I could no longer bear his anger, but life gave me a second chance.
Our flat in Manchester was like any other evening: me, Emily, cleaning up after dinner, my husband James watching TV, and our son Oliver revising for his exams. But that night, everything changed. A conversation about visiting my parents turned into a row—the final straw. My life with James, filled with his temper and indifference, had shattered. Yet fate unexpectedly offered me a new chance at happiness. Now, standing on the brink of a fresh start, my heart races with fear and hope.
I stepped into the living room, twisting the edge of my apron. James, as usual, sprawled on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen.
“James, Mum called,” I ventured. “Dad’s ill—we need to go to their village. Help with the farm, the hay…”
James shot up, hurling the remote to the floor. His face darkened with fury.
“I couldn’t care less about your parents’ hay!” he roared. “Next week, we’re going to my mother’s, and that’s final!”
“I can’t turn them down,” I murmured. “I’ll go alone, then join you after.”
He choked on his anger, lost for words. Without another glance, I turned and walked to the bedroom, though inside, I seethed. By morning, my life had tipped beyond repair.
Back in my younger days, naive and soft-hearted, I’d fallen for James. We met at a university party—I studied teaching, he trained as an engineer. His sharp temper had seemed like strength back then, and I, smitten, had smoothed over his outbursts. “Emily, he’s rough—never satisfied,” my friends warned. “Think carefully!” But I didn’t listen, convinced love would fix him. After we married, we settled in Manchester. Oliver was born. The early years were nearly happy. But with time, James grew unbearable.
I worked as a primary school teacher, adored my students, and they loved Miss Emily Thompson. James, an engineer at a factory, endlessly complained. “They don’t value me, Em,” he’d say. “I pitch ideas, and they laugh!” I tried soothing him, but he’d snap: “Oh, you’re siding with them? Teaching kids doesn’t take much brains!” His words stung, but I bit my tongue to keep the peace.
Then came the sackings—one job after another, always clashing with colleagues. At home, he turned vicious—shouting, blaming me for not standing by him. I endured it for Oliver, unwilling to let our son grow up fatherless. But love had long dwindled, and I realized my mistake—mistaking infatuation for the real thing. James loved only himself and couldn’t stomach criticism.
Our son grew up. After one row too many, he said: “Mum, why do you put up with him? It’s time you left.” I was stunned he’d noticed. “Son, I didn’t want you raised without a father,” I replied. But he shot back: “Mum, he’s cruel to you—barely notices me.” His words haunted me.
That final evening began with my call home. Learning Dad was ill, I resolved to go. James erupted, his rage crashing over me like a storm. Morning came—I packed a suitcase while he barged in, hurling abuse. I wept but held firm. He slammed out, and I called a cab, fleeing to my parents. I confessed everything to Mum, begging her not to tell Dad—he was frail enough already.
“Emily, this isn’t a life,” Mum whispered, holding me. “You deserve better.”
Two months later, our divorce was settled. James rang with threats, but I’d moved towns. Oliver stayed in his uni halls, refusing to speak to his father. I found a job at a small school, rented a flat, and lost myself in teaching. The children saved me—their smiles dulled the ache.
Days before New Year’s, walking home from school, I spotted a man stumbling from his car before collapsing. I rushed over, propping his head with my bag, and dialled for an ambulance.
“Relation to him?” asked the paramedic. “Will you come to the hospital?”
“I was just passing—on my way from school,” I stammered. “I don’t know him.”
“Leave your number, just in case,” he urged.
On January 2nd, an unknown number rang. Thinking it was Oliver, I answered—but a man’s voice spoke instead.
“Emily? Happy New Year. It’s Richard. You saved my life by calling the ambulance. I’d like to meet—if you’d visit me in hospital.”
I hesitated—I’d nearly forgotten the incident. Kindness often pushed me to help, but this call felt different.
“Alright, I’ll come,” I said.
At his bedside, I found a man in his fifties, silver-haired but bright-eyed. Richard stared at me like I was a miracle.
“Hello, I’m Emily. How are you feeling?”
“Thanks to you—brilliant,” he smiled. “You’ve no idea how grateful I am.”
Richard was visiting for work. During his stay, I visited often. We talked about everything, and I felt something unfamiliar—closeness. Before discharge, he said:
“Emily, I won’t leave without you. What’s keeping you here? I’ve a house, a job—there’s a school nearby. Oliver could come; there’s room. I live with my father—he’d love you.”
Richard admitted he’d lost his wife and daughter in a crash seven years prior. Since then, he’d been alone—until me. His words cracked something open in me. This wasn’t pity. It was real—strong, new love, the kind I’d never known.
“I think I’ll say yes,” I whispered, smiling. “There’s nothing for me here anymore.”
At forty-two, I stand at the edge of a new life. Richard gave me hope. Finally, I have my chance at happiness. My soul, worn thin by years of hurt, is waking up. And for the first time in years, I believe in the future.
