Emma came home exhausted. Everything inside whispered the same old tale: her husband hadn’t spent the night again. The scattered clothes and unwashed dishes told her he’d rushed off somewhere, leaving only traces of indifference behind. She tidied up mechanically, but froze at the bedroom—a single, unfamiliar auburn hair lay coiled on the pillow. Trembling, she walked to the kitchen: two wineglasses, lipstick smudged on one. She stared through it all as if through murky water. But this time, she didn’t cry. She knew, with icy clarity—it was time to act.
Once, Emma had dreamed a simple girl’s dream—to find her prince. Hailing from a tiny village, she’d yearned for the city, for glamour, for happiness. She studied, waitressed evenings at a pub, helping her Aunt Maggie, who’d struggled after the divorce. Money was tight. Her mother sent what she could, but in a stepfather’s house, another man’s child always came second. Every achievement was hers alone. And she’d believed love would one day pull her from the grey.
Love did come. A regular at the pub, James—older, confident, well-off—had noticed her. She fell head over heels, not knowing he had more than just a flash car; he had a queue of admirers too. Yet he chose her. Even sidelined the so-called “fiancée,” who turned out to be just his goddaughter.
The wedding was straight out of a film—lavish, expensive, dazzling. James’ parents greeted her with strained smiles but relented: their son was their golden boy, his word final. His mother orchestrated everything, from the dress to Emma’s hair colour. Emma obeyed, convinced she’d been accepted. For a year, life was a fairy tale.
Then time passed. No pregnancy came. One day, her mother-in-law announced bluntly:
“I’ve booked you an appointment. Time we got to the bottom of this.”
Emma felt fine but didn’t argue. The verdict came swiftly: children weren’t an option. Never.
She cycled home, numb, unsure how to break the news. But she soon realized—no words were needed. Her mother-in-law had already spoken.
“We’ll manage,” the older woman said. “What matters is sticking together.”
James echoed it: “I won’t leave you.” Emma believed him. Then came the doctors, clinics, treatments. James started staying out late. Then he moved to the spare room. Then he mostly slept at his parents’.
Life went on, just not together. Her friend Lily had a son, Alfie. Emma became his godmother. He became her light. Then Lily and her husband died in a crash. Alfie was orphaned. Before Emma could visit, he was taken by Lily’s brother, Noah—the same lad who’d once gifted her sweets and notebooks.
“We’re too old,” Lily’s parents said. “Noah’s young, about to marry. Let him raise the boy.”
Emma couldn’t bear it—a stranger would be Alfie’s stepmother. The thought burned: take him herself. Convince Noah. Maybe he’d relent.
But Noah refused.
“He’s my nephew. I swore to my sister—I’d never abandon him!” Then, as if delirious, he added, “Or marry me. We’ll raise him together. I’ve always loved you, but you never gave me a chance.”
“Are you mad?!” Emma blurted. Instantly, she regretted it. Too late.
Now, home again, shattered—that hair. The lipstick. The glasses. The truth cut deep. Had he even been at his parents’? Those “business trips”?
All that bound them was duty, habit, fear of being alone. Swiftly, she packed her things, left a note:
“This is better for everyone…”
James would have children. His parents, grandchildren. Noah, a family. Alfie, a mother. And her?
Love? Who knew what it even was. Maybe it was closer than she thought.
Noah opened the door, bleary-eyed.
“You again? What do you want?”
Emma shut her eyes, whispered:
“I’ve come… for good.”
