Emma and Henry had been together for two years. Emma’s mother had begun to worry that her daughter was wasting her time with him, as wedding plans never seemed to materialize. Henry himself insisted there was no rush—they were happy as they were.
Autumn arrived, leaves scattered like golden coins across the pavements, and the rains began. On one particularly damp and dreary October day, Henry clumsily proposed, presenting Emma with a modest little ring.
She threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes,” then slipped the ring onto her finger and cried out, “Yes!”—jumping for joy with her hands raised high.
The next day, they visited the registry office, shy and nervous as they filed their notice of marriage. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Emma had wanted a summer wedding, dreaming of how beautiful she would look in her white dress. But she didn’t argue with Henry. What if he postponed it until next summer—or changed his mind entirely? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard raged outside. The wind whipped through her carefully styled hair, and the hem of her dress billowed like a bell, threatening to carry her away. But Henry swept his radiant bride into his arms and carried her to the waiting car. Neither the storm nor her tousled hair could dim their joy.
At first, Emma basked in love and happiness. It felt like it would last forever. Of course, small quarrels arose, but they always made up by nightfall, their love stronger than before.
A year later, their son, Daniel, was born.
He grew into a bright, sweet boy, a delight to his parents. Like many men, Henry rarely helped with childcare, afraid to hold the baby. Whenever he did, Daniel would cry, and Emma would quickly take him back.
“You handle him better. I’ll play football with him when he’s older. For now, I’ll focus on providing,” Henry said, though his salary barely covered their needs.
Daniel started nursery; Emma returned to work. Yet money remained tight. They couldn’t save for a mortgage deposit. Resentment festered, arguments erupted, each blaming the other for wasteful spending. Making up wasn’t as easy as it once had been.
“I’ve had enough,” Henry snapped one evening. “I work my fingers to the bone, and it’s still not enough. What do you do with it all?”
“You’re the one spending,” Emma shot back. “Look at the belly you’ve grown.”
“You don’t like it? Well, you’ve changed too. I married a beautiful butterfly, and now you’re just… worn out.”
Their fight spiraled. Emma wiped away tears as she fetched Daniel from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way home, she realized she couldn’t lose Henry. She’d hug him, kiss him, apologize—and he’d kiss her back, and everything would be fine. Lovers’ quarrels were fleeting, after all. Her spirits lifted, and she hurried Daniel along.
But the flat was dark and silent. Henry’s coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off and come back,” she thought, frying his favorite potatoes with bacon.
Henry never returned. Calls went unanswered. The next morning, exhausted and anxious, Emma dropped Daniel at nursery and went to work. At lunch, she excused herself, pretending to be ill—but instead went to Henry’s office.
She rehearsed her words as she approached his door. Pushing it open, she froze. Henry stood with his back to her, kissing another woman. The woman’s manicured hands—pale against his dark jacket—clutched him like skeletal branches.
She spotted Emma but didn’t pull away. Instead, she held Henry tighter.
Emma fled, blinded by tears, stumbling through the streets until she reached her mother’s house.
“Mum, how could he do this?” she sobbed. “Are all men like this?”
Her mother sighed. “When you love someone, they become your whole world. So when they betray you, it feels like the whole world has betrayed you.”
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
“The pain will fade. You have Daniel. Think of him. If Henry doesn’t return… maybe it’s for the best. You’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How do you know? Maybe I was just afraid—afraid it would happen again. And I had you to worry about. But you have a son… he needs a father.”
Calmer now, Emma collected Daniel.
“Mum, play with me,” he begged at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
His voice wavered. “I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
That evening, Henry finally appeared—only to pack a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” Emma asked, already knowing.
“I’m done. The arguing, this cramped flat, the sight of you—I can’t take it anymore.”
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage and a child? Now live with it.” He zipped the case, glanced at Daniel’s wide eyes, and left. The door slammed.
Emma wept until Daniel touched her shoulder.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you like Dad did,” he said, patting her arm.
She held him tight, sobbing harder. Then she tucked him in and lay beside him.
Henry never returned. He filed for divorce.
Daniel asked about his father once—only to be shut down. Life slowly rebuilt itself. When Daniel started school, Emma met James, a younger man who quickly bonded with her son. He proposed several times, but she hesitated—afraid of jealousy, age, abandonment.
One day, James brought Daniel home with a bloody gash above his eye from a playground fall. Emma knew it wasn’t his fault—yet couldn’t shake the thought: *If he were his real father, this wouldn’t have happened.* Their relationship fizzled.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” Daniel said again. “I won’t leave you.”
She never introduced him to another man.
Daniel grew into a fine young man. Emma swelled with pride—and dread. Girls adored him; soon, he’d marry, leaving her alone.
“That’s motherhood,” her mother consoled. “Raise them, then let go. You’ll have grandchildren to fill the silence.”
Emma resolved to move in with her mother—until the woman fell ill and passed, leaving her flat to Daniel.
Then Henry reappeared—haggard, unkempt. He whined about how women abandoned him once he got sick, lamented losing his family, hinted he wasn’t long for this world.
“Mum—who’s here?” Daniel asked, spotting a duffel bag in the hall. He froze at the kitchen table.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown,” Henry said.
Daniel’s smile vanished. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“Daniel—” Emma started.
“I waited for you,” he said coldly. “At nursery. On birthdays. I never showed Mum, but I hoped you’d ask how I was. Instead, you were off with other women—even convinced one to abort your child. Now you crawl back because you’re sick? Or did you hear about Gran’s flat?”
“Daniel, stop! He’s still your father,” Emma snapped.
“No. You were both. He just helped make me.”
Henry glowered. “Is this how you raised him? To hate me?”
“You could’ve raised him yourself.”
Defeated, Henry limped out.
Years later, Daniel moved to London for work. Emma refused to join.
“You’ll marry soon—I’d just be in the way.”
But one weekend, he burst in with news.
“I’m getting married.”
She hesitated. “Who is she? A colleague?”
“A wonderful girl. The wedding’s in a month. There’s more—Gran’s flat is mine, right?”
Her stomach dropped. “You’re selling it?”
“No. A one-bed near mine is up for sale. I’ve put down a deposit—for *you*. I want you close, but not underfoot.”
Tears welled. “Daniel…”
“Don’t cry. I promised I’d never abandon you.”
Soon, they were in London. The flat was perfect—spacious, homely.
“Rest first,” Daniel said. “Then meet my fiancée.”
Emma trembled. “I never dreamed of this. Most children forget their parents.”
He kissed her forehead. “You raised me. What more could I ask?”
She smiled through tears. “You’re a real man.”
“Live long, Mum. You’ve got grandchildren to meet.”
And for the first time in years, she believed happiness wasn’t lost—just waiting.
