Emily had always been an independent and well-behaved child. Her parents worked long hours, so she’d come home from school, heat up some soup, eat, and do her homework. Sometimes she’d even cook pasta herself. She’d been doing this since year one.
In her final year of sixth form, a few university students came to her school for teaching placements. History was taught by a tall, serious bloke named Daniel Whitmore—glasses, grey suit, the lot. The lads nicknamed him “Bookworm,” snickered behind his back, and tried to disrupt his lessons. But by the end, they were hanging on his every word. He taught history like no one else—asked questions, made them think, pushed them to debate how things could’ve turned out differently.
The boys were hooked. For the first time, someone let them have a say, even if it was just talk. Daniel reeled them in when their ideas got too wild. Soon, they couldn’t wait for history lessons.
Emily couldn’t take her eyes off him. She started reading history books just to keep up. One day, she worked up the courage to speak. Daniel praised her, saying if reforms had gone her way, society would’ve been different—though he admitted it wouldn’t have been possible back then.
“History can’t be rewritten,” he said knowingly. “But textbooks can be edited to highlight the right events.”
Then his placement ended, and Emily lost interest in history. One afternoon, walking home, she bumped into Daniel hurrying toward her.
“Hello, Emily,” he greeted.
Her heart leapt—he remembered her name.
“Are you headed to school? Lessons are over,” she mumbled.
“No, I wanted to see you.”
Her eyes widened, cheeks flushing.
“You going home? I’ll walk you.”
They strolled side by side as he asked about school, her friends, her plans.
“Not history, then? I thought you’d taken a liking to it. I’ve got some good books—could lend you a few.”
Her heart pounded. Was he inviting her over? Not Sophie Wilkinson, the prettiest girl in class—her, Emily Carter, “Cricket,” as her dad fondly called her. She barely dared look at him.
“Thanks, but I’m applying for economics…” she murmured. “But I’d love to borrow the books.”
“Good. Next time, I’ll bring some—my picks, if that’s alright.”
Next time? Would they really meet again?
“Will there… be a next time?” she blurted, immediately mortified.
“Of course. If you’d like.” He smiled, and suddenly he looked boyish, almost her age.
“Call me Daniel. We’re not at school anymore. I’m not your teacher. This your place?”
She nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. He said goodbye and turned to leave.
“Daniel—when will you come again?”
He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number. I’ll call.”
He didn’t call. Texted days later. They met a few more times before exams—hers for A-levels, his at uni. They saw each other again after her prom. She’d kept their meetings secret, but eventually told her friends, who were green with envy. None of them had an older boyfriend.
Emily started uni, still seeing Daniel. When her mum found out, she fretted, insisting on meeting him. Daniel—serious, responsible, a teacher—won them over. No bad habits, reliable. Mum relaxed. Emily floated on love.
They married in her third year. Kids could wait until after graduation. Daniel loved order—jars aligned, books stacked, towels hung just so. Gently, he’d remind Emily not to leave things lying about. She played along, then started doing it to please him.
One day, he walked into the bathroom after her and called sharply.
“Emily, I’ve asked you to wipe the floor after a shower.”
A few droplets gleamed on the tiles.
“Sorry, I’ll do it next time. You’re showering after me anyway.”
“Not next time—now. Where’s the mop?”
His grey eyes, no glasses (he didn’t need them; they just made him look older), stared coldly.
“You’re serious? It’ll dry in seconds.”
He wasn’t joking. His glare turned icy. She shrank, grabbing the mop.
“And hang the towel.” He pointed at the damp one slung over the tub.
“I was about to—you interrupted me!”
Under his stare, she straightened it meticulously. Burning with shame, she fled. He’d scolded her like a child, like a naughty kitten.
Plates had to be stacked by size, laundry folded precisely. She’d scan the kitchen before leaving, adjusting everything. If she forgot, he’d make her redo it. No daytime affection—just a manicured hand warding her off.
She realised she didn’t know him. Worse, she didn’t love him. She’d liked the thrill of dating a teacher, an older man, envied by friends. That wasn’t love. She was shocked to learn he got manicures, buffed his nails. Since when did men do that?
Living on eggshells exhausted her. If this continued, she’d go mad. She planned to talk—then found out she was pregnant. Almost thirty, and finally a baby! Maybe he’d change. She’d grown used to neatness anyway.
But it worsened. Daniel obsessed over her diet, her routine. He once dug a pizza box from the bin, accusing her of poisoning their child. Now, if she craved “junk,” she’d sneak to a café or scarf it outside.
With a baby, keeping house was impossible. Daniel never yelled—just pointed at stray socks, messy tables, unwashed dishes. Even alone, she couldn’t relax. The second little Timothy slept, she’d scramble to tidy, dreading his return.
Mum praised her new tidiness, adored her son-in-law. When Tim started walking, Emily trailed him, picking up toys. The final straw? Daniel checked her phone.
“You don’t trust me? What are you even looking for? This is humiliating!”
She snapped. While he was at work, she packed and left for her parents’. He followed. Mum took his side.
“He doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat, earns well. Millions of women would kill for this! What more do you want? Go back. You’d deprive Tim of his dad?”
“I can’t. He’s obsessive. A robot. Scheduled sex, lights off. I hate him!”
Unexpectedly, Dad backed her. “Let her stay. Look at her—she’s a shadow.”
She did. At first, she still straightened things, hung laundry in perfect rows.
Daniel visited, pleading, bringing toys. Tim hid behind her. Mum nagged constantly. Life there wasn’t easier.
With Tim starting nursery soon, she decided to leave town. Daniel threatened to take him, calling her slovenly.
She filed for divorce. It dragged, but they split. A job offer came with a shared flat in another county. She braced to tell Mum. Dad stepped in.
“Go, but alone. Leave Tim with us for now. Nursery germs—he’ll be ill nonstop.”
She agreed. Called daily, fretted when he was sick. Bought a used car to visit anytime.
On holiday leave, driving home, she stopped at a roadside café. When she returned, a tyre was flat. Nearly crying, she cursed stopping.
A blue BMW pulled up. A young man stepped out.
“Trouble?”
“Flat tyre.”
“Got a spare?”
He changed it swiftly. She watched, grateful.
“You’re headed to Norwich? Same as me.”
She fumbled for cash.
“Don’t.”
“Then how can I thank you?”
“Dinner with me?”
He was younger. Obviously.
“I’m older, married, with a kid.”
“Just dinner.” He smiled. “Give me your number.”
She did. Two days later, he rang.
Mum sniffed as she dressed up. “Where’s this going?”
“Nowhere.” She swapped the dress for a cotton one. Not a date. Just gratitude.
“You look lovely,” he said when they met. “Husband doesn’t mind?”
She laughed—something she never did with Daniel.
They dined, chatted. She mentioned living away, visiting for Tim. He ordered her wine, drank juice himself, then asked her to dance. Slow music played; only they moved. She didn’t care. Felt free.
She liked him. But he was too young. A fling. Yet why not? Thirty-four, and when was the last time she’d felt like this?
They kissed outside. “This means nothing,” she told herself. “I’ll leave, forget.”
Mum noticed her glow. “Running off already? Tim waited up. Acting like a teen!”
“Stop. I’m not a child.”
But Mum ranted. “Divorced a good man for this? Disgraceful. Daniel’s visiting tomorrow.”
Daniel arrived, stiffThe next morning, as Emily watched Tim laugh with the young man who’d brought such light back into her life, she knew—no matter what anyone said—this was where she belonged.
