January’s bitter wind howled outside, stripping the last remnants of hope from the bare trees, as Emily sat by the window, clutching a crumpled note. The hurried scrawl of a man’s handwriting spelled the end. Five years of marriage dissolved into those few lines. Daniel had left. Just packed his things and vanished, offering little explanation. All he’d said was, “We’re not meant to be together.”
Emily couldn’t understand. Everything had been fine. They’d saved for a flat, supported each other, shared their burdens. She’d loved him truly. And him? He’d just disappeared, leaving emptiness and hurt behind.
She cried all night. By morning, teeth gritted, she forced herself to work. There, on her desk—flowers. A small gesture, but it stung. “Who sent these?” she asked. “From James, the IT guy,” her colleagues teased with knowing smirks. Emily was surprised. She hadn’t noticed how he’d brought her coffee every day, left chocolates with little notes. And now—flowers. She tossed them in the bin. Too soon.
But things shifted. James proved patient and kind. He didn’t push, didn’t demand—just stayed close. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Emily hesitated. “What if your mum doesn’t like me? I’ve only just divorced…” she fretted. “Mum’s lovely, don’t worry,” James reassured her.
At first glance, his mother—Margaret—seemed warm and gracious. Dinner went perfectly. Emily relaxed. When James proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. She’d finally dared to believe in happiness again.
Then, a week before the wedding, Margaret called. “Meet me near your office,” she said. “Don’t tell James.”
Emily went. Margaret stood by her car, clutching a folder. “Wedding details,” Emily thought. But she was wrong.
“Listen, love,” Margaret began, calm but cold, “you’ve rushed my boy into this.”
“I’m sorry—but he proposed to *me*,” Emily stammered.
“I don’t know what you’ve convinced him of, but you won’t have my son. Walk away quietly. I won’t see him hurt,” Margaret said, then left.
Emily stood frozen. The next day, Daniel called. “We need to talk,” he said.
They met. Spoke of nothing. He was calm, almost smiling. Then he kissed her cheek and walked off. “What was that?” she wondered. No answer came.
That evening, she returned home. James was waiting.
“Hey,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“You seem tense,” Emily murmured.
“Come here,” he led her to the kitchen, placing his phone on the table. “Look.”
On the screen—a photo. Her and Daniel. Embracing. The moment he’d kissed her. Taken secretly.
“Your mother did this,” Emily whispered, near breaking.
“Yes, she sent it. But that’s *you* in the picture. You let him close. I can’t ignore that,” James said coldly.
“You don’t trust me?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“I don’t know what to trust. We’re postponing the wedding. I’m moving out.” He grabbed his bag and left.
Alone again. Like a cruel cycle. Every time she dared to hope, to open up—someone knocked her down. Sitting in the dim kitchen, she replayed James’s words, Margaret’s venom, Daniel’s smirk, that damning photo.
“Maybe I’m cursed,” she thought, staring into the dark. “Or just not meant to be happy.”
Outside, the wind still raged.
Lesson learned: some storms aren’t in the weather—they’re in the people who should’ve sheltered you.
