The first day of winter didn’t begin well. Emily had to work, and the weather was miserable—snow mixed with rain, the temperature just above freezing, neither here nor there. Her light coat wouldn’t do, so she bundled up in a thick parka and sturdy boots.
It was her first day back after a long break. Last summer, she’d been so happy with her boyfriend, Oliver, that she’d recklessly quit her job on his advice. He’d bought them holiday tickets to Spain, and when her boss refused to give her leave, she handed in her resignation without a second thought. Back then, the future seemed glittering—she was certain Oliver would propose on that sunlit beach. Why would she need a job? He’d take care of everything while her meagre earnings paled in comparison.
She’d dreamed of weddings, children, and a grand life in his luxurious home. Now, she cursed her naivety. No proposal came—just lavish dinners, a few romantic nights, and a quiet return home. He didn’t leave immediately, though. For months, he strung her along, making her believe their relationship was leading somewhere. Then, a week ago, she finally asked: what were his plans?
“Not very promising, Emily,” he admitted. “I’m taking my ex-wife back. Our family business is tied to my father—he’s fallen ill. If I don’t reconcile, the company goes to my son, controlled by her until he comes of age. But if I return to the family, it’s mine. Harsh terms, I know. Forgive me, love.”
More nonsense followed—claims of love, regret, helplessness. She wrapped herself in the last gift he’d given her, a fine wool coat, said a curt, “Goodbye,” and vanished from his life. Oliver? No loss. But the wasted time stung.
Now she had to swallow her pride, beg her old boss for her job back. Waiting outside his office, she exchanged nervous pleasantries with colleagues. Behind the closed door, his sharp, irritated voice carried—someone was being reprimanded. When the coast was clear, she stepped in, bright smile in place, and pleaded: she needed work. Her personal life had fallen apart.
The boss, a man who’d always fancied her but was happily married, sighed. “For anyone else? No. But I’ll take you back—not in your old role, it’s filled. My secretary’s going on maternity leave next week. Discipline, though. No more vanishing acts.”
She agreed. Now, pencil skirt, crisp blouse, minimal makeup—professional. She’d even packed heels to change into at the office. Rushing to the bus stop, a text came: *”Come in early. Emergency meeting.”* Glancing at the time, she knew she’d never make it. A taxi, then.
Then—impact. A boy, out of nowhere on his skateboard, crashed into her. They tumbled. Her coat smeared, tights ruined, phone skittering onto the road. The boy clutched his ankle, wincing. Passersby helped him up, but when the paramedics asked who’d accompany him, they all looked away.
So Emily went. She grabbed his skateboard, his torn schoolbag, and climbed into the ambulance. At the hospital, her phone buzzed—five missed calls from her boss. The shift, let alone the meeting, had begun. She dialled; no answer. Then, a text: *”Never mind. I’ve reconsidered. Good luck.”*
Her career was over. Tears pricked, but she swallowed them. The secretary job? She’d find another. Maybe.
The boy, fourteen-year-old Daniel, was fine—just a sprain. His grandmother, flustered and grateful, insisted Emily stay for tea. Their flat was warm, tidy. Daniel confessed he’d taken the skateboard without asking. Before leaving, Emily exchanged numbers with him.
“Call if you need anything,” she said.
But where to go now? Work had slipped through her fingers.
“A blessing in disguise,” she muttered, heading home.
Job hunting consumed the week. Nothing fit—too far, poor pay, extra training. Then, Daniel called. “Emily! Dad’s back. Fancy coming to my birthday Saturday?”
Why not? She liked the boy—and his grandmother.
On Saturday, she arrived at the address he’d sent—and gasped. A handsome detached house, gravel drive, lush garden. His grandmother waved her in. Inside, Daniel beamed. Then a man stepped forward—tall, striking.
“Thomas Whitmore,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand. “Daniel’s father.”
Her face burned. No sign of a wife.
Over cake, Thomas thanked her. “You didn’t abandon him. That matters.”
Later, he drove her home. A widower, raising Daniel alone, his business demanding too much time. She confessed her job loss, the cruel timing.
A week later, he called—a position at his firm.
By Christmas, they were a unit: rosy-cheeked Gran, gleeful Daniel, and Emily with Thomas, their lives entwined—new love, a fresh start, and shared days watching over bright-eyed Daniel, a boy as clever as he was kind.
