Emma flinched at the sharp shout:
“Oy, you little mongrel!” Victor raised a heavy shopping bag over a puppy, then turned on her: “Have you lost your marbles? Feeding strays with my groceries?”
One spring day, Emma felt a sudden, aching longing for love.
She stood before the mirror, studying her reflection pensively. “How quickly time flies,” she sighed. “Feels like yesterday I was young as a daisy, and now… well, more like a late-blooming rose. Still lovely, but touched by autumn. Winter’s coming, and then—best take charge of my life!”
Thirty-seven—old enough for wisdom, young enough for beauty. The perfect time for bold steps. But where to find love? At work, her office was all women, street flirtations weren’t her style, and dating apps just felt dodgy.
But they say fortune favours the bold.
And then luck smiled: a new colleague, Thomas Whitmore, joined HR. Tall, slightly portly, with a kind smile and stern glasses. About her age. Emma noticed his calm manner and quiet confidence.
Competition was fierce, though. Take Sophie, the junior HR assistant—young as a fawn, long-legged, with pillowy lips and lashes that could summon a gale with a flutter.
At first, Emma despaired. How could she, cosy and unassuming, rival such a dazzler? Surely Thomas would fall at Sophie’s feet, blinded by her youth and cheeky charm.
But she was wrong. Sophie preened around Thomas like a peacock, flashing cleavage and endless legs, yet he remained unfazed:
“Sophie, was there something you needed? I’ll help once I’ve finished.”
His gaze stayed firm on her eyes, ignoring her antics.
But when Emma once brought her famous apple crumble to work, Thomas brightened:
“Emma, you’re a marvel! Just like my gran used to make. Takes me right back.”
An odd compliment. Emma didn’t want to remind a grown man of his gran—she wanted a partner, not a boy nostalgic for childhood. Still, she reckoned it a start. Better that than silence.
She also noted: Thomas adored home cooking. And cook she could, though it showed—once a size 10, now a solid 14. So, she baked more—treats for colleagues, less for her waistline.
Through pies and roasts, Emma won Thomas’s heart. Clichéd, but effective. Soon came flowers, praise, long talks by lamplight.
“Funny, Thomas,” she admitted one evening. “I’d just started dreaming of love, and there you were. So… solid. And I’ll confess, I thought I stood no chance against Sophie, prancing about like a show pony.”
“Sophie?” Thomas snorted. “Nah, she’s ten a penny. Fake lashes, talon nails, legs always on display. Thinks blokes drool over that. Not my scene. A woman should be real—kind, warm, capable. Like you, Em.”
*My happiness,* she rejoiced. *Lost for a while, but found at last!*
Thomas seemed flawless. But no one’s perfect…
Six months in, wedding bells loomed. They might’ve rung, if not for that grim November evening.
The weather had thrown a tantrum—rain, sleet, wind switching sides like a fickle referee. Emma and Thomas, arms linked, hurried home under an umbrella.
“Look, a kitten!” Emma stopped.
Under a lamppost, shivering, sat a tiny black scrap. Soaked, filthy, pitiful.
“Leave it, Em. I’m freezing and starving,” Thomas tugged her sleeve.
“Just a sec.” She bent down. “Come here, little one.”
“You serious?” Thomas scowled. “Your fiancé’s soaked and hungry, and you’re fussing over strays!”
“We’re taking him,” she said firmly, tucking the kitten into her coat. “Don’t grumble. He’s worse off than us.”
“Mad cat lady,” he muttered, stomping ahead.
Emma followed, whispering to the kitten: “Don’t mind him. He’s decent, just grouchy.”
But at home, Thomas’s decency vanished.
“Feed it if you must, then chuck it out,” he ordered.
“*Chuck him out?* It’s sleeting! He’s helpless!”
“Emma, don’t be daft. Streets are full of strays. Won’t take them all in, will you? Done your bit—now boot it. I’m starving!”
“No, Thomas. I won’t.”
But Thomas wouldn’t budge.
“Can’t stand cats,” he snapped. “Pets should earn their keep—meat, milk, wool. Useless moggies? Not in my house.”
Emma saw a stranger—cold, selfish, calculating.
“First, it’s *my* house. Second, Thomas—did you pick a wife like a *useful appliance*?”
He faltered. “Well, what’s wrong with wanting a wife who keeps a nice home?”
“So *that’s* it,” she said quietly. “I’m a cosy utility. Sophie’s too vain for you—she won’t revolve around you. Get out.”
“Dinner’s off, then?” He smirked. “Fine. Enjoy dying alone with a clowder of cats.”
“Out.”
He left, expecting her to cave. She didn’t.
New Year’s Eve, Emma toasted with the kitten—now named Soot—grown sleek and regal as a panther. When gloom crept in, he’d curl in her lap, purring comfort.
By spring, hope had dimmed. Until new neighbour Paul moved in—Thomas’s opposite: stocky, balding, gruff. Post-divorce, he took the flat across the hall.
“Alright, love?” he’d grunt. “Need a hand? Jack of all trades.”
Emma declined until her kettle died.
“Any good with appliances?”
“Expert level,” he said, rolling up sleeves.
An hour of creative cursing later, the kettle lived. Grateful, Emma invited him for supper. Thus began their romance.
“Brilliant cook,” Paul praised. “But I’m no slouch—cooking, cleaning, DIY. Ex never appreciated it…”
*So I’m not just a housekeeper,* Emma mused. Plus, Paul adored Soot:
“Proper little gent, this one,” he’d say, scratching Soot’s ears.
Emma stayed cautious. They were opposites—but perhaps that worked?
One day, waiting outside Tesco, Emma spotted a scrawny ginger pup eyeing her timidly. She broke off a bit of sausage:
“Here, mate.”
The pup crept closer—just as Paul stormed out:
“Bloody mutt!” He swung his bag, then rounded on Emma: “Gone mental? Feeding strays my bangers? He’ll bite you, then it’s rabies jabs!”
The pup bolted under a bench. Emma stood, gripping the sausage:
“What’s got into you? You like Soot!”
“Are you thick?” Paul barked. “Soot’s yours. This thing’s vermin. Ought to be put down!”
Fury surged. Emma shoved the sausage into Paul’s gaping mouth.
“Here’s your banger. And I’m done. Won’t date an animal hater.”
She scooped up the pup—now named Biscuit for his golden curls—and left Paul spluttering.
Now they were three: Emma, Soot, and Biscuit. Paul tried apologising, failed, called her a daft cow, and vanished.
“Rotten luck,” she’d sigh to her pets. “Though…”
Thomas was selfish, and I nearly married him. Soot unmasked him. Paul was cruel, and I almost trusted him. Thank goodness Biscuit showed his colours.
“Poor mum,” Biscuit would whimper.
“Don’t fret,” Soot purred. “She’ll find her human.”
“How d’you know?”
“I’m a cat. We know things.”
And he did. Next spring, Emma met someone who loved her—and animals—without conditions. Their future? Bound to be grand. But that’s another tale…
**Sometimes, the right choice isn’t between two people—but between kindness and compromise. And kindness always leads you home.**
