My friend Emily, who’s also my daughter’s godmother, has finally left her husband Jack, and I couldn’t be happier for her. That Jack was a right piece of work: never earned a penny, spent his days arguing and chasing every skirt in sight. Then, a couple of days ago, Em calls me, beaming with joy, bragging about her trip to the Lake District with her new bloke, Oliver. I nearly choked on my tea when I heard. Blimey, she’s turned her life around fast! But honestly, I’m over the moon for her—she deserves happiness after everything she’s been through.
Emily and Jack were together for nearly ten years, and all that time I’d look at her and think, “Em, when are you finally going to kick him to the curb?” He was one of those men who thought just being in the house was contribution enough. Work? Not a chance. Yet every evening, he’d lounge on the sofa like a king, demanding dinner while criticising Emily’s cooking. And then there were his little “adventures” on the side! More than once, Emily caught him with dodgy messages on his phone or lipstick on his collar. Of course, he’d deny it, blaming her: “You drove me to it!” I told her a hundred times, “Dump him, you’re young, gorgeous—you’ll find a decent man.” But she put up with it, whether out of love or fear of being alone.
Then, three months ago, Emily finally snapped. She told me later how she found texts from some girl on Jack’s phone and discovered he’d blown their savings on his little escapades. That was the last straw. She packed his bags, tossed them out the door, and said, “That’s it, Jack, go find yourself another mug.” When I heard, I nearly gave her a standing ovation. Jack, of course, tried crawling back—showing up with flowers, calling with promises to “change.” But Emily stood her ground. “Enough,” she told me. “I won’t live with someone who doesn’t respect me.”
Next thing I know, she’s on the phone gushing about Oliver. They met, of all places, in a café. Em popped in for a coffee after work, and there he was at the next table, reading a book. She says he was instantly likeable—polished, well-spoken, with a sharp wit. One thing led to another, they swapped numbers, and a fortnight later, Oliver suggested a getaway to the Lake District—renting a cottage, hiking, maybe even a bit of paddleboarding. “Can you believe it?” Emily said. “He sorted everything, even hired a car! Jack would’ve just moaned about the cost.”
Listening to her, I could hardly believe it. The same Emily who’d been crying on my kitchen floor weeks ago was now laughing, making plans, and raving about how Oliver taught her to make proper spaghetti carbonara. “He’s not just some fling,” she said. “He actually listens—cares what I think.” That’s when it hit me: this isn’t just a holiday romance. She’s properly fallen for him, and Oliver might just be the one to make her happy.
Of course, the gossip started. Mutual friends are already tutting, “Emily’s moved on awfully quick, hasn’t she?” But I tell them, “Good for her! Life’s too short to waste on someone like Jack.” Some reckon she’s rushing into things with Oliver, but I’ve seen the change in her. Before, she walked around with dead eyes—now she’s laughing, cracking jokes, even dyed her hair a rich chestnut. “I want to look good for myself and for Oliver,” she says.
When she mentioned the Lake District, I couldn’t help asking, “Em, who even is this Oliver? Do you really know him?” She just laughed. “Enough to go away with him! He’s a software developer, works for some fancy firm, and he’s got a cat he adores. A proper bloke, not like Jack.” I’ll admit, I’m still wary—what if he’s not what he seems? But Emily’s certain: “If it goes wrong, I know how to pack my bags now. I won’t let anyone walk over me again.”
Her story made me think. How many women put up with men like Jack, too scared to change? But Emily? She rewrote her life. I almost envy her courage. She didn’t just leave her husband—she started fresh, and it looks like this new chapter’s a colourful one. The Lake District, Oliver, new dreams… I’m already waiting to hear how they strolled through the fells and sipped mulled wine by the fire.
Yesterday, Emily sent me a photo: her in a bright woolly hat, cheeks rosy from the cold, standing against snow-dusted hills—and beside her, a handsome chap who must be Oliver. The caption read: “Life begins now!” And you know what? I believe her. She’s earned her happy ending. As for Jack? He can keep yelling at his own reflection. Emily’s already in a different orbit, and it suits her.
