I couldn’t take his anger anymore, but life handed me a second chance.
That evening in our flat in Manchester was just like any other: me, Emily, tidying up after dinner, my husband James glued to the telly, and our son William revising for his exams. But this night changed everything. What started as a chat about visiting my parents turned into a row—the final straw. My life with James, full of his temper and indifference, had crumbled. Yet fate, out of nowhere, offered me a fresh shot at happiness. Now, I’m standing on the brink of a new chapter, my heart pounding with nerves and hope.
I walked into the living room, fiddling with the edge of my apron. James, as usual, was sprawled on the sofa, eyes locked on the screen.
“James, Mum rang,” I ventured. “Dad’s poorly. I need to pop over to theirs—help with the garden, the shopping…”
James shot up, hurling the remote at the floor. His face turned beetroot with rage.
“I couldn’t care less about your parents’ errands!” he bellowed. “We’re seeing my mum next week, end of!”
“I can’t let them down,” I murmured. “I’ll go alone, then visit your mum after.”
He gaped, too furious to speak. I turned and slipped into the bedroom, but inside, I was boiling. By morning, everything had changed.
Back in my younger days, naive and soft-hearted, I’d fallen for James. We’d met at a uni party—me studying teaching, him engineering. His sharp tongue had seemed like confidence then, and smitten, I’d smoothed over his outbursts. My mates warned me: “Em, he’s rude, never happy—think twice!” But I’d brushed it off, convinced love would fix him. After the wedding, we settled in Manchester, had William, and those early years were almost happy. But with time, James grew more unbearable.
I taught primary school, adored my pupils, and they loved Miss Emily Thompson. James, an engineer at a factory, moaned endlessly about work. “They don’t appreciate me, Em,” he’d gripe. “I pitch ideas, and they laugh!” I’d try to soothe him, but he’d snap, “Oh, you’re siding with them? No wonder—teaching kids doesn’t take much brain!” His words stung, but I bit my tongue to avoid rows.
Then he got sacked. Found another job, but a year later, same story—clashes with colleagues, the boot. At home, he was vile: shouting, accusing me of not backing him. I endured it for William, not wanting him fatherless. But love had long faded, and I realised I’d mistaken infatuation for the real thing. James loved only himself and couldn’t take criticism.
Our son grew up, and after one row too many, he said, “Mum, why d’you put up with him? Just leave.” I was stunned he’d noticed. “Love, I didn’t want you growing up without a dad,” I replied. He frowned. “Mum, he’s rotten to you—barely notices me either.” That hit hard.
That fateful night began with my call to Mum. Hearing Dad was ill, I resolved to go. James exploded, his fury like a storm. Next morning, as I packed, he barged in, yelling insults. I wept but held firm. When he stormed out, slamming the door, I grabbed my bag, hailed a cab, and left. At my parents’, I begged Mum not to tell Dad—he was poorly enough.
“Em, this isn’t life,” Mum hugged me. “You deserve better.”
Two months later, James and I divorced. He rang, threatened, but I’d moved towns. William stayed at uni halls, cutting ties with his dad. I landed a teaching job at a tiny school, rented a cosy flat, and buried myself in work. My pupils saved me—their grins eased the ache.
Before Christmas, walking home, I spotted a man stumbling from his car and collapsing. I dashed over, laid him down, tucked my bag under his head, and dialled 999.
“Are you family? Coming to hospital?” the paramedic asked.
“No, just passing—on my way from school,” I flustered. “Don’t know him.”
“Leave your number, just in case,” he said.
On January 2nd, an unknown number rang. Thinking it was William, I answered—but a man’s voice spoke.
“Hello, Emily, Happy New Year! It’s Daniel. You saved my life calling that ambulance. Fancy popping by the hospital? I’d love to thank you properly.”
I hesitated—I’d nearly forgotten. Helping strangers was second nature, but this felt different.
“Alright, I’ll come,” I said.
In the ward, I found a man in his fifties, greying but bright-eyed. Daniel beamed like I’d hung the moon.
“Hello, I’m Emily. How’re you feeling?”
“Thanks to you—brilliant,” he grinned. “Can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Daniel was visiting on business. During his stay, I dropped by often. We chatted about everything, and I felt a warmth growing. Before discharge, he said:
“Em, I’m not leaving without you. What’s keeping you here? I’ve a house, work—schools nearby. William’s welcome too. Live with my dad—he’d adore you.”
Daniel confessed he’d lost his wife and daughter in a crash seven years back. He’d been alone till he met me. His words sank deep. This wasn’t pity—it was real, strong, like a love I’d never known.
“Suppose I’ll say yes, then,” I smiled. “Nothing’s tying me here.”
At forty-two, I’m stepping into a new life. Daniel’s given me hope, and finally, I’ve a shot at joy. My battered heart’s healing, and for the first time in years, I believe the future’s bright.
