On a blustery January evening, as the last remnants of hope were stripped from the trees outside, Emily sat by the window, gripping a crumpled piece of paper. The note, written in a man’s hurried scrawl, was a goodbye. Five years of marriage dissolved into those few lines. Daniel was gone. He’d packed his things and vanished without a proper explanation, leaving only one phrase: “We’re not meant to be.”
Emily couldn’t understand. Everything had been fine. They’d been saving for a house, supporting each other, sharing their burdens. She’d loved Daniel deeply. And him? He’d simply disappeared, leaving an echoing emptiness behind.
She cried all night. By morning, she forced herself to work, teeth clenched. Then—flowers on her desk. A small gesture, but it stung. “From who?” she asked. “From Oliver, the IT bloke,” her colleagues giggled. Emily frowned. She hadn’t noticed how he always brought her coffee or left little chocolates with notes. Now, flowers. She tossed them in the bin. Too soon.
But things changed. Oliver was persistent yet kind. He never pushed, never demanded—just stayed close. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Emily hesitated. “What if your mum doesn’t like me? I’ve only just divorced…” she worried. “She’s lovely, don’t fret,” Oliver assured.
At first glance, his mother—Margaret—seemed warm and welcoming. Dinner went perfectly. Emily relaxed. When Oliver proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. She’d finally dared to believe happiness was possible.
But a week before the wedding, Margaret called. “Meet me outside your office,” she said. “Don’t tell Oliver.”
Emily stepped out. Margaret waited by her car, clutching a bag. “Probably wedding details,” Emily thought. She was wrong.
“Listen, dear, you’ve reeled my son in far too quickly,” Margaret began, calm but icy.
“Excuse me? He proposed to me,” Emily stammered.
“I don’t know what story you’ve spun, but I won’t hand him over. Walk away now, or things won’t end well.” With that, she left.
Emily stood frozen. The next day, Daniel called.
“We need to talk,” he said.
They met. He chatted idly, even smiled. Then he kissed her cheek and walked away. “What was that?” Emily wondered. She had no answer.
That evening, Oliver waited at her flat.
“Hi,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.
“You seem off,” Emily said warily.
“Come here.” He led her to the kitchen, placing his phone on the table. “Look.”
A photo. Her and Daniel. Hugging. When they’d said goodbye. Taken secretly.
“Your mother did this,” Emily whispered, voice breaking.
“Yes. But you let him close. I can’t ignore that,” Oliver said coldly.
“You don’t trust me?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“I don’t know what to trust. We’re postponing the wedding. I’m leaving.” He grabbed his bag and walked out.
Emily was alone. Again. Like some cruel cycle. Every time she dared to trust, to hope, to open her heart—someone knocked her down. She sat at the kitchen table, replaying Oliver’s words, Margaret’s warning, Daniel’s smirk, that damning photo.
“Maybe I’m cursed,” she thought, staring into the dark beyond the window.
Outside, the wind howled. The storm raged on.
