Emily and Jake had been together for two years. Emily’s mum had started to fret, worried her daughter was wasting her time with him—marriage seemed nowhere in sight. Jake always said there was no rush, they had plenty of time, and they were happy as they were.
Autumn arrived, leaves carpeted the pavements in gold, and the rains began. On one particularly damp and gloomy October afternoon, Jake clumsily proposed, presenting Emily with a modest little ring. She flung her arms around his neck, whispering “Yes” in his ear, then slipped the ring onto her finger and shouted “Yes!” again, jumping with joy, arms stretched high.
The next day, they went to the registry office, shy and nervous, to submit their notice. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Emily had dreamed of a summer wedding, where everyone could see how beautiful she looked in her white dress. But she didn’t argue with Jake—what if he postponed it to next summer, or worse, changed his mind? She loved him too much to risk losing him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard swirled outside. The wind ruined her carefully styled hair, and the billowing skirt of her dress ballooned around her, as if the next gust might sweep her away. Jake scooped his bride up on the porch and carried her to the car. Neither the storm nor her tangled curls could dampen their happiness.
At first, Emily basked in love. It felt like it would last forever. Of course, there were the odd squabbles, but they always made up by nightfall, loving each other even more.
A year later, their son, Oliver, was born.
He was a calm, clever little boy, a joy to his parents. Like most men, Jake didn’t help much with Oliver, afraid to hold him—and when he did, the baby would wail until Emily took him back.
“You’re better at this than me. Once he’s older, I’ll play football with him. I’ll focus on providing for us,” Jake said, though his wages barely covered their expenses.
Oliver grew, started nursery, and Emily returned to work. But money remained tight—saving for a mortgage deposit seemed impossible. Resentment crept in. They bickered over spending, unable to make up as easily as before.
“I’ve had enough. I work my fingers to the bone, and it’s never enough. What do you even spend it on?” Jake snapped one evening.
“You spend it—look at that gut you’ve grown,” Emily retorted.
“Don’t like my gut? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly, now you’re just a caterpillar.”
The argument exploded. Wiping tears away, Emily left to collect Oliver from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way home, she suddenly realised she couldn’t lose Jake. She’d hug him, kiss him, apologise—and he’d kiss her back, and everything would be fine. Lovers’ quarrels were just that, after all. Her mood lifted, and she hurried Oliver along.
But the flat was dark and silent. Jake’s coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off and come back,” she told herself, frying his favourite—bacon and potatoes.
Jake never returned. Calls went unanswered. The next morning, exhausted from sleepless dread, Emily dropped Oliver at nursery and went to work. At lunch, she faked illness and rushed to Jake’s office.
Rehearsing her words, she pushed open his office door—and froze. Jake was kissing a woman, her manicured hands splayed across his back like pale autumn leaves.
The woman spotted Emily but didn’t pull away—instead, she held Jake tighter.
Emily fled, stumbling blindly through streets blurred by tears. Her feet carried her to her mum’s house.
“Mum, why would he do this? Are all men like this?” she sobbed.
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. It must’ve been going on for ages, and I never noticed—it can’t just happen overnight!”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, they become your whole world. So when they betray you, it feels like the whole world’s betrayed you,” her mum sighed. “He’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Emily’s voice cracked.
“The pain will fade. You’ve got Oliver—think of him. And if he doesn’t return… maybe it’s for the best. You’re young. You’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How would you know? I was just scared the same thing would happen again. And you were older—I worried for you. But you’ve got a son—he needs his dad…”
Calmer, Emily fetched Oliver.
“Mum, let’s play!” he begged at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“I don’t like it when you talk like that,” he whispered, retreating.
Jake returned as she tucked Oliver in. He grabbed a suitcase and started packing.
“Where are you going?” she asked, already knowing.
“Leaving. Had enough. The fights, this tiny flat, the sight of you.” He avoided her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted marriage and a kid? Now you’ve got him.” He zipped the suitcase, glanced at Oliver’s wide eyes, and left. The door slammed.
Emily collapsed onto the sofa, weeping. A touch on her shoulder—she jerked up, hoping it was Jake. But it was Oliver in pyjamas.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you like Dad did.”
She hugged him, crying harder, then slept beside him.
Jake never came back. He filed for divorce.
When Oliver once asked about him, Emily shut him down harshly. Life eventually settled, though the pain lingered. When Oliver started school, Emily met Thomas—a younger man who quickly bonded with her son.
Thomas proposed often, but Emily hesitated. He’d want his own child—what if Oliver resented it? And the age gap—what if he left her for someone younger?
One day, while cleaning, she sent Thomas and Oliver outside to play. The door burst open—Thomas carried Oliver in, blood streaking his face from a fall off the slide. He needed stitches.
Emily knew it wasn’t Thomas’s fault—Oliver had taken worse tumbles with her. But a nagging thought stayed: if he’d been Oliver’s real dad, it wouldn’t have happened.
Soon, their relationship fizzled out.
“Mum, don’t worry. I’ll never leave you,” Oliver repeated.
Emily stopped dating, shielding Oliver from new men. He grew into a handsome teen, then a man, almost without her noticing. She was proud but anxious—girls adored him. Once he married, she’d be alone.
“It’s a mother’s lot. Raise them, let them go. I live alone—you’ll adjust. Grandkids will keep you busy,” her wise mum reassured.
“Maybe I’m being selfish. Mum’s getting old—she needs me. I’ll move in with her; Oliver can have this flat with his wife,” Emily decided.
But her mum fell ill and died within a year, leaving Oliver her flat in her will.
Then Jake reappeared—haggard, unkempt. He whined about how women flocked to him when he was fit, but now he was ill, no one cared. He asked after his ex-mother-in-law, and upon hearing she’d died, cursed fate for robbing him of his family. He was dying. Only ever loved Emily. Playing the victim.
“Mum, who’s here?” Oliver asked, spotting a sports bag in the hall. He strode into the kitchen—Jake stood up.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown.”
Oliver’s smile vanished. “I’m not your son.”
“Oliver—” Emily twisted a tea towel by the window.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—for you to pick me up from nursery, to show up on my birthday. Not once did you ask, ‘How are you, son? How’s school?’ I waited, just hid it from Mum.”
Jake’s head drooped.
“Where were you? Off with your mistress? Made her get an abortion, then moved on to the next?”
“Oliver, how—”
“I found you. Wanted to understand why you left. Fell out of love with Mum, fine. But what did I do wrong?” He glared at Jake. “Why come back now? Another woman kicked you out? Heard about Gran’s flat? Playing the sick card? I was sick as a kid—you never came.”
“Oliver, stop! He’s your father,” Emily scolded.
“No. He helped make me—you raised me.”
“So you poisoned him against me?” Jake sneered. “I paid child support.”
“Why not raise me yourself?” Emily turned to the window.
“Fine. I get it.” Jake slapped his knees and stood. “Not welcome here.” He lingered, hoping they’d stop him. Neither spoke.
Oliver stepped aside. Jake left, sighing loudly for effect.
“Mum, don’t.” Oliver blocked her path as she moved to follow.Years later, as Emily rocked her grandson to sleep in the cosy flat just a stone’s throw from Oliver’s home, she finally understood that some loves endure—not in grand gestures, but in the quiet faithfulness of a son who kept his word.
