On a January evening, as the blizzard outside stripped the trees of their last hopeful leaves, Emily sat by the window, clutching a crumpled note in her hands. The short message, scribbled in a man’s handwriting, was a farewell. Five years of marriage dissolved into those few lines. Daniel had left. Just packed his bags and vanished without a proper explanation. All he’d said was, “We’re not meant to be anymore.”
Emily couldn’t understand. Everything had been fine. They’d saved for a flat together, supported each other, shared the daily grind. She’d loved Daniel truly. And him? He’d simply disappeared, leaving nothing but emptiness and pain.
She cried all night. By morning, gritting her teeth, she dragged herself to work. And there, on her desk—flowers. A small gesture, but it stung. “Who sent these?” she asked. “From James, our IT chap,” her colleagues giggled. Emily was surprised. She hadn’t noticed how he brought her coffee every morning or left chocolates with little notes. Now, flowers. She tossed them straight into the bin. Too soon.
But things changed. James was persistent yet kind—never pushing, never demanding, just there. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Emily hesitated. “What if your mum doesn’t approve? I’ve only just divorced…” He assured her, “Mum’s lovely. Don’t worry.”
At first glance, James’s mother—Margaret—seemed warm and welcoming. Dinner went perfectly. Emily relaxed. When James proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. She’d finally let herself believe happiness was possible again.
Then, a week before the wedding, Margaret rang Emily, insisting on meeting outside her office. “Don’t tell James,” she warned.
Emily stepped out to find Margaret waiting by her car, clutching a bag. “Probably wedding details,” Emily thought. But she was wrong.
“Listen, love,” Margaret began, her voice calm but icy. “You’ve reeled my son in far too quickly.”
“I’m sorry—but wasn’t it *him* who proposed?” Emily stammered.
“I don’t know what stories you’ve spun, but I won’t hand him over. Walk away now. I won’t see him hurt,” she said, then left.
Emily stood frozen. The next day, Daniel called.
“We need to talk,” he said.
They met. Talked about nothing. He was calm, even smiling. Kissed her cheek before leaving. “What was *that*?” Emily wondered. No answer came.
That evening, she returned home to find James waiting.
“Hello,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.
“You seem… tense,” Emily said warily.
“Come with me,” he led her to the kitchen, then placed his phone on the table. “Look.”
A photo filled the screen. Her and Daniel, embracing. The moment he’d kissed her—taken without consent, clearly hidden.
“Your *mother* did this—” Emily was on the verge of breaking.
“Yes, she sent it. But *you* let him close. I can’t ignore that,” James said coldly.
“You don’t trust me?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“I don’t know *what* to trust. We’ postponing the wedding. I’m moving out.” He grabbed his bag and left.
Alone again. Like some cruel cycle. Every time she dared to hope, to trust—someone knocked her down. She sat at the kitchen table, replaying James’s words, Margaret’s venom, Daniel’s smirk.
*Maybe I’m cursed. Or just not meant to be happy.* The storm outside rattled the windows, as if laughing at her.
Diary lesson: Some battles aren’t yours to fight. Let go before they bury you.
