The kitchen was filled with the smell of roast beef and potatoes, the candles on the table flickering warmly as Emily adjusted the tablecloth, waiting eagerly for her husband. She’d put in extra effort tonight—it was almost New Year’s, and she wanted the evening to feel special. But George was late—two whole hours late. The food had gone cold, and her heart had chilled a little too. Still, when he finally opened the door, she rushed to greet him with a smile—her love was home.
They sat down to eat in silence. Emily waited with a hopeful grin while George poked at his plate with no expression. Then, suddenly, he set his fork down and, without meeting her eyes, said:
“The beef’s tough again. And honestly… I’m leaving. There’s someone else. Has been for a while. I don’t love you, Em. Maybe I never did. Don’t even know why we got married.”
The words hit like slaps. Emily froze, a piece of that very beef stuck in her mouth. Seven years of marriage—gone in one dinner.
“What about me, George?” she whispered. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Live. You’re young, you’ll meet someone. No kids, so nothing’s tying us. And Margaret—the woman I’m with—she’s wonderful. Older, with a daughter who already calls me Dad. And she cooks better, by the way…”
He said it as casually as if discussing holiday plans. The flat could stay hers—he wasn’t *that* much of a scoundrel. He’d take the car—the loan was his. All fair. He even added:
“Happy New Year, Em. Hope you find happiness.”
Then he was gone, leaving behind only the fading scent of his cologne—and silence.
Margaret. A girl who called him Dad. God, it hurt.
Emily sank into the armchair, staring blankly. His old t-shirt lay on the armrest—the one he always slept in. She pressed it to her face and cried—soft, gut-wrenching sobs, the kind that come when it’s not just love falling apart, but your whole life.
But morning brought resolve. The t-shirt went in the bin. She wiped her tears, stood up, and muttered: “Enough. I won’t break.”
She skipped the office party—no mood for celebrations. Her coworkers pitied her, especially Sarah from accounting, who’d heard the whole story. Pity stung worse than the pain.
Her mum just sighed when she found out:
“Maybe he’ll come back? Forgive him, love—people make mistakes…”
“I don’t *want* him back, Mum. He never loved me. Maybe I never even knew what love was.”
“Come stay with us for the holidays…”
“No. I need to be alone. To adjust.”
On December 31st, Emily bought mince pies, champagne, a tin of shortbread. She strung up fairy lights, like she did every year. Then she remembered an old childhood tradition—writing a wish on a slip of paper.
*”I want to meet my soulmate and be happy,”* she scribbled, folded it, and tucked it under her pillow.
Her mood lifted a little. At midnight, she stepped onto the balcony and, gazing at the sky, joked:
“Well then, soulmate—where are you? Just don’t judge my cooking or leave me for a Margaret, alright? Just show up.”
“What kind of music do you like?” a man’s voice called up from below.
“Wait—who’s that?” Emily sputtered.
“William. Live downstairs. Overheard you. Sorry…”
“I like classical. And opera.”
“Brilliant. I don’t spend nights on my laptop, and there’s no Margaret in my life. I’m alone too—just divorced.”
“William… Very nice. You know what? Come up. We’ll listen to some music.”
“Give me a sec—just grabbing a jar of jam and another bottle of bubbly!”
They rang in the New Year together—dancing, laughing, talking, nibbling shortbread. Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so freely. It was magic.
Then came dates, ice skating, cosy cafés, long talks. William was kind, genuine. She fell deeper every day.
By the time her divorce came through, Emily wore a white blouse and a smile. George looked stunned:
“You… You’re happy?”
“Yes. And I *thank* you. For setting me free. I think I’ve finally found my soulmate.”
And she walked away, not glancing back—truly happy for the first time.
Sometimes, to start living, all you need is to welcome the New Year with an open heart.
