Emily stared at the smoldering matches clutched in the woman’s trembling hand. The woman lit them, snuffed them out, and repeated every bitter truth Emily already knew. From the relentless ache of hopelessness, from the wolflike howl inside her, she finally gathered the courage to seek the herbalist.
She had just survived what felt like the tragedy of her whole life. Her husband had walked out, leaving her with two children. He returned four months later, and for a moment everything seemed to settle back into place. It was only an illusion. A fissure had cracked their marriage wide open, and Emily and her husband drifted farther apart with each passing day.
At first Emily wept, yearning for the old dayscareful texts that asked How are you? and the gentle Goodnight. Then vengeance crept in. She wanted the other woman to suffer as she had, wanted her husband to meet a terrible fateimagining a bus careening over him. Eventually she stopped caring about the husband, about where he was, who he might be with, or when he might return. She even caught herself losing interest in the children.
A heavier sorrow then settled over her like a grey, suffocating blanket, stealing her breath and her thoughts. Despair, despair When youre at war with yourself, it feels like drowning. She fought it back, managed to surface for a while, only to be dragged under again with renewed force. One illness after another followed. A cyst erupted under a tooth, forcing extraction and an implant that cost a small fortune. Her vision suddenly blurred. While strolling through Hyde Park she slipped on the even pavement, shattering her arm in three places. In that moment Emily decided she had to change something; she no longer wanted to drive herself toward an early grave.
The curse isnt real, love, the herbalist said, eyes steady. Dont blame a spell. Its your husband who cant see beyond himself. Everything youre experiencing is of your own making. He lives inside his own head, obsessed with himself. Hes a coward, and theres no place for him in your future.
What am I supposed to do? Emily whispered.
Live. Live your own life, on your own terms.
Emily rose, her head feeling like cast iron. Liveeasy to say.
Take this, the woman said, handing her a tin of candles and a tiny bottle of water. When the nausea overwhelms you, light a candle and sip. Itll help.
Thank you, Emily murmured, stepping out onto the rainslick street. A tight knot rose in her throat. The mantra echoed in her mind: it isnt her, its her husband. After twelve years of marriage, after all theyd endured together.
That evening she sat at her kitchen table with a notebook. Live my own life. What do I want? What do I want? She scratched out question marks, the pen refusing to move. She had always wanted the same things as the kidsto go to the seaside, to splash in a water park, to play in a games room or at least the park near home. She had once shared her husbands dreams of buying a house, a car, visiting her mother in the neighbouring county, renovating the balcony, watching films until midnight, or camping in the countryside.
Now she asked herself: what did she truly want? What interests lay beyond her husbands and the childrens? It struck her that she had dissolved into the family over the past few years; her own goals had vanished. After half an hour of staring at the empty pages, she penned a handful of aims:
I want to run in the morningsfind time and strength to jog.
I want a new jobbe a manager and earn a decent salary, grow professionally.
I want to lose seven pounds.
I want to buy a proper coat.
I want my own home.
I want calm, healthy relationships with my children.
I want a hobby that brings joy.
She exhaled, closed the notebook. It wasnt simple to define her own desires, but every journey begins with a first step. She glanced over at her husband, Serge, slumped on the sofa, eyes glued to his laptop. Your husband is, a voice echoed in her head, distant yet familiar.
She slammed the car door that afternoon and drove back to the herbalist for another session. She needed guidance on setting up her new role at work so her department could function without being overwhelmed by impossible tasks. Her neck ached constantly; manual therapy had offered little relief. Should she send their eldest to a summer camp or let him stay home to paint? And what about Sergewas he truly still part of their lives, or just a ghost?
Youre a different person now, the herbalist observed. What brings you here today?
My back hurts, my neck, work, my son, Serge, Emily replied.
The herbalist smiled. You came to me with your whole world on your shoulders. Your illness will gradually lose its grip as you take back control. Soon you wont care where Serge is, who hes with, whether his former lover still haunts his thoughts. One day youll forget the question Do I still matter to him? and focus on where youre headed. That wont happen overnight.
She struck a match, the flame flickering in the dim room.
Let your son paint, the herbalist advised. At work, set clear tasks; then youll have clear solutions and can hold people accountable. They dont read minds.
Your husband will cling tighter the more vibrant your life becomes, she continued. Hes just a shadow cast by the sun. No sun, no shadow. The brighter the light, the clearer the silhouette. Understand?
Emily nodded, a thin smile forming.
Thank you, she said.
Try this, the herbalist added, handing her a tennis ball. Place it between a wall and your spine, roll it while you squat. Itll help align your vertebrae.
Emily chuckled to herself. A tennis ball? After all the expensive therapists, a simple ball would do? What else could she do but live her own life?
Days turned into weeks, seasons cycledwinters chill, springs bloom, summers heat, and once again golden autumn. At the start of the new school term Emily enrolled her son, Dylan, in a local art class. He took to painting with a fervour shed never noticed before. His work soon appeared in city and county childrens exhibitions. He abandoned his tablet and phone, devoting every spare minute to brush and colour.
Emily set up a whiteboard in her home office, jotting tasks and deadlines each morning. Over time the goals stopped being merely words; they became actions. Colleagues whispered, some resentful, but the progress was undeniable. She began running workshops on staff development, first as a hobby, then as a recognised expert. The training sessions soon earned her an income comparable to a senior managers salary.
One lunchtime a bouquet of deep red roses arrived on her desk, no card, no name. A mystery, but Emily sensed her husbands hand behind it.
How do you like them? she asked, halfsmiling.
An hour passed with no reply; Serge apparently assumed she guessed the sender. She wrote a brief Thank you in the margins of her notebook.
Emily preferred chrysanthemumstheir sharp, bitter aroma perfect for autumn. Serge never recalled her preference; in his world every woman loved roses.
Outside, the sun blazed, a brilliant autumn light scattering scarlet and amber maple leaves across the avenue beside her office. She inhaled the crisp air through the open window, feeling the weight of doubt lift. She had finally claimed her freedom. And, as the herbalist had promised, the tennis ball had indeed eased her shoulder tension.
She stood, chest expanding, ready to step into the life she had chosen.
