Emily and Jack had been together for two years. Emily’s mum was already worrying that her daughter was wasting her time with him, that they’d never get married. Jack himself kept saying there was no rush—they had plenty of time, and they were happy as they were.
Summer faded, leaves turned golden and carpeted the pavements, then the autumn rains began. One damp, chilly October day, Jack clumsily proposed, slipping a modest little ring into Emily’s hand. She threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes,” then slipped the ring on and shouted, “Yes!” with her hands in the air, bouncing on the spot.
The next day, they went to the registry office, flushing with nerves as they gave notice. The wedding was set for mid-December.
Emily had wanted a summer wedding—everyone would see how beautiful she looked in white. But she didn’t argue. What if Jack delayed till next summer—or changed his mind altogether? She loved him too much to lose him.
On the wedding day, a blizzard swirled. The wind ruined her carefully styled hair. The white dress billowed like a bell, and it felt like the next gust might carry her away. Jack swept his bride into his arms on the porch and carried her to the car. Nothing—not the snow, not her tangled hair—could dim their joy.
At first, Emily basked in love and happiness. She thought it would never end. Sure, there were little arguments, but they always made up by nightfall, loving each other even more.
A year later, their son, Oliver, was born. The boy was bright and cheerful, a delight to his parents.
Jack, like most men, rarely helped with the baby—he was nervous holding him, and whenever he tried, Oliver would cry until Emily took him back.
“You’re better at this,” Jack would say. “Once he’s older, I’ll kick a football about with him. I’ll focus on providing for you both.” But his salary barely covered their needs.
Oliver started nursery. Emily returned to work. Still, money stayed tight. Saving for a mortgage deposit seemed impossible. Arguments crept in, each blaming the other for unnecessary spending. Making up wasn’t as easy anymore.
“Had enough of this,” Jack snapped one evening. “I work my socks off, and it’s never enough. You must be eating the money or something.”
“You’re the one eating it,” Emily shot back. “Look at the gut you’ve grown.”
“Don’t like my gut now? You’ve changed too. I married a butterfly—you’ve turned into a caterpillar.”
One word led to another. Wiping tears, Emily went to collect Oliver from nursery. Listening to his chatter on the way home, she realised she couldn’t lose Jack. She’d hug him, kiss him, say sorry, and he’d kiss her back. They’d be fine again. Lovers’ quarrels are only fun, after all. Feeling lighter, she hurried Oliver along.
But the flat was dark and silent. Jack’s coat and shoes were gone. “He’ll cool off and come back,” she decided, frying bacon and potatoes—his favourite.
He didn’t return. Calls went unanswered. The next morning, exhausted, she dropped Oliver at nursery and went to work. At lunch, she feigned illness and left—not for home, but Jack’s office.
She reached his door, rehearsing apologies, then pushed it open. Jack had his back to her, kissing a woman. Her red-nailed hands splayed against his dark jacket like autumn leaves. The woman saw Emily—but didn’t pull away. She clung tighter.
Emily fled, blind with tears, and found herself at her mum’s doorstep. “Mum, why would he do this? Are all men like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cheaters. Maybe he’s been at it for ages, and I just didn’t notice?”
“I don’t know, love. When you love someone, they’re your whole world. If they betray you, the world betrays you.” Her mum sighed. “He’ll be back.”
“What if he isn’t?”
“Time heals. You’ve got Oliver. Think of him. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re young—you’ll find happiness again.”
“You never did.”
“How would you know? I was scared—what if it happened again? And you were grown—I worried for you. You’ve got a son—he needs a dad…”
Slightly calmer, Emily fetched Oliver.
“Mum, play with me?” he asked at home.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“Don’t talk like that,” he whispered, hurt, and left her be.
Jack came back as she tucked Oliver in. He pulled out a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” she asked, already knowing.
“Leaving. Had enough. The rows, this shoebox flat, the sight of you.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“What about us?”
“You wanted the wedding, the baby? Now live with it.” He zipped the case, glanced at Oliver’s wide eyes, and left. The door slammed.
Emily sobbed on the sofa. A small hand touched her shoulder—Oliver stood there in pyjamas.
“Mum, don’t cry. I’ll never leave you like Dad,” he said, patting her arm.
She hugged him tighter, then tucked him back in and lay beside him.
Jack never returned. He filed for divorce.
Oliver asked about him once, got a sharp reply, and never asked again. Life slowly settled. When Oliver started school, Emily met Daniel—much younger, but he and Oliver got on well.
Daniel proposed, but she hesitated. What if he wanted his own child? Oliver might resent it. The age gap worried her too—one day, he’d leave for someone younger.
Once, while cleaning, Emily sent Daniel out with Oliver. The door burst open—Daniel carried Oliver in, blood streaking his face. He’d fallen off the slide, needed stitches.
She knew it wasn’t Daniel’s fault—Oliver had taken tumbles before. Still, she thought, if he were Daniel’s own, this wouldn’t have happened.
Soon, they drifted apart.
“Mum, don’t worry. I’ll never leave you,” Oliver said again.
After that, she didn’t introduce him to anyone.
Oliver grew into a handsome teen, then a man before she knew it. She was proud but afraid—girls flocked to him. He’d marry, and she’d be alone.
“That’s a mother’s lot. Raise them, let them go. You’ll get used to it—grandkids’ll keep you busy,” her mum reassured.
“Right. I’m being selfish. Mum’s getting older—I should move in with her. Oliver can have this flat.”
But her mum fell ill and died within a year, leaving her flat to Oliver.
Then Jack turned up—scruffy, unkempt. He moaned about women leaving him now he was sick. Did his ex-mother-in-law still live here?
Hearing she’d died, he cursed fate for robbing him of his family. Dropped hints he hadn’t long left. Only ever loved Emily. Playing for sympathy.
“Mum, who’s here?” Oliver asked, spotting a sports bag in the hall. He kicked off his trainers and walked in. A man stood up from the table.
“Hello, son. Look how you’ve grown.”
Oliver’s smile vanished.
“Your son? Since when?”
“Oliver—” Emily wrung a tea towel.
“Sorry, Mum, but I don’t know him. I waited—for you to pick me up from nursery, to come to my birthdays, to ask how I was. You never did. I made sure Mum never saw me wait.” He glared at Jack. “Where were you? Off with your mistress? Made her get rid of a baby, then moved on to the next?”
“Oliver, how—”
“I found you. Wanted to know why you left. Fell out of love with Mum, fine. But what did I do? Why come back now? Another woman kicked you out? Heard about Gran’s flat? Playing the sick card?”
“Oliver, stop! He’s your father,” Emily snapped.
“No. He helped make me. You raised me.”
“You turned him against me?” Jack spat. “I paid child support!”
“Why didn’t you raise me yourself?” Emily turned to the window.
“Fine. I get it.” Jack slapped his knees. “Not welcome here.” He lingered, hoping they’d stop him. They didn’t.
Oliver stepped aside. Jack left, his exaggerated sighs fading.
“Mum, don’t.” Oliver blocked her from following. “Let him go.”
The door slammed.
After uni, Oliver moved to London for work. Emily refused to go.
“You’ll marry soon—I’ll just be in the way. Don’t argue—I’ll manage. I’m not old yet.”
Such was a mother’s fate—to let go and be alone. Oliver visited most weekends.
“Mum, need to talk,” he said once.
“If it’s about moving—IShe wiped her tears as Oliver held her hand and promised, “You’ll never be alone, Mum,” and for the first time in years, she truly believed him.
