**A Cure for Sorrow**
Emma and William met at university, both living in student halls. They knew they’d be together, but agreed to wait until after graduation. Life, of course, had other plans. In her final year, Emma fell pregnant.
“William, what do we do?” Emma stared at him, desperate. “You know how strict my mum is. She barely let me come to uni. I promised her I wouldn’t end up like her—a single mother. And now this? How can I go home? She’ll kill me.” She bit her lip, fighting back tears.
William was terrified too, but he did what he thought was right. His parents hadn’t set any conditions when they’d sent him off to study in London. He loved Emma, heartbroken as she was, so he proposed they marry. Finals loomed—no time for a wedding.
He called his parents, confessed everything, said he’d return after graduation with a degree and a wife. They scolded him, of course—who wouldn’t? But there was no changing it. Let them come home together.
Emma hid behind William, her swollen belly tucked away as they stood in his parents’ cramped hallway. His father frowned; his mother shook her head. “Rushing into a child, marrying without blessing—this isn’t how life should start.” They tutted and grumbled but resolved to help. They sold their holiday cottage, scraped together savings, and bought the young couple a one-bedroom flat.
“We’ve done what we can. The rest is up to you,” his father said.
Two months later, Emma gave birth to a daughter.
William worked, but money was always tight. His parents had given all they could. It was shameful to keep leaning on them—time to stand on his own. Then an old schoolmate suggested selling computers.
“Proper business opportunity. Everyone wants them now. I’ve got supplier contacts—we’ll sort it. You’re just in time. You know tech; I’m still learning. Together, we’ll make a killing!”
The rough ’90s were behind them. Risky, but legal. William agreed, though it meant borrowing heavily to start as equal partners.
They bought surplus stock cheaply. William refurbished them, loaded software, fixed flaws, and sold them at a premium. Business boomed. He repaid the debt and even bought a two-bedroom flat.
Their daughter grew; nursery time loomed. Emma ached to work again.
“Stay home. We’ve enough money. What’s got into you?” William grumbled. “Time to think about a son.”
“Let me breathe. I’ve barely recovered. I’ve never worked since uni. And Alice needs to socialise. How’ll she manage at school?”
But nursery places were scarce. They offered Emma a job as a teaching assistant—if she worked there, Alice could attend. She agreed instantly.
“A graduate, scrubbing floors? Don’t embarrass me,” William snapped.
“Don’t be cross. It’s just a year—until Alice gets in. Then I’ll find proper work. She’ll be right there with me. Isn’t that perfect?”
Remote work wasn’t common yet. The internet crawled. William grumbled but relented.
Their business thrived, drawing envy from rivals. Then disaster struck. A fresh shipment of laptops vanished overnight—stolen, the theft disguised as a fire. They lost everything, left in debt.
His partner turned to drink. William didn’t—he had a family. But the debt loomed. Selling the flat was an option, but where would they live? Crawl back to his parents?
He hunted for jobs, swearing off business. Fate intervened: a car stuck in mud. William pushed it free, spotted a processor on the back seat, struck up a chat. The driver, learning William’s skills, offered him a job—maintaining office tech, simple coding. Perfect. He took it.
The debt cleared slowly. Life stabilised. Alice grew up; a year from finishing school, university beckoned. It seemed the worst was past.
Then, one evening, William worked late. Emma cooked dinner while Alice and a friend played music. When the friend left, Alice called, “Mum, I’ll walk her home!”
“Don’t be long!” Emma shouted as the door slammed.
She turned off the stove, settled before the telly. A film played. Time slipped by until William arrived, rubbing cold hands.
“Quiet. Alice in?”
Emma jolted upright. Alice had left ages ago—twenty minutes? Half an hour? Her friend lived just round the corner. She rushed to Alice’s room. Empty. She rang the friend.
“Alice isn’t home? We parted ways ages ago.”
Panic set in. Emma blamed herself. Why had she let her go? She should’ve gone too. She paced, frantic, desperate to search the streets. The friend’s parents called, offering help. William barked at Emma to stay put, manning the phone himself. But she was useless—collapsing in sobs at every question.
Then, a call from a hospital: “A Jane Doe was brought in an hour ago.”
Emma wailed.
“She’s alive. Stop crying. Let’s go.”
Alice lived—but barely. Comatose, her prognosis grim. Emma stayed by her bedside, begging her to wake. No miracle came. On the third day, Alice died from her injuries.
Early November brought sleet and biting wind. That cursed evening, frost had seized the roads. Alice, on her way back, met a skidding car on summer tyres. Her scream was lost in screeching brakes. The driver lost control. A cruel twist of fate.
William clung to sanity, though grief consumed him. Emma… He feared she’d break entirely—lose her mind or follow Alice. After the funeral, she visited the grave daily, silent, withdrawn. At home, she stared blankly, erupting in blame.
“If not for your failed business, your debts, I’d have had another child—” She’d forgotten it was William who’d pushed for a son.
He knew he had to act—save Emma before madness took her.
At work, sympathy poured in. Someone suggested a pet—a dog or cat. Something to care for.
“She needs a focus. What did she love? Music? Painting? Embroidery? The best cure for heartache,” the cleaner advised.
William remembered: Emma had sketched well as a girl. Too poor for art school, she’d devoured exhibitions, dragging him along though he knew nothing of art.
At home, he found her before a blank TV. He sat beside her, spoke of childhood dreams—taming tigers.
“I wanted to paint. I was good, you know? And music—I sang well,” she murmured flatly.
He rang art schools. None would take her—too late, they said. Desperate, he searched online. A reply came—a young artist, pricey but willing. He booked a café meeting.
The man was pale, lanky, hair tied back, dressed in black. Nervous. He listed supplies.
“I’ll pay. Just get what’s needed,” William said, warning of Emma’s fragile state. “No talk of children. I just need her distracted.”
Next day, the artist arrived with an easel. Emma hesitated, then lost herself in painting. William praised her clumsy efforts.
“He says I’ve a keen eye for light, steady hands. Do you think so?”
“Absolutely. You’ve real talent.”
Her smile was worth the lie. She’d brightened, engrossed, no longer fading in grief.
Then, one evening, the easel stood unused. A torn canvas lay on the floor. Emma sat dull-eyed, the light gone.
“What’s wrong? Did the artist not come?”
“He’s gone home. His mum’s ill—needs an expensive operation.” Her voice was hollow.
“You’re upset he’ll return late?”
“No. He was crying—so desperate. He loves her, but the money…”
William’s stomach dropped. “You gave him money.”
They’d saved for Alice’s university. Forgotten, until now. Emma had remembered. He opened the empty tin.
He’d invited this man in, told him of Emma’s grief, her vulnerability. Now he’d played on sympathy, spun a tale of a dying mother, swindled her. Worse—she’d offered it freely. He dialed the artist. The phone was dead.
“Emma, did you give him everything?”
“Forgive me,” she wept.
“Love, it’s not your fault.” He seethed at himself. Why had he let a stranger near her? The man had banked on her grief-clouded mind. He could’ve killed her.
“Where’s his mum?”
“Manchester, I think.”
Of course. As far as possible.
William soothed her, then went to the police. The inspector hesitated—a messy case. William bribed him with free IT help.
They traced the artist. No sick mother—just a pregnant girlfriend, evicted for the baby. Needing cash fast, he’d preyed on Emma. Played the grieving son, took the money—most spent on baby clothes.
WilliamSeeing Emma cradle little Tosh, her laughter like sunlight after a storm, William knew they’d finally found their way back to each other.
