Emily stared at the flickering matches in the woman’s hand, watching her light them and snuff them out over and over. She did it while muttering everything Emily already knew deep down. The dull, relentless ache, the hopeless feeling of wanting to howl like a wolf it finally pushed her to seek out the witch.
Emily thought shed just endured the biggest tragedy of her life. Her husband, James, had walked out with their two kids. He did come back after about four months, and for a while it seemed everything was back on track. But the cracks were already there. They drifted further apart, each day pulling them like magnets in opposite directions.
At first Emily wept, longing for the days when James would send a simple Hows your day? or a Goodnight. Then her heart hardened, craving revenge she imagined James getting hit by a bus, just for the sheer cruelty of it. Eventually she stopped caring about him, about where he was, who he was with, or when hed return. She even caught herself not caring about the kids anymore.
Then a heavy, grey cloud of sorrow settled over her, making it hard to breathe or think. It was that gutwrenching kind of loneliness you feel when youre badly bruised inside. She tried to push it away, got a brief breather, but it kept crashing back stronger. One illness after another piled up. A cyst popped up under a tooth and had to be yanked out, followed by an expensive implant that cost a small fortune. Her eyesight suddenly went fuzzy. While walking in the park on perfectly flat pavement she tripped, broke her arm in three places, and that was the moment she decided enough was enough she wasnt keen on racing toward the afterlife just yet.
Nothings cursed you, the witch said, handing over a box of candles and a tiny bottle of water. Dont even think about it. Its not the witch, its your husband. He only sees himself. Everything happening now is something youve brought on yourself, youre digging your own grave. He lives in his own head, stuck on you, but he wont go anywhere. Hes a coward, and theres no room for him any more.
Emily asked, What am I supposed to do?
The witch smiled, Live. Live the life you want, for you.
Emilys head felt like solid iron, but she got up. Live is easy to say, she thought. Take this, light a candle, drink the water, the witch added, pushing the items toward her.
Thanks, Emily muttered, stepping out into the chill evening. A lump rose in her throat as the same thought looped: its not the witch, its James. After twelve years together, after everything theyd been through.
Back home she sat with a notebook, scribbling, Live my own life. What do I want? What do I want? The pen stalled on the question marks. Shed always wanted the same things as the kids a day at the seaside, a trip to the water park, a playroom or at least the local park. Or whatever James dreamed of: buying a house, a car, visiting his mum in the neighbouring county, redecorating the balcony, staying up watching films till midnight, or camping in the woods.
But what did she want, just her? What interests had she lost while being a mum and a wife? Shed practically vanished into the family bubble over the past few years, her own goals drifting away. After half an hour of staring at the blank page, she finally listed a few things:
– Run in the mornings, find the time and energy.
– Change jobs, become a manager and earn a decent salary, grow professionally.
– Lose seven pounds.
– Buy herself a nice coat.
– Own a home.
– Build a calm, healthy relationship with the kids.
– Pick up a hobby that actually makes her happy.
She let out a sigh and closed the notebook. Figuring out your own wishes isnt simple, but its a start. She glanced over at James, slumped on the couch, eyes glued to his laptop. Your husband, right? she heard echo in her head.
She slammed the car door later that day she was heading back to the witch again. She needed to sort out a load of issues: how to structure her new role so her team could actually deliver without getting steamrolled by endless tasks, how to fix that stubborn neck pain that manual therapy hadnt eased, whether to push her older son into sports or let him just draw, and, of course, what to do about James, who seemed both present and absent at the same time.
The witch looked at her, eyes twinkling. You came in with your whole life on your shoulders. Your marriage is slowly losing its grip.
Soon you wont care where James is, who hes with, whether hes texting an ex or meeting up with someone. One day youll forget asking if youre still needed, youll stop worrying about keeping the family together. Therell be a new you, a new purpose, and youll have places to go and people to see.
She lit another match. Let the kid draw.
What about work?
Set clear tasks, then youll get clear answers. People dont read minds.
Your husband will keep trying to cling on. The more interesting your life gets, the tighter his shadow will follow. A shadow only exists because theres light. No light, no shadow. Got it?
Emily nodded. Thanks.
One more thing, the witch added. Grab a tennis ball, place it between a wall and your spine, roll it up and down while you squat. Itll help.
Emily smirked to herself. A tennis ball? After all those pricey therapists, a cheap ball would do the trick? What else could she do but live her own life?
Days slipped into weeks, months, seasons winters grey, springs bloom, summers heat, and the golden turn of autumn. At the start of the new school year Emily signed Tom up for an art class. He began drawing like a little Picasso, and she felt a pang of shame for never noticing his talent earlier. His pictures started showing up in local kids exhibitions. He swapped screens for brushes, spending every spare minute with paint and paper.
Emily set up a small board in her home office, writing tasks and deadlines in bold marker. Over time they stopped being just notes they became habits. She started running workshops, first as a hobby, then as a paid trainer. The fees soon matched her salary, giving her a real sense of independence.
One afternoon a bouquet of red roses appeared on her desk, no card, no name. She guessed it was a surprise from James. She waited an hour for a reply, got none, and simply wrote, Thanks. Shed always loved chrysanthemums for their sharp, lingering scent it was chrysanthemum season, but James never remembered that. He always assumed women liked roses.
The office window framed a brilliant autumn sun, the kind that makes the red and gold of the maple leaves dance. Emily breathed in the fresh air, feeling the weight of doubt lift. She finally accepted that she could do things on her own. And yes, the tennis ball actually helped with her neck. Shed found her freedom, and the future felt bright.
