After the Honeymoon—Bitter Truth and a Fresh Start
Emma and James had just returned from their honeymoon in sunny Spain. She curled up on the sofa and called toward the bathroom:
“Which film should we watch?”
“Your choice!” came her husband’s muffled reply.
Emma switched on his laptop, her gaze drifting absently to the unpacked suitcases in the hall. “I’ll sort them tomorrow,” she muttered, turning back—just as a notification pinged.
Her stomach dropped.
*”Miss you, my love,”* read a message from a woman named Poppy.
*”Don’t worry, won’t be long,”* James had replied.
The date? The day before they flew home. Her fingers hovered, then she scrolled—*”Poppy, last night was magical…”* *”Coming over tonight?”* *”God, I’ve missed you…”*
The laptop snapped shut. Moments later, James strolled out, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Alright, pick something funny?”
“Oh, it’s *hilarious*,” Emma bit out, voice ice. “Who’s Poppy?”
He froze.
“Poppy? I—what? I don’t—”
“Really?” She flung the laptop onto his lap. “Two days back, and you’ve already screwed around?”
“Wait—it was just drinks after work, she— It meant *nothing*! I love *you*!”
“*Love*?” She wrenched open the front door. “Marrying you was the mistake!”
In the cab, London’s blurry streetlights streaked through her tears. *How did it come to this?*
At her parents’ house, her mother’s worried face appeared instantly.
“Emma, pet, what’s wrong?”
“I’m divorcing him. I won’t live with a liar.”
“Come inside, love. Let’s talk.”
A week later, Mum pleaded over tea. “Stay here, why rent alone?”
“Mum, I’m thirty. I need my own space.”
Two days of flat-hunting. One filed divorce. James still called—flowers, apologies, silence.
By month’s end, Emma had a new flat. Fourteen dry-eyed days. Work drowned the thoughts. But weekends? Hollow.
Tonight, she numb-clicked through TV channels, spooning cold ice cream. Then—a spark.
“Enough wallowing.” She grabbed her coat.
The park was mild, murmuring with couples under golden lamplight. But dusk crept in. Emma turned—and realized she’d lost her way.
Footsteps behind her. She quickened.
“Excuse me—” a man called.
She bolted, tripped—and strong hands caught her.
“You alright? Didn’t mean to scare you. Oliver.”
He stepped back, showing empty pockets. “Live nearby. Saw you circling—looked lost.”
Her pulse still raced, but his easy grin was… warm.
“Just… can’t find the exit,” she admitted.
“Mind if I walk you?”
The path vanished in chatter and laughter. At her door, they paused.
“Night, Emma.”
“Night, Oliver,” softer than she meant.
He smirked. “Want me to wait? In case you wander off again?”
—
Next morning, coffee-bound, she froze—Oliver leaned in her neighbour’s doorway, two takeaway cups in hand.
“Sleep well, sleepyhead? Been waiting ages. Fancy a brew?”
“You—live *here*?”
“Two weeks now. Saw you about, but…” He grinned. “So? Coffee?”
“I don’t—”
“Got digestives.”
A reluctant smile. “Maybe.”
Her phone rang. Mum again.
“*No, I’m not coming back. I… like it here.*”
And for the first time in months, warmth spread—real, bright, alive.
