**Hate**
Oliver stepped out of the office building and instinctively headed for the car park, only to remember he’d taken his car to the garage the day before. At first, he was annoyed—then thought it might be for the best. The idea of squeezing onto a stuffy, overcrowded bus during rush hour didn’t appeal, so he decided to walk. The only worry was the rapidly darkening sky ahead. A thick, black cloud loomed over the city, threatening a thunderstorm.
As he walked, Oliver kept glancing upward. A distant roll of thunder rumbled. He knew there was a café somewhere nearby—he passed it every day—but he’d never gone in. He quickened his pace.
Just as he reached it, heavy raindrops splattered onto his head and shoulders. Oliver barely made it through the door before an earsplitting crack of thunder shook the floor. Outside, the downpour turned the world into a blur of grey.
Inside, the café was warm and dry. Oliver spotted a few empty tables. The door swung open again, letting in the sound of rain and two young women. He hurried to claim a seat. More people piled in, escaping the storm, and soon the place buzzed with chatter about the weather.
A tall, serious waitress approached, setting a menu in front of him. He stopped her before she could walk away.
“Just a steak, no sides, a plain salad, and coffee.”
She scribbled in her notepad, took the menu, and moved on. Business had picked up, and she darted between tables. Outside, the storm raged. The bartender turned up the music, drowning out the rain.
Oliver waited, relieved he’d stumbled into the café when he did, that he had an excuse not to go home just yet, not to face his wife’s inevitable questions about where he’d been.
He’d married Lucy eight years ago. Back then, she’d been bright, lively—everything seemed perfect, at least for the first few months. Then she changed. Her best friend married a businessman, and Lucy grew insanely jealous. Suddenly, all she talked about were designer coats, diamonds, and facelifts.
“Lu, you don’t need any of that. You’re young and gorgeous.”
“I could be *gorgeouser*,” she’d retorted.
One day it was her nose, the next her lips, then her chest. Oliver tried to talk her out of altering herself. Said stuffing herself with silicone wouldn’t make her happier—probably the opposite.
“You only say that because you can’t afford it,” she snapped.
Kids? Out of the question.
“I’ll get fat, and you’ll leave me. Get a better job first, *then* we’ll talk.”
Oliver didn’t argue. He loved her. An old uni mate had been urging him to join his business, promising trust and success. So Oliver took the leap. At first, it worked. He even upgraded the car his dad had given him—still secondhand, but nicer.
Then it all collapsed. The tax office flagged irregularities, froze accounts. Competitors moved in, forced a sale. Oliver was left with nothing.
Lucy called him a failure. The constant fights snuffed out whatever love he’d had left. He went back to his old job, drifting through life, too worn down to leave.
***
A young couple slid into the booth next to his. Oliver watched them, remembering when he and Lucy had been that happy. Where had it gone?
Shouts from the bar snapped him out of it. Two girls were fending off a drunk. They didn’t look like the type to frequent places like this—just students caught in the rain. The drunk grabbed one and hauled her toward the door. Her friend tried to intervene, but he shoved her hard. She hit the bar, nearly fell. No one moved to help.
Oliver stood, blocking the drunk’s path. The man glared.
“Problem? Piss off.” He swung. Oliver dodged, throwing a punch of his own. The drunk released the girl and lunged. They brawled until Oliver knocked him out cold. Someone yelled that they’d called the police.
“We should go,” the girl urged, tugging Oliver’s arm.
His head throbbed, his lip split and salty with blood. He didn’t argue, just followed her outside. The rain had eased to a drizzle. They turned a corner.
“There’s a chemist nearby. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Inside, she bought antiseptic, carefully dabbing his cuts and pressing plasters over them.
“Thanks,” Oliver muttered.
They stood close. He caught the scent of her shampoo, noticed how soft her hands were. *She’s beautiful*, he realized. Their eyes met, and she blushed.
Her friend burst in. “There you are! I got us a cab. Emma, come *on*.”
Emma glanced at Oliver. He smiled. She hesitated, then followed her friend outside. By the time he stepped onto the pavement, their taxi was pulling away.
He’d barely walked a few steps when he heard, “Wait!” Emma was running back. She stopped in front of him, breathless.
“Emma! Let’s *go*!” her friend called from the cab.
“Go ahead,” she shouted back, then turned to Oliver. “I didn’t even get your name. No one in there helped me except you.”
“Oliver.”
She didn’t ask where they were going, just walked beside him. He learned she’d just graduated, hadn’t even found work yet.
He admitted he was married—though it was a mess—but still living together.
“I saw your ring. I was scared I’d never see you again.”
It felt like fate. He could’ve taken the bus, the storm could’ve missed them, they might never have met—but they did. His chest hadn’t felt this alive in years. With Lucy, it had never been like this.
“Wait—we’ve been walking forever. Where’s your place?” Emma asked suddenly.
“We passed it ages ago,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to say goodbye.”
They turned back. Oliver called her a cab, and they exchanged numbers while they waited.
When he got home, Lucy pounced. “Where’ve you been?” She spotted the plasters, the dried blood. “You got in a fight?”
“At the café, waiting out the storm. Some guy harassed a girl—”
“You never stick up for *me*,” she muttered, stomping to the kitchen. The sound of clattering dishes followed.
“Lucy, let’s end this. We can’t keep going like this.”
“I *knew* there was someone else!” She screamed, hurling insults, calling him worthless.
“I gave you my best years, and you—!” She grabbed a plate, swung. He wrenched it from her grip before it could connect. It shattered on the floor.
When she lunged for a pan, he grabbed her. “Stop. There’s no one. But we’re miserable. Why stay with a failure?”
The next day, Oliver moved out.
He was too ashamed to call Emma—older, still technically married. But when she rang him, his heart leapt. He couldn’t push her away.
They started dating: movies, walks. He filed for divorce, waived any claim to their shared assets. No kids meant a quick process. Only after it was final did he invite Emma over. A month later, she told him she was pregnant.
Oliver was overjoyed. Her parents? Less so. A decade older, divorced, no property—just a car. Her mum made her displeasure clear. Her dad hid behind his newspaper, but his silence spoke volumes.
Still, they agreed to the wedding, even gifted them a small flat.
Emma’s morning sickness was brutal. She barely ate, grew frail, slept constantly. Oliver insisted on a doctor.
“Pregnancy affects everyone differently,” the doctor said. “Nothing alarming.”
But Oliver wasn’t reassured. The other expectant mothers glowed; Emma was fading.
As they left, a nurse chased after them. “I’ve seen this before. I don’t want to scare you, but…” She glanced at Emma, hesitating.
“Seen *what*?” Oliver pressed.
She scribbled an address. “My aunt. Mention my name. She can help.”
“A witch?” Oliver scoffed.
“No. But she understands these things. Go.”
Confused, he tucked the note away. “Don’t listen to her,” he told Emma. “No witchcraft. You’ll be fine.”
Yet doubt gnawed at him. The next day, he went. An elderly woman answered, her gaze sharp.
“Hello. I was told you could help.”
“By whom?”
“Your niece—Rita, I think. From the hospital.”
She led him to a plain room—no crystal balls, no candles.
“Give me your hand,” she said, studying his palm. “How far along?”
“What?”
“Your wife’s pregnancy.”
“Four months. How did you—?”
“A woman close to you has cursed her and your child.”
“Cursed? Like a hex?” He laughed nervously.
“No. Just hate. Strong enough to kill. I can’t helpHe held his son close, watching Emma laugh in the sunlight, and knew—despite the shadows of the past—that love had won in the end.
