In a small seaside town where the scent of saltwater mingles with the cries of seagulls, I met my first love during my school days. His name was Oliver, and at the time, he was dating my best friend. I never dared to dream of him, and he hardly glanced my way. Our paths drifted apart, and I forgot about him—until fate brought us back together in the city where we both attended university.
“Emily, you’re just as lovely as ever,” Oliver grinned when we bumped into each other at a café. His words sent my heart racing.
“And you’re still such a charmer,” I laughed, feeling a spark between us.
“Remember how you fancied me?” he teased with a wink.
“Maybe you weren’t so bad yourself,” I admitted before quickly changing the subject.
We spent the evening talking, laughing, reminiscing about school. Oliver walked me back to my dorm, and over the next few days, we met a couple more times. Then, just like that, he vanished—as if he’d dissolved into thin air. I finished my studies, returned to my hometown, and landed a steady job at a local firm. Life was uneventful—until I saw him again.
It was a bright afternoon on the promenade. Oliver, in a crisp shirt, a guitar slung over his shoulder, strolled with his mates, clearly celebrating something. His eyes lit up when he spotted me.
“Emily! Fancy seeing you here!” he exclaimed, hugging me so tightly I nearly lost my breath.
“Starting the party early?” I asked.
“Just enjoying life,” he replied carelessly.
I shrugged and carried on, but the next evening, Oliver showed up at my doorstep with a bouquet. He didn’t know my flat number, so he just waited for me to step out. His visit caught me off guard.
“Startled me!” I laughed, taking the flowers.
“Am I that frightening?” he joked, pretending to scowl.
We grabbed groceries, shared wine by candlelight that evening, and he looked at me as if I were his whole world.
“I’ve never stopped thinking about you,” he confessed, raising his glass.
“Don’t start,” I deflected, though his words warmed me.
“Isn’t this fate bringing us back together?” he pressed.
“Come off it,” I smiled, but deep down, I felt he was right.
We talked until late, and I offered for him to stay—not as a lover, just so he wouldn’t walk home in the dark. The next morning, I left for work with a note and my spare key. On my way, I ran into his mother, Margaret. I hadn’t seen her since school, and of all people, there she was.
“Hello, Emily,” she nodded. “You haven’t seen my wandering boy, have you?”
“I have,” I replied awkwardly.
“Drunk, was he?” she frowned.
“No, nothing like that,” I murmured before hurrying off.
A year later, Oliver and I married. Before the wedding, Margaret was nothing but kind—thanking me for “straightening him out,” helping him find work, steering him away from his wild ways. I thought we’d be a real family. But the moment we announced our engagement, Margaret became my worst enemy. Her attitude shifted as if I’d stolen her son.
Oliver wasn’t who I thought either. The first year was bliss, but then he grew complacent—drinking, snapping, even raising his hand once or twice. His mother only fanned the flames.
“If he hits you, it means he cares—stop whinging,” she’d sneer.
I endured it, swallowing the pain. Even my mum urged me not to break the marriage, and I stayed quiet, too ashamed to tell friends what kind of man I’d chosen. Life became a nightmare—I dreaded going home but had nowhere else to go.
Then one day, walking down the street, I heard a familiar voice.
“Emily!” It was Daniel, an old friend—once my neighbor.
“Hi,” I managed a weak smile, tears pricking my eyes.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, stepping closer.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Let’s talk,” he offered, nodding toward his car.
I agreed—anything was better than facing home. Daniel brought wine and fruit, and we drove to the beach. Sitting on the sand, I took a sip, and suddenly, it all spilled out. I told him everything—about Oliver, Margaret, the pain. Daniel listened quietly, then gently brushed a strand of hair from my face and held me.
“Being with you feels so safe,” I whispered.
“I want to be with you, Emily,” he said softly. “I always have. But you were with Oliver, then married.”
He kissed me, and I didn’t stop him. In that moment, I realized I deserved more than fear. Daniel drove me home, and we agreed to meet the next day. But as I stepped out of the car, I froze—Margaret sat on the bench, smirking.
“Caught you, darling!” she crowed. “I knew you weren’t good enough for my boy!”
By the time I got inside, she’d already told Oliver, showing photos she’d taken. He stared at me, anger and hurt in his eyes.
“Is it true?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, holding his gaze. “Leave. Both of you. This is my home.”
I packed his things and set them outside. They left without another word. The next day, I filed for divorce, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. Now, I’m happier than ever. Daniel is by my side—a man who truly loves and respects me. And Margaret, who wanted nothing more than to break us apart, unwittingly gave me freedom and a new beginning.
