He took their son with him—and it was only a dream…
Emily met William at a dance in the local pub. He noticed her straight away—tall, slender, with sparkling eyes and a bright laugh. He stayed by her side all evening and later offered to walk her home.
“Shall I come round tomorrow for a stroll?” he asked as they said goodbye.
“Please do,” she replied softly, her heart fluttering.
That was how their story began. In a small village, word travels fast—soon everyone knew Emily had a suitor. The whispers started:
“They’ll be wed before long. He’s smitten, and no wonder—they make a fine pair, both steady as you like.”
True enough, William soon proposed. They held a lively wedding, the whole village turning out to celebrate. The young couple settled into the house William had built himself—he was a skilled craftsman, having worked on sites with his father since boyhood. Before long, they had a son. Life was good. At first.
But in time, William began spending evenings at the neighbours’—helping with odd jobs, mending things. There was always a drink offered. Generously. It seemed harmless at first, but soon it became a habit.
“Will, enough of this,” Emily would say. “I’m sick of you coming home the worse for wear.”
“What’s the harm? Just a pint with good folk. I do my bit at home.”
Their son grew older, Emily took a job, leaving the boy with his grandmother. Yet William carried on “helping.” But day by day, he came home less steady on his feet. Cracks appeared in their marriage. Arguments flared. Once, they even split for a week, but for their son’s sake, she took him back. He swore he’d change. And for a while, he did. Until the cycle began again.
Emily often thought of leaving. But their boy adored his father. When sober, William doted on him—teaching, playing, building things. She stayed for her son’s sake, clinging to hope: maybe he’d snap out of it, maybe the kind man she’d married would return.
But years and weariness took their toll. William grew frail, listless.
“Let’s see a doctor,” she urged.
“It’s nothing. A few days’ rest and I’ll be right as rain. Still young yet.”
He only went when he could no longer stand. The diagnosis was grim. The doctor shook his head.
“Why wait so long? I’m afraid time’s not on our side…”
Emily nursed him to the end—pain, helplessness, tears. Then he was gone. The whole village came to the funeral. Even those who’d frowned on his drinking respected the man and his craft.
On the fortieth day, Emily dreamed of him. William stood in shadow, whispering:
“Managing without me? Enjoy it while you can… Just remember—I’m taking our boy with me.”
She woke drenched in sweat, rushing to her son’s room. Twelve-year-old Thomas slept peacefully. She told no one of the dream. Yet from then on, she watched over him fiercely, fretting over every little thing. William never haunted her dreams again—but the dread lingered.
Six months later, Thomas didn’t come home from school. A car. An accident. Gone.
Emily shattered—grief clawing at her chest, choking her. After the funeral, she barely spoke. Months passed before she could breathe again. Slowly, life crept on.
She married a widower with two daughters, tried to be a good mother, later had another son. On the surface, things mended. But her heart never healed. Thomas stayed with her always—her firstborn, taken by his father. The man who’d once been her world.
Now Emily has grandchildren. They visit, laughing in the garden. She smiles. But when Thomas comes to her in dreams, she weeps. Because now she knows: some dreams are warnings. And though we hear them, we can rarely change a thing. All that’s left is to endure. And live… somehow.
