I couldn’t stand his anger any longer, but life handed me a second chance.
Our flat in Manchester was just like any other evening: me, Emily, clearing up after dinner, my husband Andrew glued to the telly, and our son Thomas revising for his exams. But that night, everything changed. What started as a chat about visiting my parents turned into a row—the final straw. My life with Andrew, filled with his temper and indifference, had collapsed, but fate, with its usual flair for drama, surprised me with a fresh shot at happiness. Now, here I am, standing on the brink of a new chapter, heart pounding with nerves and hope.
I walked into the living room, twisting the hem of my apron. Andrew, sprawled on the sofa as usual, barely glanced away from the screen.
“Andrew, Mum rang,” I ventured. “Dad’s poorly, and they need help with the farm—haymaking, chores…”
Andrew shot up, slamming the remote onto the floor. His face flushed beetroot with rage.
“Not fussed about your parents’ farm!” he bellowed. “We’re off to my mum’s next week, and that’s final!”
“I can’t just leave them,” I said softly. “I’ll go alone, then join you after.”
He spluttered, lost for words. I turned and walked to the bedroom, but inside, I was simmering. The next morning, everything flipped upside down.
Years ago, young and naïve, I’d fallen for Andrew. We met at a university party—me studying to be a teacher, him training as an engineer. Back then, his sharp tongue seemed like confidence, and I, smitten, smoothed over his outbursts. My mates warned me: “Em, he’s got a temper—think it through!” But I didn’t listen, convinced love would fix everything. After we married and moved to Manchester, Thomas came along, and for a while, things were almost happy. But year by year, Andrew grew more bitter.
I taught primary school, adored my pupils, and they worshipped “Miss Emily.” Andrew, an engineer at a factory, constantly moaned about work. “They don’t appreciate me, Em,” he’d grumble. “I pitch ideas, and they just laugh!” I’d try to soothe him, but he’d snap: “Oh, like teaching kids takes brains?” His words stung, but I bit my tongue to avoid a scene.
Then he got sacked. Found another job, but a year later, same story—clashes with colleagues, the boot. At home, he was unbearable: shouting, blaming me for not backing him. I stuck it out for Thomas, not wanting him fatherless. But love had long fizzled out. I’d mistaken infatuation for the real thing—Andrew loved only himself and couldn’t stomach criticism.
Thomas grew up, and after one row too many, he said, “Mum, why d’you put up with him? Just leave.” I was shocked he’d noticed. “Love, I didn’t want you growing up without a dad,” I said. He frowned. “Mum, he’s awful to you—barely notices me either.” That hit hard.
That fateful night began with my call to Mum. Hearing Dad was ill, I decided to go. Andrew exploded like a firework. Next morning, as I packed, he stormed in, hurling abuse. I cried but held my ground. When he slammed the door, I grabbed my bag, called a cab, and left for my parents’. Mum hugged me as I spilled everything, begging her not to worry Dad—he was frail enough.
“Emily, this isn’t living,” she said. “You deserve better.”
Two months later, Andrew and I divorced. He rang, threatened, but I moved away. Thomas stayed at uni halls, cutting ties with him. I landed a teaching job in a tiny village school, rented a cosy flat, and buried myself in work. My pupils saved me—their grins thawed the hurt.
Just before New Year’s, walking home from school, I spotted a man stumbling from his car and collapsing. I dashed over, propped his head on my bag, and rang for an ambulance.
“Relation?” the paramedic asked.
“Just walked past, really,” I said. “Don’t know him.”
“Leave your number, just in case,” he said.
On January 2nd, an unknown number flashed up. Expecting Thomas, I answered—but a man’s voice greeted me.
“Happy New Year, Emily! It’s Ian. You saved my life calling that ambulance. Fancy popping by the hospital? I’d love to meet you.”
I froze—I’d nearly forgotten the incident. Helping strangers was second nature, but this felt different.
“Alright,” I said.
In his hospital room, I found a man in his fifties, silver-haired but bright-eyed. Ian gazed at me like I’d hung the moon.
“Hello, I’m Emily. How’re you feeling?”
“Thanks to you—brilliant,” he grinned. “You’ve no idea how grateful I am.”
Ian was here for work. During his recovery, I visited often. We chatted about everything, and somehow, he felt like home. Before discharge, he said,
“Em, I’m not leaving without you. What’s keeping you here? I’ve a house, a job near a school. Thomas could visit—plenty of space. Live with my dad—he’d adore you.”
Ian confessed he’d lost his wife and daughter in a crash seven years back. Since then, he’d been alone—till me. His words cracked something open in me. This wasn’t pity—it was real, sturdy, the kind of love I’d never known.
“Think I’ll say yes,” I smiled. “Nothing’s holding me here.”
At forty-two, I’m stepping into a new life. Ian’s given me hope, and finally, I’ve got my shot at happiness. My heart, battered by years of hurt, is waking up—and for the first time in ages, I believe the future’s bright.
