In a quaint seaside town where the salt of the ocean mingles with the cries of gulls, I, Emily, met my first love during our school years. His name was James, and back then, he was dating my best friend. I never dared to dream of him, and he barely glanced my way. Our paths drifted apart, and I forgot about him—until fate brought us back together in London, where we both studied at university.
“Emily, you’re just as lovely as ever,” James grinned when we bumped into each other at a café. His words sent my heart racing.
“And you’re still just as cheeky,” I laughed, feeling that familiar spark.
“Remember how you fancied me?” He winked.
“Maybe you fancied me too,” I teased, quickly changing the subject.
We talked all evening, reminiscing about school days. James walked me back to my dorm, and over the next few days, we met up a few more times. Then, just like that, he vanished—as if he’d been swallowed by the Tube. I finished my degree, returned home, and landed a decent job at a local firm. Life was steady, until I ran into him again.
It was a sunny afternoon by the pier. James, in a crisp linen shirt with a guitar slung over his shoulder, was laughing with his mates, clearly celebrating something. His face lit up when he spotted me.
“Emily! Fancy seeing you here!” He hugged me so tight I nearly lost my breath.
“Bit early for a party, isn’t it?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Just living our best lives,” he said with a shrug.
I carried on, but the next evening, James turned up at my doorstep with a bouquet of roses. He didn’t know my flat number, so he just… waited. Like some rom-com extra.
“You startled me!” I giggled, taking the flowers.
“What, am I that terrifying?” He pretended to look wounded.
We grabbed groceries, then spent the evening with wine and candlelight. James looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, raising his glass.
“Oh, don’t start,” I rolled my eyes, but his words warmed me anyway.
“Come on, it’s fate, isn’t it?” he pressed.
“Spare me the theatrics,” I laughed, though part of me wondered if he was right.
We talked till dawn, and I let him stay—not as anything romantic, just so he wouldn’t have to wander home in the dark. The next morning, I left for work with a note and a spare key. Then, of all people, I bumped into his mother, Margaret. I hadn’t seen her since school, and now here she was, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Hello, Emily,” she said stiffly. “Seen my wastrel of a son?”
“I have,” I mumbled, suddenly wishing the pavement would swallow me.
“Drunk, was he?” she sniffed.
“No, perfectly fine,” I lied, scurrying off.
A year later, James and I married. Before the wedding, Margaret was all sweetness—thanking me for “sorting him out,” helping him find a steady job, steering him away from pub crawls. I thought we’d be a proper family. But the moment we announced our engagement, she turned into my personal villain. It was like I’d stolen her precious boy.
James, too, wasn’t the man I’d fallen for. The first year was dreamy, but then he slipped back—boozing, snapping, sometimes worse. And Margaret? She poured petrol on every fire.
“A little tough love never hurt anyone,” she’d scoff whenever I dared complain.
I endured it, swallowing every hurt. Even my own mum urged me to stick it out, and I was too ashamed to tell my friends the truth. Life became a nightmare—I dreaded going home, but where else could I go?
Then one day, walking down the high street, I heard:
“Emily!”
It was Daniel, an old friend from years ago.
“Hi,” I forced a smile, blinking back tears.
“You look like you’ve lost a fiver and found a penny,” he said gently.
“It’s nothing,” I lied.
“Come on, let’s talk,” he nodded towards his car.
I went—anything was better than facing James. Daniel pulled out a bottle of wine and some crisps, and we drove to the beach. Sitting there, I took a sip, and suddenly, it all spilled out—James, Margaret, the fear. Daniel listened, then brushed a curl from my face and hugged me.
“You’re so easy to be around,” I sighed.
“I’ve always wanted to be with you, Emily,” he said softly. “But you were always with James, or marrying him…”
He kissed me, and I didn’t stop him. In that moment, I knew I deserved better. Daniel drove me home, and we agreed to meet the next day. But as I stepped out of the car, I froze—Margaret was perched on a bench, grinning like a cat with cream.
“Caught you, dearie!” she crowed, wagging a finger. “Knew you weren’t good enough for my boy!”
She’d already shown James the photos she’d snapped. When I walked in, his face was pure fury.
“Is it true?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I said, holding his gaze. “Leave. Both of you. This is my home.”
I packed his things and shut the door behind them. Not a word. The next day, I filed for divorce, feeling lighter than air. Now? I’m happier than ever. Daniel loves me—properly. And Margaret, who prayed for our divorce, accidentally gave me the best gift: freedom.
