Oh, I’ve got this story to share with you—it’s a proper rollercoaster. So, right, Emily grew up hearing that the women in her family were cursed with bad luck. Her great-grandma lost her husband in the war, her nan got injured at the factory and never fully recovered, and her mum’s dad walked out when she was just three. Emily always had this nagging fear her own marriage would end in some sort of mess. She didn’t want to believe it, but that family shadow kept looming over her.
She met her future husband, Oliver, at a small workshop on the outskirts of Manchester where they both worked. He fixed machinery, she sorted parts. They got chatting over lunch in the canteen, and things moved fast—before long, they had a quiet little wedding and moved into her nan’s old two-bed flat on Hillview Road. Nan had passed by then, so it became their home.
Life carried on. First came their son, James, then the younger one, Thomas. Not long after, Emily’s mum passed away, leaving her to handle the kids and the house on her own. She never complained—Oliver brought in the money, and her job was looking after the lads and the home.
But a few years later, things started going sideways. Oliver began staying late at work, always mentioning this young colleague who was “helping him with reports.” Emily noticed him pulling away—coming home just to change clothes, sometimes not even bothering to come back at all. She knew what was happening, but the fear of being alone with the kids kept her quiet.
“Leave her, think about the boys,” she finally said one day.
Oliver didn’t answer. No excuses, no shouting—just icy silence.
She kept caring for him—cooking meals, washing his shirts.
“All you’re good for is serving others,” he sneered at her after another failed attempt to talk.
She held on, hoping he’d snap out of it. Then one evening, Oliver packed his things.
“Don’t leave us, please! Don’t take their dad away!” Emily sobbed.
“You’re just a pathetic servant,” he spat, looking at her with pure disgust.
The boys heard every word. James and Thomas huddled together on the sofa, watching their dad walk out. They didn’t understand—had they been bad? Had Mum done something wrong?
They saw everything—their mum’s tears, how she tried to keep it together, how she poured everything into them. They started helping out: washing up, tidying the flat. Emily threw herself into the boys and her work. The idea of meeting someone new never crossed her mind—her sons were her whole world.
But fate had other plans. One day, shopping at the local Tesco, Emily dropped a bag of rice. A bloke scooped it up straight away.
“Need a hand with your bags?” he asked, smiling.
She hesitated, but before she could answer, he’d grabbed her shopping.
“Right, I’ll sort this,” he said, and they got chatting on the walk home.
His name was Daniel. He had a kind face, a soft voice, and a slight limp. Emily thanked him and said goodbye, not expecting to see him again—but then he kept turning up at the same Tesco, like he was planning it. That’s how it started.
Emily did some cleaning work in her building for extra cash. Normally the boys helped, but that day she was on her own.
“Need a hand?” came a familiar voice.
Daniel was there again. He helped her finish up, and that evening, she invited him round. He showed up in a smart suit, carrying white lilies and a box of custard tarts.
“Evening,” he said, handing the sweets to the boys.
James, the older one, sniffed the tarts for some reason, and they all cracked up. The tension melted. At dinner, Emily dropped a spoon, and Daniel caught it mid-air.
“You play cricket or something?” Thomas asked.
“Used to, back in school,” Daniel grinned.
“We’ll show you our pitch!” James said. “Me and my mates play there.”
Next time they met, Daniel admitted:
“You’ve probably noticed I move a bit slow, talk a bit careful. Had a bad accident a few years back. My wife didn’t stick around after that. Reckon you might not want me around now, either.”
Emily didn’t pry—didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.
“If my boys don’t scare you off, you’re welcome here,” she finally said, smiling.
Daniel became part of their lives. He was patient, played with the boys, helped around the house. At first, the lads weren’t sure, but they warmed up quick. Daniel was everything their dad had never been—they played footie in the garden, had mates round, and the house was full of laughter again.
Years passed. James got a girlfriend, Thomas took up guitar. Once, James even went to Daniel for advice—that’s how much he trusted him. But one evening, there was a knock at the door. Emily opened it and froze. Oliver stood there.
“I was wrong,” he said. “I want to fix things.”
“Piss off!” James shouted, fists clenched.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that, you little—” Oliver snapped.
“Don’t you talk to my son like that!” Daniel cut in, stepping forward.
He wasn’t having it.
“We don’t need you!” Thomas yelled, pushing past to slam the door shut.
“Try coming back, see what happens,” he muttered.
Emily looked at her boys—James, Thomas, and Daniel. Her family. Her rock. Against all the bad luck, she’d built something real. And in that moment? She’d never been happier.
