**A Twist of Fate**
I’d never seen Emily truly alone before. First, she lived with her parents, then married Thomas, and two years later, their daughter Sophie was born. Even after Thomas left, she still had Sophie. But now, she was completely by herself. Wandering their empty flat in London, she wondered what to do, who to live for. It felt like her life had collapsed—nothing ahead but lonely old age and oblivion.
She couldn’t understand why. They’d never had big fights, just petty squabbles. She’d never nagged him, let him go out with his mates, kept the flat spotless. There was always soup in the fridge, dinner on the stove. She’d even kept her figure after having Sophie—never been curvy, though her bust had briefly grown during pregnancy, much to Thomas’s delight. But that wasn’t why marriages ended. Everyone said they were perfect for each other.
Still, Emily wasn’t blind. She noticed Thomas changing lately, fussing over his appearance—new haircut, carefully matched ties.
“Why don’t you wear dresses?” he asked her once.
“I do, on special occasions,” she replied, baffled. He’d never cared before.
“You look pale today. Feeling all right?”
“I always look like this. Why the sudden nitpicking?” she shot back.
One day, she caked on makeup—blush, the works—and wore it to work.
“Wash it off. It doesn’t suit you,” Thomas said that evening.
“Everyone at the office complimented me,” she muttered, but scrubbed her face clean.
“I thought you’d finally started making an effort,” a colleague sighed the next day.
“Thomas didn’t like it.”
“Probably scared you’d get too much attention,” the woman smirked. Emily let it slide.
Then her old schoolmate, Rebecca, called. Glamorous, vivacious, but their friendship had lasted years.
“How d’you stay so slim without dieting? I have to starve myself,” Rebecca sighed over coffee.
“Oh, rubbish. Men still turn their heads for you,” Emily laughed.
“They would for you too if you gave them a chance. You’ve got great legs—stop hiding them in trousers! A pencil skirt would suit you. And for God’s sake, dye your hair. I reckon copper would work. You look like someone’s gran.”
Emily frowned. Rebecca wasn’t one for unsolicited advice.
“What’s this really about?”
Rebecca hesitated, then sighed. “Saw Thomas with some young thing. Barely twenty, all sweet and innocent. The way he looked at her…”
Emily squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop.”
“I’m sorry, love. But you’ve been the same for years. Men have eyes, and frankly, you’re dull as dishwater.”
Emily stormed out.
At home, she sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the tiles until Sophie knocked. “Mum, Dad’s here.”
Thomas was waiting in the kitchen, hands folded like a schoolboy.
“Sorry, no dinner yet. Was out with Rebecca,” she mumbled.
“I’m not hungry. So you know, then.”
Her stomach lurched. So it was true.
“I love someone else,” he said flatly. “I tried to fight it, but… she’s half my age. I can’t help it. I’ll pack my things.”
She didn’t stop him. Then Sophie betrayed her too—visiting Thomas, coming home with gifts from his new woman, Charlotte: skimpy dresses, makeup, half-used perfume.
“Look what Charlotte gave me! She’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Sophie beamed.
“You shouldn’t take those.”
“Why not?”
“Because she stole your father!”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “She’s fun. You’re just a miserable bore. No wonder Dad left.”
It got worse. Sophie dyed her hair neon, skipped school, mouthed off to teachers. Every reprimand was met with, “Charlotte says…”
Emily’s hands shook at the name. When she banned visits, Sophie threatened to move out.
“Fine. Go. When she has a baby, you’ll be kicked out.”
“Wait—seriously? I can live with Dad?” Sophie’s voice was ice.
Thomas rang the next day.
“Sophie says you’re letting her move in.”
“She’s out of control. Skipping school, dressing like… and it’s all Charlotte’s doing!”
“They get on well. You’re just bitter.”
Sophie left. Emily spiraled—hardly eating, wasting away. Calls from Sophie were salt in the wound: “Charlotte took me to a concert…”
A-level results came—abysmal. No uni for Sophie, not that she cared. Then Thomas called: Sophie had moved in with some layabout in a dodgy flat.
Emily’s breath vanished.
“You let her go?!”
“She’s an adult. Your doing. Charlotte’s pregnant—I’ve enough on my plate.”
“So your daughter’s disposable? This is your fault! Charlotte poisoned her!”
When Rebecca phoned, Emily sobbed, “Everyone’s left me. I don’t want to live.”
Rebecca arrived with whisky. By dawn, Emily was slumped, snotty-fisted, while Rebecca muttered, “Prat… absolute nightmare…”
“Enough weeping,” Rebecca finally said. “First, we fix you up. Hair, nails, clothes. Then we find you a decent bloke.”
“Where?” Emily slurred.
“Where they always are.”
The transformation stunned her. She looked ten years younger. Weekends were now galleries and exhibitions—Emily didn’t get art, but it was something.
Then Sophie called.
“Mum, can we stay a fortnight? Just till we find a new place.”
Emily didn’t ask questions. “Of course.”
She scrubbed the flat, made up Sophie’s old bed, cooked a roast.
The knock came. Emily opened the door with a smile—then froze.
Sophie stood there, hollow-eyed, clutching a bundle. Behind her loomed a lanky bloke with greasy shoulder-length hair.
“Hi,” he mumbled.
“Who’s this?”
“Boy. Oliver.”
The bloke—Ethan—wolfed down food like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Between mouthfuls, he explained they’d been kicked out because of the baby, he’d lost his job…
Oliver’s wails snapped Emily into action. Sophie didn’t even stir from her room.
Loneliness now seemed a luxury. Emily was run ragged—work, shopping, cooking. Sophie only surfaced to dump Oliver on her.
One evening, she came home to a raucous party, music shaking the flat, Oliver shrieking. It took hours to kick everyone out and clean up.
“This stops now. There’s a baby here! And you’ve not paid a penny—”
“Actually, half this flat’s Dad’s. He signed it to me. So I’ll do what I like.”
Emily was speechless.
Rebecca had a plan.
“Remember that old flick where the teacher scares off awful neighbors? You’ll ‘go to a spa.’ Meanwhile, I’ll hire actors to rent your room—proper rough types. Ethan’ll bolt, and Sophie’ll beg you back.”
Emily hesitated. “But Oliver—”
“They’ll be professionals. Harmless.”
She agreed, packed a bag.
“Going somewhere?” Sophie asked.
“Spa. Few weeks.”
“Oh. Have fun.”
Emily paused. “Forgot to mention—colleagues’ relatives will stay in my room.”
Sophie’s face paled. “What? We’ve a baby!”
“My room, my rules.”
She left, heart heavy, hiding at Rebecca’s boyfriend’s country place.
Updates came daily. Ethan fled within a week. Three days later, Sophie called, pleading for her return.
The flat was spotless, Sophie meek.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” she whispered, hugging her.
Peace returned. Sophie doted on Oliver. Rebecca kept dragging Emily to galleries, urging her to date. Emily refused—find someone for Sophie first, she said.
Then Thomas turned up. Charlotte had lied—no baby, just a richer man. He wanted forgiveness.
Emily shook her head. “You can stay on your half with Sophie. But I doubt that suits you.”
“You’ve changed,” he murmured, eyeing her.
He left. Six months later, Emily remarried.
But that’s another story.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, the life you mourn wasn’t worth keeping. Let it go—better things wait.
