Emily and Jake had been together for two years. Emily’s mum had started worrying that her daughter was wasting time with him, that they’d never actually get married. Jake kept saying there was no rush, that they had plenty of time, and they were happy as they were.
Summer passed, leaves fell from the trees, covering the pavements in golden carpets, and the rain began. Then, on one particularly damp and chilly October afternoon, Jake clumsily proposed, slipping a modest little ring onto Emily’s finger.
She threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes,” then slipped the ring on properly and shouted, “Yes!”—jumping up and down, arms raised. The next day, they went to the registry office, shy and nervous, to give notice. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Emily had wanted a summer wedding—so everyone could see how beautiful she looked in her white dress. But she didn’t argue with Jake. What if he delayed until next summer? What if he changed his mind? She loved him; she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
On their wedding day, a proper blizzard blew in. The wind ruined her carefully styled hair. Her dress billowed like a bell, and it almost seemed like the next gust would lift her right off her feet. Jake swept her up on the doorstep, carrying her to the car—neither the storm nor her ruined hair could dampen their joy.
At first, Emily basked in love and happiness. It felt like it would last forever. Sure, there were little squabbles now and then, but they always made up by nightfall, loving each other even more.
A year later, their son, Oliver, was born.
He was a calm, bright little boy, the pride of his parents. Like most men, Jake didn’t help much—he was nervous holding the baby, and if he did, Oliver would wail until Emily took him back.
“You’re better with him. Once he’s older, we’ll kick footballs around. I’ll focus on providing for us,” Jake said, though his salary barely covered their expenses.
Oliver grew, started nursery, and Emily went back to work. But money stayed tight. Saving for a mortgage deposit felt impossible. The arguments started—bickering about unnecessary spending, blaming each other. Making up wasn’t as easy as before.
“I’ve had enough. I work and work, and it’s never enough. What, are you eating the money?” Jake snapped one evening.
“You’re the one eating it,” Emily retorted. “Look at that gut you’ve grown.”
“Don’t like it? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly, now you’re more of a caterpillar.”
One word led to another until it blew up. Wiping tears away, Emily went to fetch Oliver from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way back, she realised she couldn’t lose Jake. She’d go home, hug him, kiss him, and say sorry. He’d kiss her back, and everything would be alright again. Lovers’ quarrels only tease. Cheered, she hurried Oliver along.
But the flat was dark and silent when they got in. His coat was gone, his shoes too. “He’ll cool off and come home,” Emily decided, frying up bacon and potatoes, his favourite.
But Jake never came back. He didn’t answer her calls. The next morning, exhausted and anxious, Emily dropped Oliver at nursery and went to work. At lunch, she left early, pretending to be ill—but instead went to Jake’s office.
She walked to his office door, rehearsing her apology, then pushed it open. There he was, kissing a woman, her hands splayed across his back, nails painted bright, like autumn leaves.
The woman opened her eyes, saw Emily—but instead of pulling away, she held Jake tighter.
Emily ran. She stumbled through the streets, blind with tears, until she found herself at her mum’s doorstep.
“Mum, why would he do this? Are all men like this?” she sobbed.
“Like what?” her mum asked.
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on—how could it just happen?”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, they’re your whole world. So when they betray you, it feels like *everyone* would. But he’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“The hurt will fade. You’ve got Oliver. Think of him. And if he doesn’t come back… maybe it’s for the best. You’re young—you’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How would you know? I just got scared—what if it happened again? And you were older; I worried about you. But you’ve got Oliver. He needs his dad…”
Calmer, Emily fetched Oliver.
“Mum, play with me?” he asked at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
His expression crumpled. “I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
Jake came back as she was putting Oliver to bed. He pulled out a suitcase and started packing.
“Where are you going?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Leaving. Had enough. The arguing, this tiny flat, the sight of you.” He wouldn’t look at her.
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage, a kid? Now you’ve got him.” He zipped the suitcase, glanced at Oliver’s wide eyes, then left. The door slammed.
Emily curled up and sobbed. Then warm fingers touched her shoulder. She whipped around—hoping it was Jake—but it was Oliver in his pyjamas.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you like Dad did.”
She hugged him and cried harder.
Jake never came back. He filed for divorce.
Oliver asked about him once—she snapped—and he never asked again. Life settled, however painfully. When Oliver started school, Emily met Will. He was younger, maybe why he and Oliver got on so well.
Will proposed more than once. She hesitated—he’d want his own kids, and she feared Oliver would resent it. The age gap too—if he left for someone younger, she’d be alone with two.
One day, cleaning while Will played outside with Oliver, the door burst open—Will rushed in, Oliver bleeding in his arms. He’d fallen off a slide, split his eyebrow—needed stitches.
She knew it wasn’t Will’s fault. Oliver fell all the time. But the thought nagged: *If he were Will’s own, this wouldn’t have happened.*
Their relationship fizzled out.
“Mum, don’t be sad. I won’t leave you,” Oliver said again.
She never brought anyone home after that.
Oliver grew—handsome teen, then man—without her noticing. She was proud but afraid. Girls adored him—what if he married and left her alone?
“That’s what mums do. Raise them, let them go. I did. You will. There’ll be grandkids—you’ll be busy,” her wise mum comforted.
*I’m so selfish. Mum’s getting old—she needs help too. I’ll move in with her; Oliver can have this flat with his wife.*
But Mum fell ill and died within a year—first signing her flat over to Oliver.
Then, out of nowhere, Jake turned up. Ragged, unkempt. Moaning that women loved him when he was fit, but now he was ill, nobody wanted him. He asked tentatively after her mum—then, learning she’d passed, cursed fate for cheating him, for losing his wife and son. Hinted he didn’t have long. Said he’d only ever loved her. Playing on sympathy.
“Mum, who’s here?” Oliver asked from the door, spotting a duffel bag. He kicked off his trainers, walked in—and froze as a man stood.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown.”
Oliver’s smile vanished.
“Who are you calling ‘son’?”
“Oliver—” Emily cut in, twisting a towel by the window.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—first for you to fetch me from nursery, then for birthday visits, for presents. You never came, never asked, ‘How are you, son? How’s school?’ I waited—just hid it from Mum.” Jake’s head dropped lower with each word.
“And where were you? Off with some young thing? Did you make her get rid of it when she got pregnant? Then moved to the next?”
“Oliver, what—”
“I found him. Wanted to see why he left. Fell out of love with you? Fine. But what did I do? Why leave me?” Oliver turned to Jake. “Why come back now? Another woman kick you out? Remembered your family? Or just after Grandma’s flat? Playing sick? Trying pity? I was sick as a kid—you never cared then.”
“Stop it! He’s your father!” Emily snapped.
“No. He helped make me. *You* were my father.”
“You poisoned him against me?” Jake spat at Emily, jerOliver stepped forward, blocking his mother from following Jake, and quietly said, “This is where you leave—and don’t come back.”
