Two years had passed since Emily found herself alone. Life had dealt her a cruel hand—widowed at just twenty-seven. She and James had barely begun their life together, married for only a year, already dreaming of children, when everything shattered.
James came home from work early one day, clutching his head.
“Got off early—migraine’s killing me,” he mumbled as Emily walked in, finding him pale and stretched out on their bed.
“Jamie, love, maybe we should call an ambulance? This isn’t the first time,” Emily pressed.
“Don’t fuss. Just need rest,” he muttered, turning away.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said, heading to the kitchen.
As the kettle boiled, her mind raced:
“It’s not the first time he’s had these headaches. Won’t see a doctor. How do I make him go? Thirty-three years old—too young for this. Something’s not right.”
She carried the tea to the bedroom, set the mug on the nightstand, and whispered,
“Jamie? James?”
No response. She touched his shoulder—nothing. Shook him harder—still nothing. Panic set in. She dialled 999, then called her mother-in-law, Margaret, voice trembling.
“Margaret, James isn’t moving. I’ve called an ambulance.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Margaret arrived just before the paramedics. She lived next door. The young doctor checked James, felt for a pulse, then sighed.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. He’s gone.”
The days that followed blurred into one. Neighbours stepped in—neither woman had family nearby. After the funeral, they leaned on each other, visiting often. Work helped, at least. Kept them distracted.
Emily stayed alone in the flat they’d moved into just six months earlier. Wedding photos covered the walls. Margaret gently suggested putting them away, but Emily couldn’t. She couldn’t accept it—so young, so sudden. The doctors called it a rare brain condition. No warning.
She and James had dated a year and a half, lived together, but delayed marrying—saving for the flat, then helping with Margaret’s knee surgery. Finally, everything fell into place. They married, bought new furniture. Started their life.
Then one evening, Margaret visited. What was she now? Former mother-in-law? Just family? Either way, she’d refused James’s inheritance, leaving it all to Emily. They saw each other weekly, spoke often.
A year passed, and Emily still ached. But Margaret began hinting:
“Love, you’re young. You can’t hide away forever. Go out with friends. Live a little. James wouldn’t want this. You loved each other, but life goes on. You’re not even thirty yet—plenty of time for happiness. Children, even. They’d be my grandchildren in every way that matters.”
Emily shook her head.
“I feel like I died with him. Nothing excites me.”
“That’s exactly why you need a change,” Margaret insisted before breaking down herself. She tried to stay strong, but losing James meant facing old age alone.
Slowly, Emily thawed. Went for coffee with colleagues. Celebrated her first birthday without James quietly—just her and Margaret, tea and cake, roses in a vase (just like the ones James used to bring). Margaret knew her so well.
She gifted Emily an embroidered frame—two kittens curled by a fireplace. “It’s for luck,” she promised.
Winter came. Snow dusted the ground. New Year loomed.
“First one without you, Jamie,” Emily whispered to his photo.
Margaret nudged her: “Love, take these pictures down. Leave one, that’s enough.”
But Emily couldn’t—until Margaret did it for her.
Then one visit, Margaret asked,
“New Year’s plans?”
“Home, probably. Work’s got a do, but that’s before the holiday.”
Margaret grinned conspiratorially.
“What if we took a spa break? My work’s offering trips—I can book two. Fancy it?”
Emily hesitated.
“Better than moping here,” she finally agreed.
The spa was quiet—mostly elderly couples. Margaret took treatments for her knees. Emily wandered the pine woods, feeding squirrels and birds.
Then one evening, Margaret announced:
“Disco tonight! I’ve made friends—Thomas, lovely chap. He’ll join us.”
Emily knew she was being set up.
The disco was all silver-haired couples swaying to music. Thomas whisked Margaret onto the dance floor, promising Emily the next dance.
Too stuffy, she slipped outside.
“Second of January already. What will this year bring?” she mused, trudging through snow-lit paths.
On her way back, a man approached—young, surprisingly.
“Evening,” he said, smiling. “Lost, Snow Queen?”
She laughed. “Staying here.”
“Edward,” he introduced himself, eyes warm.
“Emily.”
They walked together. He’d brought his father for treatment—bad heart, couldn’t leave him alone.
“Third time here. Not exactly thrilling.”
“I’m here with my mother-in-law. She dragged me along.”
They talked for hours, laughing, swapping stories. Returning, they found Margaret and Thomas in the lobby, worried. Turned out Thomas was Edward’s father. Laughter erupted when the dots connected.
The days flew by. When Emily and Margaret left, Edward and his father stayed. Numbers were exchanged. They lived in neighbouring towns—Edward ran a haulage business, divorced five years.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he admitted. “Let’s keep in touch. It’s only eighty miles between us.”
Emily felt it too—with him, life flickered back.
Time passed. She moved into Edward’s countryside home, where he lived with his father. Thomas and Margaret grew close—visits turned into her moving in permanently.
They married. Emily fell pregnant. Twins, the scan showed. Edward doted on her, panicking over every step.
“See?” Margaret teased. “What if we hadn’t gone to that spa?”
Laughter filled the house. Happiness, at last.
