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Not even love?
His jaw clenched. The clomp of his boots echoed hollowly on the sidewalk as he began to trot down the hill toward home, back to the reality that was his daily life. There was no way that he might care that much for Tess, nor she for him. Love was an overrated emotion, anyway. His mother had always insisted that his father had loved her, yet Michael had never seen him demonstrate anything but disrespect—when he was sober. When he was drunk, which was most of the time, he was just plain cruel.
That was another reason why Michael wanted to succeed. It was his fondest wish to provide well for his mother in her old age. She had worked tirelessly to raise him, practically alone, and she had earned a rest. Soon he’d be able to give it to her. Soon he’d get the promotion he’d been working so hard for.
He slowed his pace and began to whistle a tune. His life hadn’t been easy but he’d come a long way since his upbringing as one of the immigrant children who were disparagingly called wharf rats. Someday, Lord willing, he’d be able to put that all behind him and never look back.
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