Alone with a Trailer
Emma raised her son alone. Her husband had left her over a decade ago. All this time, he dutifully paid child support—crystal clear before both conscience and the law. Or so he liked to say.
He walked out, taking his things and the car, leaving Emma with an unpaid mortgage on their flat and a baby. In all those years, he never once visited, never once wished their son a happy birthday or bothered with a gift.
“Probably making some other fool happy by now,” her mother sighed. “Men like him run from responsibility till their knees give out. Should’ve listened to me—never take a mortgage in your name.” Never mind that it was her parents who’d insisted Emma sign for it.
So life went. Paycheck to paycheck, two jobs, a son to raise. Thank God Ollie wasn’t trouble. After her second shift, her mind numb with exhaustion, she’d stop at the supermarket, drag herself home, dreaming only of dropping the heavy bags, kicking off her shoes, sinking into a chair, and closing her eyes. She felt like one of those carousel horses—painted bright, ribbons in its mane, circling forever with happy children on its back.
Work. Shop. Home.
She wore practical clothes from Primark, bought sparingly, saved for rare special occasions that never came. They outlived their fashion quietly in her wardrobe.
Tonight, her tote slung over one shoulder, a carrier bag in hand, she wondered what to make for dinner—was Ollie home? If he was, she’d rest five minutes, then boil pasta with sausages.
She used to be someone. Thick hair, bright eyes. Her figure still held up. Like any girl, she’d dreamed of love. It came in the shape of Daniel. Handsome, promising forever—a flashy Jaguar, two kids. He got the car. Drove it straight out of her life, leaving the flat, the mortgage, the boy.
The pavement ahead demanded focus. One misstep, a puddle or a twisted ankle. Dodging reckless drivers spraying gutter water was part of the dance.
“Emma!” A woman blocked her path—polished, glossy, like she’d stepped from a magazine spread.
Emma barely recognised Sophie, her old schoolmate. Plain back then, radiant now. Beside her, Emma felt shabby.
“Thank God I ran into you! Visiting Mum, but everyone’s scattered. Em, how’ve you been?”
*Isn’t it obvious?* “Fine. Same as always.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and Ollie. You?”
Sophie closed her eyes, blissful. “Married a Spaniard. Living in Barcelona. Just here a week. You’re not escaping—let’s grab a drink. Or your place?”
“Messy. Dishes piled high.”
“Please, I’m British—seen worse.”
Inside, Emma called, “Ollie? We’ve company.”
A lanky teen appeared.
Sophie gasped. “*This* is your son? Handsome! What year are you? Uni plans?”
“Undecided. Mum, I did the dishes. Homework.” He vanished.
“Independent, huh?” A thread of envy. “You got kids?”
Emma swelled with pride. “No. Husband’s older. Grown kids—no nappies for him.”
As Emma threw dinner together, Sophie gushed about Spain. “So why’d you split? He drink?”
“No. Before Ollie, things were fine. Then… sleepless nights, me on maternity leave, mortgage, car payments. Said he was tired. Left. Drove off.”
“Absolute *wanker*.”
Emma didn’t elaborate. The struggles, the parents’ lifeline—Sophie wouldn’t get it.
“Darkest hour’s over, love. Spain’s full of single men—older, but fit, keen. Adore British women. Stopping trains, charging into fires—you know our rep. I’ll match you with someone rich.”
“Who’d want me? Trailer attached—‘SWK.’”
“Eh?”
“Single With Kid. Men bolt when they hear ‘child.’”
“Rubbish! Better SWK than ‘SOD.’”
“Which is?”
“Sod Off Dad. Brand the bastards.”
“Spanish men don’t bail?”
“Some. Men’re men everywhere. But your boy’s near-grown. Perfect. I’ll sort you. Skype?”
Sophie left. Emma waited. Imagined quitting, moving, envy. Smiled more. Got a haircut, bought dresses, heels—debts be damned.
“Invest in yourself, darling. Men adore upkeep.”
Weeks passed. No call. Then, suddenly: “Found him! Late fifties, owns a shop. Dress up tomorrow—Skype. You *didn’t* learn Spanish? Fine. I’ll translate.”
“You marrying a Spaniard now?” Ollie eyed her from the doorway.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“Suits me. Brainwashed by Sophie, though. Dinner?”
That night, hair curled, new dress, she waited. No call. Then—Skype pinged. A bald, seventy-something man grinned. Sophie’s face popped up.
Emma nailed her rehearsed *Hola*. He babbled.
“He likes you—José. Say his name. Makes him feel special.”
José vanished. “He’ll visit!” Sophie chirped.
“*Here?* I thought I’d go—”
“Passport? Takes ages. He’s eager. Two days max. You keen?”
“You said fifties. He’s seventy!”
“Spain? Yes or no?”
“Yes. Fine.”
She prepped. Blew savings on fancy snacks. Ollie grinned at the packed fridge.
“Send him weekly. Feasting time.”
At the airport, José spoke broken English. She’d shipped Ollie to her mum’s—”No gossip.” He booked a hotel. Dinner was stiff. She refused his room. “Tomorrow.”
*Avoid tomorrow.*
No luck. José was pushy. She drank too much wine. Locked herself in his ensuite. Came out—he snored. Relieved, she scribbled a note—*Lovely night, thank you*—Googled the Spanish, fled by taxi.
Next day, he flew home.
Ollie returned. They feasted.
A week later, Sophie called. “José’s off. Met some twenty-five-year-old on the plane. But I’ve another—”
“Stop. I’m done.”
“Suit yourself.”
Click.
Next day, Emma wore the new dress to work. Feet bloodied by evening, she sat on a bench, shoes off, cursing.
“Blisters?”
A bloke stood there. Early thirties.
She didn’t flirt. “New shoes.”
“Wait here.” He sprinted off, returned with plasters. Offered help. She refused, patched up, hobbled home.
Anton. Twenty-seven. By her door, they’d shared life stories. He called next day.
She agreed—to shut it down. “I’m thirty-four. A teen son. Find someone younger.”
“I like you. Age gap’s nothing. Ollie and I’ll get on.”
“Plans, eh?”
“Dead serious. Movies. Exhibitions. Let’s try.”
They did. Ollie liked him—tech talks Emma didn’t follow. Dates at Anton’s. She hid giddy smiles.
“Mum, stop hiding. Marry him. At least he’s not ancient.”
“Serious?”
“Very. I’m grown. You’ll be alone.”
With Anton, she glowed. Dressed brighter. Smiled. Just six years between them.
Then—Sophie Skype-called.
“You look great! Found a fifty-something—”
“Again? Not too old for him?” Emma laughed. “Soph, I’m handling it.”
“He’s fifty-three. Not kidding.”
“Soph… I’m getting married.”
Why not? Anton fit. Confident, desired. Thirty-four—could still have kids. Ollie approved. What more?
Burnt once, wary—happiness might fade. But when had it ever lasted? Now was enough.
Anton moved in. Now, coming home, she hurried—eager to see her two favourite men.
