**A Lone Woman with Baggage**
I’ve been raising my son alone for over a decade. My ex-husband left me more than ten years ago. All this time, he’s dutifully paid child support—legally and morally impeccable, or so he claims.
He walked out, taking his things and the car, leaving me with an unpaid mortgage and a baby. Not once in all these years has he visited our son, never wished him a happy birthday, never sent a gift.
“Probably found some fool to charm, just like you,” Mum used to sigh. “He’ll keep running from responsibility till he loses his nerve. Should’ve listened—never take a mortgage alone. Now you’re stuck paying it off forever.” Never mind that she and Dad had insisted I take the flat in my name.
So that’s my life—paycheck to paycheck, two jobs, a son to raise. Thank goodness Alex isn’t much trouble.
After the second shift, too worn out to think, I drag myself to the store, then home, longing to drop the heavy bags, kick off my shoes, and just sit with my eyes closed. I feel like a carousel horse—gaily painted, draped in ribbons, but trudging the same dull circle day after day. Work, shop, home.
I wear cheap, practical clothes from the discount rack. New things are rare, saved for special occasions that hardly come. By the time I wear them, they’re out of style.
Walking home, I plan dinner, wonder if Alex is in. My handbag’s slung over my shoulder, a grocery bag in the other. If he’s home, I’ll rest a few minutes before boiling pasta and sausages.
I wasn’t always like this. Thick hair, bright eyes, a figure that still turns heads. Like any girl, I dreamed of love—and it came in the shape of Daniel. Handsome, promising me forever, a fancy car (a Jaguar, at least), two children.
He got the car. Drove off into his bright future, leaving me the flat, the mortgage, and our son.
I watch the pavement—one misstep, and you’re in a puddle or twisting an ankle. The roads here are terrible. And watch out for speeding drivers who splash you without a care.
“Charlotte!” A stylish woman blocks my path. It takes me a second to recognise Sophie—my old schoolmate. Never the prettiest, now she looks like she stepped off a magazine cover. Next to her, I feel shabby.
“Thank God I ran into you! I’m visiting Mum, and everyone’s moved away. I’m in London! So—how are you?”
*Isn’t it obvious?* “Fine. The usual.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and my boy. You?”
“Oh, me?” She closes her eyes, blissful. “Married a Spaniard, live in Barcelona. Just here a week. Listen, I’m not letting you go. Let’s grab coffee—or invite me over. Where do you live?”
“Close by, but it’s a mess. Even last night’s dishes are piled up.”
“Who cares? I’m British—used to worse.”
I unlock the door and call out, “Alex! You home? We’ve got company.”
A lanky teenager appears.
“Wow! This is your son? He’s gorgeous,” Sophie gushes. “What year are you in? Any uni plans?”
“Not sure yet. Mum, I washed the dishes—got homework.” He vanishes.
“So independent.” Envy tinges her voice.
“Any kids of your own?” Pride swells in me.
“No. My husband’s older—grown kids already. No more nappies for him.”
I throw together dinner while Sophie talks Barcelona.
“Why’d you split? He drink?”
“No. Before Alex, everything was fine. Then… the baby never slept, I was on maternity leave, the mortgage, car payments… He said he was tired of it and left. Took the car.”
“What a prick! Ditching you with a kid and a mortgage!”
No point explaining how hard it was—or that I’d have lost the flat without my parents.
“Don’t worry, your luck’s changing. We’ve got loads of single men—older, but fit, wanting younger wives. Adore British women. You know the type—stubborn, resilient. My husband knows plenty. I’ll find you a rich one when I fly back in three days.”
“Who’d want me? I’m SNP.”
“SN what?”
“Single mum, no prospects. Once men hear ‘kid,’ they bolt.”
“Rubbish! Better SNP than DBD.”
“DBD?”
“Deadbeat dad. Brand the lot of them.”
“Spanish men don’t ditch kids?”
“Oh, they do. Men are *men*. But your boy’s almost grown. You’re perfect. I’ll sort it. Got Skype? Brilliant. Let’s toast your new life!”
I fetch a half-finished birthday wine.
“Just smarten up first. New haircut, clothes.”
Too ashamed to admit I’m skint, I nod.
After she left, I waited. Imagined quitting my job, moving somewhere sunny, envy in everyone’s eyes—a big house, a doting husband, Alex at a good uni… I even smiled again. Took Sophie’s advice: a haircut, two dresses, heels. Went into debt—but it’d pay off.
“Invest in yourself, love. Men like polished women,” she’d said.
So I tried. But weeks passed—no call. Then one day, she rang: “Found your groom! Fifty-ish, owns a shop. Dress up tomorrow—Skype at seven. You didn’t learn Spanish, did you? Thought so. I’ll translate.”
“You’re marrying a Spaniard?” Alex leaned in the doorway.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“I’m good here. That Sophie’s got you twisted. Dinner, by the way?”
Next day, I was a nervous wreck. What if he hated me? Did my hair, the new dress, waited by Alex’s computer.
No call. I was changing back when Skype pinged. A bald seventy-year-old grinned back. Sophie popped up in another window.
I’d memorised a greeting in Spanish. He grinned wider, jabbering.
“He likes you,” Sophie translated. “Says you’re beautiful. That’s José. Say his name—he’ll love it.”
We “talked.” Then he vanished, and Sophie said, “He wants to visit.”
“*Here?* I thought I’d go to him.”
“Your passport’s expired. He’s impatient. Two days tops. You liked him?”
“You said fifty. He’s seventy!”
“And? You want Spain or not?”
“No, no, I’m in.”
I prepped for the visit—blew my last quid on fancy food. Alex peeked in the fridge. “Keep him comin’—I’ll eat like a king.”
A week later, I met José at Heathrow. Sent Alex to Mum’s—warned him not to blab.
We fumbled through broken English and gestures. He booked a hotel, thank God. Dinner was awkward. When he gestured upstairs, I lied, “Tomorrow.”
All the way home, I plotted an escape.
No luck. José was pushy. I drank too much at dinner to numb it. In his room, I hid in the bathroom—came out to find him snoring. Relief. I scribbled *”Thank you for a lovely night”* on hotel stationery, googled the Spanish, and fled in a cab.
Alex came back, and we feasted.
Sophie called a week later. “Bad news. José met some twenty-five-year-old on the flight. Engaged. Don’t worry—I’ve got another.”
“Soph, stop. I’m done.”
“That’s your problem.”
We hung up, annoyed. She never called again. Next day, I wore the new dress to work. Why waste it?
By evening, my heels had rubbed my feet raw. With José, we’d taken cabs—no walking. I slumped on a park bench, barefoot, cursing. Couldn’t put the shoes back on—better walk home barefoot.
“Blisters?”
A bloke stood there. No point playing coy. “New shoes.”
“Stay put. There’s a Boots nearby.” He dashed off.
Silly. Where would I go barefoot? He returned with plasters. Offered to help—I refused, did it myself. The shoes still hurt, but I could walk.
His name was Oliver. Twenty-seven. We talked all the way home. Next day, he called—wanted to meet.
I agreed, but only to set things straight: told him my age, my son, that he should find someone younger.
“I like you. Age gap’s nothing. We’ll get on—me and your lad.”
“Big plans, have you?”
“Yep. Let’s just—go out. See how it goes.”
They did go out, and before long, Charlotte realized that sometimes the best love stories begin when you least expect them, right on your own doorstep.
