A Lone Woman with Baggage
Emma raised her son alone. Her husband walked out on her over ten years ago. All this time, he dutifully paid child support—clear in his conscience and the eyes of the law, or so he claimed.
He left, taking his belongings and car, abandoning Emma with an unpaid mortgage and their son. Not once in all these years did he visit, send a birthday card, or even a gift.
“Probably sweet-talked some other fool by now,” her mother sighed. “Men like that dodge responsibility till they’ve nothing left to give. Should’ve never taken that mortgage. Now you’ll spend your life paying it off.”
Though, in truth, it was her parents who’d pushed her into buying the flat in her name.
So life went on—paycheck to paycheck, juggling two jobs, raising a boy. At least Alfie wasn’t trouble.
After her second shift, numb with exhaustion, she’d stop at the shop, haul groceries home, and dream of dropping the bags, kicking off her shoes, and sinking into a chair like a workhorse finally freed. The kind that plods in circles at the fair, decked in glittering tack, trudging under another laughing child. That’s how Emma felt—trapped in a loop: work, shop, home.
Her wardrobe was practical, bargain-bin, rarely updated. Fancy things gathered dust; life offered few occasions to wear them.
Trudging along, she’d plan dinner, wonder if Alfie was home—her tote slung over one shoulder, groceries in hand. If he was there, she’d boil pasta and bangers after a five-minute breather.
She’d been different once. Thick hair, bright eyes. Still had the figure, too. Like any girl, she’d dreamed of love—and it came in the form of Tom. Handsome, promising forever, a flashy BMW, two kids.
He got the car. Drove off to his bright future, leaving Emma the flat, the mortgage, and Alfie.
She watched the pavement. One misstep meant a puddle or twisted ankle. Roads here were rough. Better dodge the kerb, too—some speedster might splash her.
“Emma!” A stylish woman blocked her path.
It took a moment to recognise Sophie, her old schoolmate. Plain back then, now straight off a magazine cover. Emma suddenly felt shabby.
“Fancy running into you! Visiting Mum, but everyone’s moved away. Em, how’ve you been?”
*Isn’t it obvious?* “Alright. Same as ever.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and Alfie. You?”
Sophie’s face lit up. “Married a Spaniard. Live in Barcelona. Here for a week. Listen, you’re not getting away that easy. Let’s grab a cuppa. Or invite me round.”
“Place is a mess. Dishes still out.”
“Please, I’m English—used to chaos.”
Emma opened the door. “Alfie, you home? We’ve company.”
A lanky teen appeared.
“Blimey! This is yours? Proper handsome,” Sophie cooed. “What year are you? Uni plans?”
“Not sure. Mum, I did the dishes. Got homework.” He vanished.
“Independent, isn’t he?” Envy tinged Sophie’s voice.
“Any kids?” Pride swelled in Emma.
“No. Husband’s older. Grown kids—no nappies for him.”
As Emma threw together dinner, Sophie gushed about Spain.
“So, why’d you split? He a drinker?”
“No. Before Alfie, things were fine. Then… he never slept. I was on leave, mortgage, car payments… Tom said he’d had enough and left.”
“Right git! Dumped you with a kid and debt!”
Emma skipped the worst bits—how her parents’ help kept her afloat.
“Look, your bad luck’s over. Plenty of single blokes there. Not spring chickens, but fit, keen to wed. Adore English women. You know us—stop a train, march into fire, raise a kid alone. We’ve loads of mates. Flying back in three days—I’ll find you a rich one.”
“Who’d want me? Single mum—SOW.”
“Eh?”
“Single with Offspring. Men bolt when they hear ‘kid’.”
“Rubbish! Better SOW than SOD.”
“Which is?”
“Sod Off, Deadbeat. Stamp that on their foreheads.”
“Spanish men don’t ditch kids?”
“Some do. Men’s men everywhere. But Alfie’s nearly grown. You’re perfect. Skype? Brilliant. Toast to your new life!”
Emma fetched half-finished wine from her birthday.
“Just tidy up first. New ‘do, new frock,” Sophie urged.
Too ashamed to admit money was tight, Emma nodded.
After Sophie left, Emma waited, dreaming of quitting, moving, envied. A spacious house, a doting husband, Alfie at uni…
She even smiled. Took Sophie’s advice—got a trim, bought dresses, heels. Went into debt, but it’d pay off.
“Invest in yourself, love. Men like kept women.”
So she tried. Weeks passed—no call. Then Sophie rang: a suitor found.
“Not pretty, mid-fifties. But owns a shop. Dress up tomorrow—Skype. You didn’t learn Spanish? Thought so. I’ll translate.”
“You marrying some Spaniard?” Alfie leaned in.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“I’m good here. Sophie’s winding you up. Dinner?”
“Sorry, warming it now.”
Next day, Emma fretted. What if he hated her? Did her hair, slipped into the new dress, commandeered Alfie’s PC.
No call. She nearly changed when Skype chimed. A bald seventy-year-old appeared, Sophie beside him.
Emma mangled a Spanish greeting. The man beamed, babbled.
“He likes you,” Sophie translated. “José’s his name. Say it often—he’ll know you’re talking about him.”
They talked. José vanished; Sophie said he’d visit.
“*Here?* Thought I’d go to him.”
“Your passport’s expired. José’s impatient. Just a day or two. You into him?”
“You said fifties—he’s seventy!”
“So? Want Spain or not?”
“Fine, yes,” Emma rushed.
She prepped for José—splurged on posh snacks. Alfie eyed the fridge.
“Hope he visits often. Feast for once.”
A week later, Emma met him at the airport. Alfie stayed with Gran—warned not to blab.
They muddled through basic English and gestures. Relief—he booked a hotel. Dinner out. She refused to go up to his room.
“Tomorrow,” she lied.
All the way home, she plotted escape.
No luck. José was pushy. Emma drank through dinner to endure it. In his room, she hid in the bathroom—emerged to find him snoring. She scribbled a thank-you note on hotel paper, fled by taxi. Next day, he flew home.
Alfie returned; they feasted.
A week later, Sophie called.
“Sorry, love. José met some twenty-five-year-old on the plane. Engaged now. Don’t worry—I’ve another.”
“Soph, stop. I’m done.”
“Done? Exactly.”
They hung up, miffed. Sophie never called again.
Next day, Emma wore the new dress and heels to work. Why waste them?
By day’s end, her feet bled. With José, they’d taxied everywhere.
On a bench, she yanked off the shoes, cursing richly. No way she’d walk home in them.
“Rubbed raw?”
A bloke stood there. No point pretending.
“Yeah. New shoes.”
“Stay put. Pharmacy’s close.” He dashed off.
Silly—where’d she go barefoot? He returned with plasters, offered help. She refused, fixed it herself. The shoes went back on; she limped home.
His name was James. Twenty-seven. By her door, they’d shared basics. He asked for her number.
Next day, he called. Emma agreed to meet—just to clarify: her age, Alfie, his need for someone younger.
“I like you. Age gap’s nothing. We’ll get on, me and Alfie.”
“Plans for me?” Emma teased.
“Dead right. Let’s just date—films, exhibits, see where it goes.”
So they did. The more time passed, the more she liked him.
Alfie did too. They bonded over tech, leaving Emma lost.
They met at James’s. Emma rushed home, hiding her glow.
“Mum, stop sneaking. Marry him. At least he’s not ancient like your José.”
“James is serious?”
“Dead serious. I’m grown. You’ll be alone.”
With James, EmmaWith a quiet smile, Emma slipped on the simple silver band James had given her, knowing that this time, love had found her exactly where she was.
