he said, “You know, Em, the worlds brighter when youre around.”
Thats when I got this mad idea. I wanted to be good enough for him. Wanted him to be proud of me. A week later, I announced I was going for a silver medal in my GCSEs.
Arthur blinked. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. But Ill need your help. As my tutor.”
He agreed. His mum had strict rules about bringing friends home, so we studied at mine. First every other day, then daily. Arthur was a harsh tutorno slacking. No more parties, no hanging out. Sometimes I wanted to quit, but hed say, “Youre stronger than this, Em. Youve got this.” And Id keep going, because I had a goal and a massive crush on my tutor.
On results day, the headteacher handed me my GCSE certificateone B in physics, the rest Asand that silver medal. I caught Arthurs eye across the hall. The pride in his stare knocked the breath out of me. That night, during our dance, his arm tight around my waist, he whispered, “Im in awe of you. You can do anything, Emily Carter.”
Happiness felt so close.
But one person saw me not as a smart, driven girl, but as a threat to her sons future. His mother, Margaret Whitmore, a widow and former RAF officers wife, loved Arthur more than life. A woman with a spine of steel, cold eyes, and hair always perfectly coiffed. I used to wonderdid she do it herself or visit the salon daily? Never dared ask.
From the start, Margaret looked down her nose at me, ignoring my greetings if we passed in the shop or on the street.
Of course, she knew about Arthur and me but 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 laid with starched white linen, glasses gleaming. Margaret worked in law, and it felt like an interrogation:
“Emily, where do your parents work? Oh, factory workers Only child? Have they bought their council house?… I understand youve worked hard, but university is another matter. Arthur needs to focus on his studies, not distractions.”
I tried joking, said Id apply to teacher trainingArthur had prepped me wellbut I felt like a fly in a web. Her eyes said it plain: “Youre not good enough for my son.” Arthur weakly defended me”Mum, enough”but it sounded childish. To her, hed always be her little boy to protect.
After school, Arthur left for London, aced the entry exams for Sandhurst, where his late father had trained. I applied to a local teaching college. He sent two letters, full of love and plans for us. But life had other ideas. I found out I was pregnant. Yes, from our firstand lastnight together.
I wrote to him straight away. His mother replied. In stiff, formal tones, Margaret stated Arthur needed to focus on his career, the child was my responsibility, and her family couldnt afford a scandal. At the bottom, a scribble in his hand: “Em, Im sorry. Sort it out. I cant go against my family.”
“Coward,” I thought then, and suddenly, I grew up. I didnt chase him, never wrote again. Pride and hurt outweighed love. Thank God for my parentsno judgement, just support. Even in the late ’80s, having a baby unmarried was shameful, but Mum just hugged me and said, “Babies made in love turn out beautiful and happy.” And mine did.
My son was born a week before my 18th. Named him Benedict, gave him my surname, left “father” blank. Lived with my parents, built a life. Margaret never once acknowledged him. Fine. We decided earlyno begging, no proving. “Cant force love,” Mum said. “Dont waste time on them.”
With my parents help, I trained as a hairdresser, built a client base. Dad took out a loan so I could open a salon. Benedict and I eventually 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, drivengot the best of both parents: his fathers sharp mind, my energy. Became a brilliant lawyer. I was proud, happy. But sometimes, late at night, Id ache for the life I mightve had with Arthur.
His path was different. Bits of news from old classmatestop of his class, but the military didnt work out. The ’90s were rough for soldiers, and he was too principled, couldnt play the game. Got dismissed after clashing with superiors.
He came home, driftedpolice, engineering, insurance. Never married. After his mum died, he lived alone in their old flat, a shrine to lost potential. Never met Benedict, likely never knew what an amazing man his son became.
The boy who came into my life when I was still a kid got all my love. For years, Benedict was my joy, my reason. He knew he was born from something extraordinary. And I believed Arthur had loved mejust couldnt defy his mother.
Once, when Benedict ran a law firm in Berlin, he asked, “Mum, what if youd stayed with Dad?”
I looked at my brilliant, handsome sonhis fathers eyesand smiled. “Then you wouldnt be you. We cant choose for others. We just live with our choices and call it fate. I dont regret mine.”
And it was true. My boy was my triumph, the best outcome of my first, maybe naive, but real love. So let regrets stay with that quiet boy who didnt choose love. His loneliness is his penance. My happiness? My reward for not letting bitterness win. Life always pays you back.
