Emma had always been an independent child. Her parents worked long hours, so she learned early to manage on her own—coming home from school, reheating soup, doing her homework without being told. By secondary school, she could cook pasta without burning it.
Eleventh form brought a new history teacher, Mr. Daniel Whitmore, tall and serious behind his glasses, dressed in crisp grey suits. The boys mocked him at first, calling him a bookworm, but by the end of his lessons, they were spellbound. He didn’t just recite dates—he made them question, debate, imagine alternate histories. For once, their opinions mattered.
Emma watched him with quiet adoration. She devoured history books just to keep up, just to have something to say. One day, she dared to speak. He praised her idea—*If the reform had gone your way, our society would look entirely different.* But then came the sobering truth: *Yet in those times, change was nearly impossible. We can’t rewrite history—only the textbooks.*
His placement ended. Emma’s interest in history faded. Then, one afternoon, she spotted him rushing toward her on the high street. *”Hello, Emma.”* He remembered her name. Her heart leapt.
*”Are you going to school? Lessons finished ages ago,”* she stammered.
*”No. I came to see you.”*
Her face burned.
*”Heading home? I’ll walk with you.”*
He asked about her studies, her plans. *”Not history? I thought you loved it. I’ve got books you might like.”*
Was he inviting her over? Not pretty Charlotte from class—*her*, Emma Fletcher, nicknamed “Firefly” by her dad.
*”Economics, actually,”* she mumbled. *”But I’d love the books.”*
*”Next time, then. I’ll pick them myself—if that’s alright?”*
*Next time?* Her pulse hammered. *”There’ll be a next time?”*
*”Of course. If you want.”* His smile softened him, made him boyish. She realized he wasn’t much older than her.
*”Call me Daniel. We’re not in class anymore.”* At her doorstep, she nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
*”Daniel… when will you come again?”*
He took out his phone. *”Give me your number.”*
He texted days later. They met a few times before exams swallowed them whole—hers for A-levels, his for university. They next saw each other after her graduation. She’d kept their meetings secret until she confessed to her friends, who seethed with envy. None of them had an older boyfriend.
At uni, she kept seeing Daniel. When her mum found out, she demanded to meet him. Daniel—responsible, tidy, a teacher—won them over. By third year, they married.
Babies could wait, Daniel insisted. Order mattered. Towels hung straight, dishes stacked by size. He’d gently remind Emma not to leave clutter. She mimicked him, eager to please.
Then came the day in the bathroom. *”Emma, I’ve asked you to wipe the floor after showers.”*
A few droplets gleamed on the tiles. *”Next time,”* she said. *”You’re about to shower anyway.”*
*”Now. Where’s the mop?”*
His grey eyes were sharp without his glasses—worn to look older, not to see better.
*”You’re serious?”*
He was. His gaze turned glacial. Shame pricked her skin as she mopped.
*”And hang the towel properly.”* His finger jabbed at the damp heap on the tub.
*”I was going to—you distracted me—”*
Under his stare, she smoothed it on the rack.
The scolding stung. Plates *must* align. Laundry *must* be folded just so. Kisses were for bedtime, lights off.
Emma realized: she didn’t love him. She’d loved the envy he inspired, the grown-up allure. Discovering he got manicures—buffing nails, trimming cuticles—unsettled her. Was this a man?
The tidiness choked her. She’d go mad this way. Then—she was pregnant. Almost thirty, finally a baby. Hope flickered: *He’ll change.*
He worsened. He monitored her meals, berated her for a pizza box in the bin—*”Poisoning our child?”* Cravings meant sneaking to cafés.
A newborn multiplied the mess. Daniel never yelled, just pointed—*socks here, dishes there*. Even alone, she tensed for his return.
Her mum admired her new neatness, adored her son-in-law. When little Thomas toddled, Emma chased him, tidying toys. The final straw? Daniel checked her phone.
*”You don’t trust me? This is vile!”*
She packed her things while he worked and fled to her parents’. He followed. Her mum took his side.
*”No drinking, no cheating, steady job. Millions of women want this! What’s wrong with you? Thomas needs his father!”*
*”I can’t live with him, Mum. He’s a robot. Sex on schedule, lights off. I hate it!”*
Her dad surprised her. *”Let her stay. Look at her—she’s a shadow.”*
Daniel visited, pleading, bringing toys. Thomas hid behind Emma. Her mum nagged. Life there was no easier.
With nursery looming, Emma decided to leave. Daniel threatened custody—*”You’re reckless.”* She filed for divorce.
A job offer came—a small town, a council flat. Her mum protested. *”Go alone. Thomas stays here. He’ll just fall ill at nursery.”*
Her dad agreed. *”Get settled first.”*
Emma left alone, calling daily, aching when Thomas was sick. She bought a secondhand car for visits.
On holiday break, driving home, she stopped at a motorway café. Coming out, she found a flat tyre. Tears welled. Cars sped past. Then—a blue BMW pulled in.
*”Trouble?”* The driver was young, bright-eyed.
*”Flat tyre.”*
*”Spare?”*
*”Yes!”*
He changed it swiftly. Emma watched, grateful.
*”All set. Heading to Manchester? Same as me.”*
*”Thank you!”* She reached for her purse.
*”Don’t.”*
*”How can I repay you?”*
*”Dinner with me?”*
She laughed. *”I’m older, married, with a child.”*
*”Just dinner,”* he grinned. *”Your number?”*
Two days later, he called.
*”Where are you off to?”* her mum snapped as Emma tried on a dress.
*”Nowhere.”* She changed into cotton instead. Not a date—just gratitude.
*”You look stunning,”* Ben said that evening. *”Husband doesn’t mind?”*
She laughed, lighter than she’d felt in years.
Over wine (hers) and juice (his), they talked. She confessed her divorce, her son. He spun her onto the empty dance floor. She stopped caring who watched.
After, they kissed under the stars. *”This means nothing,”* she told herself. *”I’ll leave, forget.”* But she floated home.
Her mum pounced. *”Gallivanting like a girl? Thomas waited up! You threw away a good man for this?”*
*”You called Daniel?”*
*”Be ashamed! That boy’s half your age!”*
The next day, Daniel arrived in a suit despite the heat. Thomas dragged Emma to play with Dad’s toy cars. Daniel left soon after.
*”Stay for tea,”* her mum urged.
*”He’s busy,”* Emma lied.
Her mum scowled. *”You’ll never do better.”*
Yet when Ben rang, Emma refused. *”We’re even. No more.”*
That evening, the doorbell rang.
*”That boy’s here,”* her mum hissed. *”Have you no shame?”*
Thomas, still awake, spotted the huge box in Ben’s hands. A train set! Tracks snaked across the floor, lights blinking. Thomas shrieked with joy.
Her mum watched from the doorway, lips thin.
At the door, Ben kissed Emma silent. *”I’m not letting go. I love you.”*
She pushed him. *”You’d give up London? Your life?”*
*”I’ll follow you.”*
That night, she overheard her dad: *”Let her be. She’s glowing. Don’t ruin it.”*
Ben’s mother was harder. *”He’d leave me for you. Don’t make him regret it.”*
Emma quit her job. Driving back, she stopped at that café again—and found another flat tyre.
*”No. Not here!”*
Then honking—Ben, U-turning toward her. They collided in a hug.
*”Again?”* He grinned.
*”A signThe train set remained assembled in the living room, its tiny locomotives circling endlessly, just like Emma’s happiness—finally free from straight lines, finally allowed to derail.
