At Long Last
When Emily got married to Oliver, she never suspected her new husband had a drinking problem. They hadn’t dated long—Oliver proposed rather quickly, and admittedly, he’d had a few that evening.
“Love, let’s get married,” he mumbled, breath thick with whiskey.
“Oliver, are you drunk? Is this really how you ask me?” Emily huffed, though not too seriously—after all, most of her friends were already married, and she fancied the idea.
“Well, I’m celebrating! Hoping you won’t say no,” he grinned. “So? What’s your answer?”
“Fine, I’ll marry you—on one condition. You cut back on the drinking. Special occasions only.”
“Exactly what I was thinking! And today *is* a special occasion—just proposed to you, didn’t I?”
Young and naive, Emily didn’t dig deeper. She had no idea Oliver’s father had spent his life drowning in ale. Maybe that’s where the habit came from—especially since Dad often invited Oliver for “a quick pint, just lads being lads.”
Margaret, Oliver’s mum, would scold her husband. “You guzzle that rubbish your whole life, and now you’re dragging our boy into it?” But her husband just laughed.
“Ah, shut it, woman. The lad’s a man now. Let him have a drink.”
After the wedding, they moved into Emily’s tiny flat, inherited from her gran. At first, things seemed fine. Oliver worked, though he often came home reeking of booze, always with an excuse.
“Tom was celebrating—his son was born! Couldn’t say no, could I?”
“Pete’s birthday—what, skip the party?”
“Helped Dave shift timber for his shed. Bloke insisted on a round after—manners, love.”
Emily had their son, little Alfie, but Oliver kept drinking. He lingered at the pub, barely glanced at Alfie.
“Why won’t you spend time with him? He’s your son,” Emily pleaded.
“You’re the one who told me not to breathe booze on him,” Oliver shot back.
“Then *stop drinking*! How many times do I have to say it?”
Eight years passed. Oliver drank daily now. Lost one job, then another. Margaret, Emily’s mother-in-law, was heartbroken. She knew how hard Emily tried, how much she respected her—and vice versa.
“Emily’s fought this for years, but he won’t change. It’s worse every day,” Margaret confided in her sister.
“Poor Emily. Such a good wife and mum,” her sister sighed.
Two more years. Alfie was in Year 3. Emily carried the family alone—Oliver didn’t work, though Margaret helped with money and bought Alfie clothes. Oliver was a wreck. Missing teeth, thinning hair, no spark left. Worse, he felt nothing—not for Emily, not for Alfie. Nothing at all.
“Emily, kick that layabout out! How can you stand it?” Her mum, coworkers, even the neighbours urged her.
But Emily pitied him. She was soft-hearted—always rescuing stray cats, let alone her own husband. The only thing that *really* worried her was Alfie. The boy saw his father as a joke, no respect between them. Enough was enough. She’d divorce him.
She told Margaret.
“Margaret, I can’t do this anymore. I’m divorcing Oliver.”
“Love, what if we get him help? Maybe this time it’ll stick?”
“How many times did you try with your husband? Did it work?” Emily shook her head. “I won’t let Alfie turn out like him. Oliver’s leaving.”
“And where’s he going? Straight to us, I suppose,” Margaret groaned, rubbing her temples.
Truth was, Emily had fallen for a coworker—Daniel. She’d kept it locked tight, not even Daniel suspected.
Daniel had joined their office two months ago. One look, and Emily’s heart fluttered. Blue-eyed, sandy-haired, with a warm smile—he charmed everyone. The single women *noticed*.
Even at thirty-four, divorced and new in town (staying with his dad), Daniel was polite. When flirted with, he’d just smile. “Ah, tonight’s no good, sorry. Prior engagement.”
Some women, miffed by his disinterest, spun rumours. But Daniel stayed kind, unbothered.
Emily filed for divorce and told Oliver: “We’re done. Your things are by the door—two bags.”
Oliver stared blankly, unfazed. Grabbed the bags and trudged to his parents’.
*I meant nothing to him,* Emily thought after he left. *But now—new life. Maybe I’ll trust a man again. Maybe even…*
And then it happened. One evening, leaving work, Daniel called out.
“Emily, got a minute?”
“Heading home. Why?” Her cheeks pinked.
“Fancy dinner? I’d like to know you better. Office gossip’s not my style.” He smiled—that warm smile—and opened his car door.
“Alright,” she said, sliding in.
The café was quiet, just starting to fill.
“Emily, I heard you’re divorced,” Daniel said after ordering.
“Yes. Ran out of patience. Tired of carrying dead weight.”
“Then maybe this’ll surprise you—the moment I saw you, I knew you were it for me.”
Emily’s heart raced. He’d put her own feelings into words.
“Daniel, I had no idea—”
“I think you *did*. Saw it in your eyes,” he teased. She blushed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To the right person.” He grinned—confirming everything.
They started dating.
Office whispers followed. Nosey Nora even sneered, “Well, well. Miss Quiet nabs Daniel. How’d *you* manage it?”
Emily just shrugged. No point in arguing.
Oliver stayed gone. Margaret, though, suffered—her house now a living hell. Evenings, she’d visit Emily, dote on Alfie, and thaw her soul. She didn’t blame Emily, not one bit.
one morning, Margaret arrived early. Emily had news—Daniel had proposed. A ring sparkled on her finger.
Margaret walked in, greeted by warm tea and fresh scones.
“Emily, love! How are you?”
“Good. Alfie’s still buried in his phone. Sit—tea’s ready. Oh, and… I’ve got news.”
Margaret’s brows lifted. “What’s happened?”
“I’m… marrying Daniel. My coworker.”
For a beat, Margaret froze. Then—a radiant smile.
“At *last*! Oh, Emily, that’s *wonderful*!” She hugged her tight.
Emily blinked. She’d expected disapproval.
“But… you’re not upset?”
Margaret laughed. “Love, I *saw* how Oliver treated you. That boy didn’t deserve you if he tried! Blimey, you’ve *glowed* lately—I *knew* something was up. If you’ve chosen Daniel, he must be special.”
Emily’s throat tightened. She’d braced for scorn; got support instead.
“I want you happy, Emily. *Both* of you. My son mucked it up—but you gave him every chance.”
The tension melted. Emily smiled.
“Actually… maybe you could help plan the wedding?” Margaret beamed. “Let’s make it *perfect*!”
They dove into details—flowers, venue, dresses. With every word, Emily realized: she hadn’t lost a mother-in-law. She’d *gained* a friend.
And Margaret? She’d found the daughter she’d always wanted.
It’s rare. But it *happens*.
