On a bitter January evening, as a blizzard tore the last leaves of hope from the trees outside, Emily sat by the window, clutching a crumpled note. The paper, scrawled in a man’s handwriting, was a farewell. Five years of marriage dissolved into those ink-stained lines. Thomas had left. Just packed his things and vanished, offering no real explanation. All he said was, “We’re not meant to be.”
Emily couldn’t understand. Everything had been fine. They’d saved for a flat together, supported each other, shared the weight of life. She had loved Thomas deeply. And him? He’d simply disappeared, leaving only emptiness and ache.
She wept all night. By morning, gritting her teeth, she forced herself to work. And there, on her desk—flowers. A small gesture, yet it stabbed at her heart. “Who sent these?” she asked. “From Oliver, the IT bloke,” her colleagues tittered. Emily blinked. She’d never noticed how he brought her coffee each day, how he’d sometimes leave chocolates with little notes. And now—flowers. She tossed them straight into the bin. Too soon.
But things shifted. Oliver was persistent yet gentle. He never pushed, never demanded—just stayed close. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Emily worried. “What if your mum doesn’t approve? I’ve only just divorced…” she fretted. “Mum’s kind, don’t worry,” Oliver assured her.
And at first glance, Margaret seemed warm and gracious. Dinner went perfectly. Emily exhaled. When Oliver proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. She finally believed happiness was possible again.
But a week before the wedding, Margaret called Emily, insisting on meeting outside her office.
“Don’t tell Oliver,” she pressed.
Emily stepped out. Margaret stood by her car, clutching a bag. “Perhaps wedding details,” Emily thought. But she was wrong.
“Listen, love, you’ve reeled my son in far too quickly,” Margaret began, voice calm but icy.
“Excuse me? He’s the one who proposed,” Emily stammered.
“Don’t know what tales you’ve spun, but I won’t let you take him. Walk away now. I won’t see him hurt,” she said, then left.
Emily stood frozen. The next day, Thomas rang.
“We should talk,” he said.
They met. Spoke of nothing. He was calm, even smiled. Then kissed her cheek and walked off. “What was that?” Emily wondered. No answer came.
That evening, she returned home. Oliver was waiting.
“Hi,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“You seem… tense,” Emily murmured.
“Come with me,” he led her to the kitchen. Placing his phone on the table, he said, “Look.”
On the screen—a photo. Her and Thomas. Embracing. From their goodbye. Clearly taken in secret.
“This was your mother…” Emily’s voice trembled.
“Yes, she sent it. But that’s you. 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. A vicious cycle. Every time she dared to hope, to trust, to open up—someone knocked her down. She sat in the kitchen, replaying Oliver’s words, Margaret’s venom, Thomas’s empty gaze, that wretched photo.
“Maybe I’m cursed,” she thought, staring into the dark beyond the window.
Outside, the blizzard raged on.
