**A Dark Streak**
Like most girls her age, Emily had big dreams—finish school, go to university, become a doctor. She imagined a grand, everlasting love, the kind every seventeen-year-old hopes for. But not everyone gets what they wish for. Who knows why?
Her mum, Margaret, raised her alone. Years ago, Margaret had fallen for a handsome bloke, convinced he was her happily-ever-after. Turned out he was a gambling addict—rarely won, but when he did, it only fuelled his obsession. The losses piled up. He borrowed, got tangled in debt, and eventually mixed with the wrong crowd to pay it off.
First job, first arrest, first prison sentence—where he either died on his own or had help. Then two bald thugs showed up at Margaret’s door. The debt was hers now. Terrified, she handed over her flat—everything—and fled with two-year-old Emily, praying they wouldn’t follow. Whether the flat settled the debt or they simply gave up, they left her alone.
She and Emily ended up in a small town just outside Brighton—hoping the seaside bustle would keep them afloat. A widowed Irishman, Patrick, rented them a room in exchange for help around the house. His wife had passed, his grown kids lived elsewhere. Margaret cleaned, cooked, dug the garden—whatever needed doing. Patrick sold his garden haul at the market, occasionally slipping her coins for clothes or surprising them with gifts.
She saw where this was headed. So when he proposed, she wasn’t shocked. He was short, bald, twice her age, and about as romantic as a soggy biscuit. But she had nothing. His promise? The house and garden would be hers when he was gone. She agreed. Five miserable years—then freedom.
Emily grew up beautiful—olive skin, grey eyes, curly dark hair. Men practically tripped over themselves when she walked by. Understandably, Margaret drilled one lesson into her: *”Pick a man with sense, not just looks. You’ve got the cards—play them right.”* (Hint: Gamblers need not apply.)
Then a London lad, Daniel, showed up visiting family, spotted Emily, and lost his mind. He came *to Margaret* to propose, bragging about his father’s business, his future wealth.
Margaret wasn’t daft. *”Marry her? Fine. But she’s finishing school first. Come back in a year—then we’ll talk. Until then, hands off.”* Privately? She was thrilled. If he wasn’t full of hot air, Emily was set.
Daniel agreed, left, wrote letters, called. Visited at Christmas. One more year of uni, then he’d join the family firm. When he returned with *his* parents, they saw Emily—gorgeous but “not their sort.” Still, love won. They’d make her “presentable.”
The wedding was lavish. Margaret beamed. *”Just don’t rush into babies,”* she whispered. The newlyweds were happy. Emily applied to med school…
Then Daniel’s dad started *looking* at her—like she was dessert.
One day, his mum called: *”Come quick, I’m poorly!”* Daniel raced over. Meanwhile, his dad turned up at *their* flat. It was August. Emily, in shorts and a vest, answered, thinking it was Daniel.
He lunged. She fought, but who’d hear? The neighbours knew who’d bought the flat. By the sofa—a heavy vase. She swung.
When Daniel got home, his dad was in an ambulance, Emily in cuffs. The detective spun it: *She’d lured him. With her husband inheriting the business, why wait?*
Four years. A week in, a letter—Margaret was dead. Heart gave out. Patrick’s daughter had sold the house. *”Not for a convict,”* she’d said.
Prison was hell for a beauty. Survival meant scissors. No money? A promise to pay. Alone, she stabbed her cheek.
The prison doctor stitched it badly. The scar stayed—ugly, lopsided. Now nobody looked. She worked quietly, kept her head down.
Release day: *”Where to?”*
*”Cousins in Bristol,”* she lied. Mum had mentioned a trip there years ago.
But Bristol was no fresh start. A scar *and* a record? Nowhere would hire her. She got off the train in a small town at dusk. Cold. No cash. A battered Ford pulled up.
*”New here? Need a room?”*
She hesitated. The driver stepped out—ginger beard, black cassock.
*”Just out?”* Father Michael asked.
*”How’d you know?”*
*”You all squint at the sky like it’s new.”*
He offered her his daughter’s vacant room—no rent, just help his wife. No questions.
She told them everything that night. His wife cried. He said suffering led to grace. For the first time in years, Emily slept soundly.
She stayed a year—helping, healing. Sundays, she sang in the church choir. When Father Michael learned she’d wanted to be a doctor, he pulled strings. Her old documents? Still at the London uni.
*”They won’t take me—”*
*”A-levels done? Then fight.”*
She got in. Visited “home” every weekend. The scar? A professor excised it, properly this time.
After uni, she worked in Bristol. Five years later, a conference took her back to London. Heart pounding, she kept expecting ghosts—but his world didn’t cross hers now.
On the last day, shopping for gifts, she heard: *”Emily?”*
Daniel. Gaunt, scruffy.
*”You’re a doctor?”*
*”Yes. You?”*
*”Dad’s partners swindled me. Sold the flat… Mum’s gone. Can you spare anything?”*
She handed him all she had.
*”I can’t pay back—”*
*”Don’t.”*
*”Where you living? No—don’t tell me.”* He stuffed the notes in his pocket. *”I loved you. Just too weak to stand up to her.”*
He vanished into the Tube.
On the train home, Emily thought of him—then of Father Michael’s family, warmth flooding her. Maybe prison led her to them. To learning forgiveness.
Thirty-something. So much ahead. Just someone to lean on when it’s hard—that’s all she’d need.
