Jonathan glanced at his watch, the ticking hands reminding him of the relentless march of time. Emma’s voice broke through his thoughts, warm yet insistent.
“Jonathan, we’re gathering for Stanley’s birthday this Saturday. You’ll join us, won’t you? I’ve invited Eleanor—you seemed to enjoy her company last time, when we were all singing. So, are you coming?” Emma’s smile held a knowing glint.
Jonathan gave a measured nod. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss my brother’s birthday.”
“Saturday at two, then. Don’t be late!”
Stanley, his elder brother, had married Emma two years ago. She was sharp, vivacious, and kind—Jonathan was happy for him. Stanley had always been the one girls fancied—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin. A site manager now, a man who commanded respect.
Jonathan understood—he’d always fallen short in comparison. In height, in charm, in luck. He never resented Stanley for it; he loved his brother fiercely. But life had been less generous to him. The women he fancied never seemed to notice him. Still, he kept pushing—lifting weights at the park gym, working on himself. Yet the gap between them never closed.
What took Jonathan sweat and struggle came effortlessly to Stanley. And now, knowing Jonathan was alone, Emma had invited Eleanor again. Divorced, no children—clearly, his brother and Emma were matchmaking. But Eleanor wasn’t his type. Still, he’d go. Stanley, Emma, and his parents were all the family he had.
On Saturday, the table groaned under homemade pies and roast. Jonathan clinked glasses with Stanley, handing him the sleek sports watch he’d been eyeing.
“Cheers, mate.” Stanley slid it on, admiring his reflection. Emma watched him with adoration.
Jonathan swallowed a bitter thought: *I’ll never have a woman look at me like that. Someone to love me wholly, to believe in me. Someone to share a life with.* Maybe it wasn’t in the cards for him. What did he have to offer? A modest salary, an unremarkable job.
“To you, Stanley,” he raised his glass. “Proud to call you my brother.”
Stanley’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Jon. Hope you find the same someday.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw Emma whisper to Eleanor. Both glanced his way. *Let them stare.*
By evening’s end, he’d drunk more than he should’ve. Not heavily, but enough. And somehow, he’d agreed to walk Eleanor home.
“Jonathan, it’s practically on your way,” Emma had urged. Stanley chimed in: “Go on, be a gentleman.”
*Bloody hell,* he thought. The night was warm, their conversation surprisingly light. Then rain lashed down.
“Oh, blast!” Eleanor laughed, sprinting to her doorstep. “Come in, dry off. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Against his better judgment, he stepped inside.
The warmth, the tea, the closeness—it all blurred his resolve. Eleanor moved nearer, her smile coaxing. She unfolded a duvet, fussing with the corners. Jonathan watched, detached. *Why am I here?*
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I can’t have children. We’re the same—unwanted, aren’t we? Maybe that’s why we fit.”
And he believed her. Maybe this was it. No point dreaming of miracles.
—
Weeks later, work consumed him. Until Eleanor called, voice brittle. “Jonathan, I need you. I’m lonely.” Guilt gnawed at him. He went, though every visit left him hollow. *Is this my lot?*
Then the office shook things up.
“New starters Monday,” his manager announced. “Oliver Wright and Lillian Hart. Who’s taking whom?”
“Oliver’s with me,” cut in Andrew. “No room for girls on site surveys.”
Jonathan stifled irritation. Fine. His team already had a bloke and two women. A third wouldn’t hurt.
Next morning, desks shuffled. Oliver strode in—confident, crisp. Then Lillian entered, and Jonathan nearly laughed.
*Christ, she’s just like me.*
Petite, a smattering of freckles, a stubborn upturn to her nose. Hair tied in a messy ginger ponytail.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “where might I find Jonathan Reed, head of structural design?”
His heart lurched at the sound of his name in her voice.
“That’d be me. Welcome, Lillian.”
He tested her—routine for new hires—and she aced it. A week later, under crushing deadlines, she matched his team stride for stride. Quick to learn, quicker to tease.
“Jonathan, did I nail this?” Her eyes sparkled. *Did I impress you?*
For the first time, he felt *seen*.
Then Eleanor called.
“Jonathan, we need to talk.”
Dread pooled in his gut. At her flat, she was solemn. “I thought we were together. You stayed over. You *owe* me an explanation.”
His jaw tightened. “We never made promises.”
Her next words struck like a hammer.
*How?* Just as he’d met someone who lit him up inside. Someone whose gaze made him feel invincible.
“Eleanor, you *told* me you couldn’t have children.”
Her laugh was brittle. “Turns out I can. And you’re the father. Will you abandon us?”
—
The next day, Lillian bubbled with excitement. “Jonathan, there’s a gig tonight. Fancy it?” They’d grown close—first names, shared jokes. Her hand fit perfectly in his.
But now—
“Lillian, I have to tell you something.”
Her smile faded as he confessed.
Silence.
Then—
“Jonathan,” she said quietly, “if you don’t love her, staying won’t make anyone happy. But it’s your choice.”
He chose.
Eleanor was furious, but he stood firm. “I’ll support my child. But my heart isn’t yours.”
Months later, he married Lillian. Stanley and Emma were stunned—Eleanor had spun a different tale. Yet life unfolded kindly. Eleanor had a daughter, Margaret, and later, a happy marriage. “You gave me motherhood,” she admitted once.
Jonathan and Lillian had two sons. He was there for Margaret always—Lillian never begrudged it. Sometimes, watching his wife with their boys, he wondered: *Where would I be without them?*
Gone. Invisible. A shadow of himself.
But happiness, he learned, was worth the wait.
