**Stepping onto Solid Ground**
“Good luck, love—knock ’em dead with those exams,” said Emily, her voice trembling as she waved off her only son, Oliver, that morning. He was off to sit his university entrance exams in a nearby city. She’d made him a proper fry-up to settle his nerves, kissed his cheek, and sent him off to chase his dreams.
“Cheers, Mum. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Doubt I’ll get into the funded programme, though…” The door clicked shut behind him. Her husband, James, had already left for work.
Emily and James had been married twenty-two years. In that time, they’d raised Oliver into a decent young man—polite, responsible, never any trouble. They’d given him a comfortable life—holidays abroad, a warm home, all the love a child could want. He’d never given them reason to worry.
When Oliver was little, Emily and James had hustled to build their small business. She’d worked the market stalls while he handled suppliers. Money was tight at first, but eventually, things steadied.
“Em, love, why don’t you pack it in with the market? Stay home, take care of the house,” James had said one evening over tea.
“But I want us to have everything we need. I like helping—sitting at home’s boring,” she protested.
“You’ve always known how I see things: a wife keeps the home, a husband provides,” he reminded her.
Emily had been raised to believe a woman’s duty was to stand by her man, to keep the family whole. And really, why argue? Life was good—the business thrived, their new mortgage was manageable.
“Our flat needs a woman’s touch, and Ollie starts school soon. Time to make a proper nest,” she agreed, smiling.
Deep down, she missed making decisions, missed the hustle. They’d built their business *together*. But she swallowed that pride, tucked into the role of homemaker. Still, she handled the books—her economics degree had to be good for something.
One day, James came home with an idea. “Fancy a country cottage? We’ve got the car—weekend escapes, fresh air, no city noise.”
“Blimey, you’re reading my mind!” she laughed. And so, between work and life, they stole weekends there, breathing in the quiet.
The morning Oliver left for his exams, Emily dug out flour to bake a cake—something to steady her hands. *He’ll get in, even if it’s self-funded. He did alright in school.* Then—the front door slammed. “Ollie? Forget something?” But it was James.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you at work?”
“Thought you’d be at your mum’s. You said she was poorly.”
“Going after lunch. Just seeing Ollie off, then baking. Nervous for him.”
James hesitated. “Right. Well—might as well say it now. I’m leaving. Found someone else. I’ll file for divorce. Just here for my things.”
The room tilted. Words tangled in her throat as he stuffed clothes into a suitcase. The air turned thick.
“What about Oliver? His exams—don’t wreck this for him. Wait, *please*.”
“Oliver? He’s not getting in on grades, and I’m not paying fees. He can work a year or join the army. Sorted.” His tone was casual, like discussing the weather.
“James, he’s your *son*—”
“Don’t make a scene, Em. It’s done.” The door shut. Silence rang.
*How do I tell Oliver? Not yet. Not till exams are over.* She’d say Dad was on a business trip.
But the cracks kept coming. James had quietly transferred his half of their flat—their *joint* mortgage—to his mother two months prior. No discussion.
“So that’s it. I trusted him, and he stabbed me in the back.”
Oliver came home that evening, exams done. He’d scraped into the self-funded programme. He took one look at her and *knew*.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Love… your dad’s left us. For someone else. He won’t pay your fees.”
Oliver rang his father. The confirmation hit like a brick. He sat quiet a long moment, then squared his shoulders. “Mum, we’ll manage. Forget him. I’ll switch to part-time, get a job. We’ll be alright.”
She marveled at his calm. *He’ll cry tonight, but tomorrow? New day, new battles.*
Oliver sorted his part-time studies, landed a courier gig. Emily hunted for work—no one wanted an out-of-practice economist. She took a job at the florist’s down the road.
*James’ll pay his half in the divorce. Business was ours together.*
He came by a few times for belongings—took an antique dresser, a vintage side table. She changed the locks.
A year later, the money came through. Emily stayed at the florist’s—until the owner, battling cancer, made an offer.
“Em, I’m selling. My lad’s got his own business. You know the place—fancy taking it on?”
Oliver urged her. She bought it.
**Three years later**
Spring air hummed with change. For the first time since James left, Emily felt *light*. The shop thrived. That morning, she arranged blooms, watered plants, hummed along to the radio.
At noon, a man—fifties, kind eyes—walked in. “My daughter’s birthday. Clueless with flowers, I’m afraid. Wife’s been gone years…”
Emily crafted a bouquet. He paid, held her gaze a beat too long, and left.
*What a lovely man. Proper manners.* She couldn’t shake him from her thoughts.
At closing, she stepped into the twilight—and there he was, holding roses.
“Forgive the forwardness, but I wanted to give you these.”
She laughed, took them. “How’d you know I adore roses?”
“May I walk you home?”
“It’s just there.” She nodded to her flat.
“Then let’s stroll. I’m George. Read your name tag earlier. I’m a cardiologist—suppose I’ll keep an eye on your heart.” They laughed.
They talked of nothing, yet it felt like catching up with an old friend. The fear, the distrust—it melted. For years, she’d been sinking in quicksand. Now? Solid ground.
Four months later, they married quietly. She moved into his countryside home—a garden, a nearby lake, woods to wander. Oliver married too; grandchildren were on the way.
And every day, Emily thanked her lucky stars—for the strength to survive betrayal, and for love’s second chance.
