He took their son with him—but it was just a dream…
Emily met James at a dance in the local pub. He noticed her straight away—tall, slender, laughing, with bright eyes. He stuck by her all evening, and when it was time to leave, he offered to walk her home.
“Fancy a walk tomorrow evening?” he asked as they said goodbye.
“Come round,” she replied softly, her heart fluttering.
That’s how their story began. In a small village, gossip travels fast—soon everyone knew Emily had a sweetheart. People whispered:
“They’ll be married before long. He’s smitten. And why not? They make a good pair, both serious about life.”
Before long, James proposed. They had a lively wedding, the whole village turning out. The young couple settled into the house James had built—he was handy like that, having spent years working with his dad on construction. Soon, they had a son. Life was good. For a while.
But over time, James started spending more evenings at the neighbours’—helping out, fixing things. There was always a drink offered. Generously. At first, it was harmless, but slowly, it became a habit.
“James, enough of this,” Emily would say. “I’m tired of seeing you tipsy every night.”
“Don’t make a fuss—just a few pints with the lads. I still do everything here, don’t I?”
Their son grew older, Emily went back to work, leaving the boy with his gran. But James kept “helping.” Night after night, he’d come home worse for wear. The marriage began to fray. Arguments became routine. Once, they even separated for a week, but for their son’s sake, she took him back. He promised to change. And for a while, he did—until he didn’t.
Emily thought about leaving more than once. But their boy adored his father. When sober, James was brilliant with him—teaching, playing, building. For her son’s sake, she endured. And she hoped—maybe he’d come to his senses. Maybe the caring man she’d married would return.
But time and exhaustion took their toll. James grew sluggish, weak.
“Let’s see a doctor,” Emily urged.
“It’s nothing. I’ll rest, it’ll pass. I’m not old yet.”
By the time he got checked, he could barely leave the bed. The diagnosis was grim. The doctor shook his head.
“Why did you wait so long? I’m afraid we’re out of time…”
Emily nursed him to the end—pain, helplessness, tears, all tangled together. Then James was gone. The whole village came to his funeral. Even those who’d disapproved of his drinking still respected him—as a man, as a craftsman.
On the fortieth day, Emily dreamed of him. He stood in the shadows and said:
“How’s life without me? Enjoy it while you can… But remember—I’ll take our son with me.”
She woke drenched in sweat. Rushed to the boy’s room. Twelve-year-old Oliver slept peacefully. She never told anyone about the dream. But after that, she guarded him fiercely. Watched over him, fretted over every little thing. James never appeared in her dreams again. The memory faded… but the unease stayed.
Six months later, Oliver didn’t come home from school. A car. An accident. He was gone.
Emily shattered—grief clawing at her chest, choking her, stealing sleep. After the funeral, she barely spoke. It took months just to breathe again. Then, slowly, life crept back in.
She married a widower with two daughters. Tried to be a good mother. Later, they had a son together. On the surface, things settled. But her heart never truly mended. Oliver stayed with her, always. Her first boy. Taken by his father. The man who’d once been her everything.
Now Emily has grandchildren. They visit, laugh, chase each other in the garden. And she smiles. But when she dreams of Oliver at night—she cries. Because now she believes. Some dreams are warnings. And though you can’t change them, you learn to carry them. To live… anyway.
