The first day of winter began with a sour twist. Emily had work ahead, but the weather was miserable. Snow mixed with rain, the temperature barely above freezing—neither here nor there.
A coat wouldn’t do, so she bundled into her thick down jacket and sturdy boots.
It was her first day back after a long break. Last summer, she’d been so foolishly happy with her Oliver—taking his advice to quit her job without a second thought.
He’d bought them tickets to the seaside, but her boss refused the holiday. So she handed in her notice, swept up in dreams of diamond skies. She was certain he’d propose there, on the golden sand, under the sun.
Why work, then? Oliver would provide. Her meager salary wouldn’t matter.
She’d imagined a wedding, a baby, a grand life in his house. Now, she cursed her recklessness.
No proposal came. Just fancy dinners, a few perfect nights, and a return ticket home.
He didn’t leave straight away. For months, he let her hope, dangling just enough to make her believe they’d have a future. Then, a week ago, she cracked—asked what his plans were.
“Not much, love,” he sighed. “Getting back with my ex-wife. Father’s ill. Said he’ll leave everything to my son, with her managing it till he’s of age. But if I patch things up, it goes to me instead. Tough terms. Sorry, darling.”
More rubbish followed—love, regret, how powerless he was.
Emily threw on the fur coat he’d last gifted her, muttered, “Goodbye,” and vanished from his life.
Oliver? No loss. But the wasted time stung.
She swallowed her pride, begged her old boss for her job back.
Perched outside his office, she listened to his sharp voice barking through the door—morning meeting, someone getting torn apart.
When the coast was clear, she slipped in with a bright, nervous smile.
Explained simply: *I need work. Love didn’t pan out.*
The boss—fond of her, though happily married—looked sympathetic. “Wouldn’t take anyone else back. But you? Only as my secretary, though. Position’s open. No unscheduled holidays. Deal?”
She took it.
First day: pencil skirt, white blouse, subtle makeup, sleek hair. Work shoes in her bag—she’d swap at the office.
Rushing to the bus stop, a text came through: *Come in early. Emergency briefing.*
She checked the time—no chance. A taxi, then.
Mid-dial, a boy on a skateboard appeared from nowhere—who skates in this weather?—and knocked her flat.
Coat filthy, tights shredded, phone skidding onto the road.
But the boy was worse off, clutching his leg. Passersby helped him up, but he couldn’t put weight on it.
Someone handed her the phone. An ambulance arrived.
“Who’s coming with him?” the medic asked.
Everyone suddenly found their shoes fascinating.
So Emily went.
She grabbed his skateboard, his torn school bag, and climbed in.
At hospital, while he was scanned, her phone buzzed—five missed calls from the boss.
The workday—let alone the meeting—had begun. She rang him. No answer.
Then, a text: *Never mind. Changed my mind. Good luck job-hunting.*
Tears pricked, but she blinked them back. She’d find another secretary job. Maybe.
The boy—Greg—was wheeled out.
“Don’t fret, mum. It’s not that bad. But letting him skate in this weather? Reckless.”
“I’m not his mum. We’re in a hurry. Thanks, though,” Emily said, guiding him to a taxi.
Fourteen, maybe.
“You alright? Where d’you live?”
He gave an address. She called a cab. He dialed his grandma:
“Don’t panic, Nan—just took a spill on my board. Coming home.”
A shriek through the receiver. The taxi arrived.
Leaning on her, he hobbled in.
Dressed well—not a struggling family. But why call Nan, not his parents?
“Dad’s away,” he muttered. “Left me with Nan.”
The house was nice. A flustered woman waited at the door.
Emily explained briefly, was ushered in for tea.
The flat was spotless. She cupped the warm mug as Nan scolded Greg for sneaking the “bloody skateboard.”
They swapped numbers before she left.
“I’ll check on you. Call if you need help,” she said, stepping out—
—with nowhere to go.
Jobless. Futureless.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she thought, heading home.
A week of job hunting followed. Too far, too low-paid, extra courses needed—nothing fit.
Then Greg called.
“Emily! It’s Gregory. All good. Dad’s back. Fancy coming to my birthday Saturday?”
She hesitated—then, why not? Nice boy, kind Nan.
Saturday came. She bought him a smart, pricey school bag and followed the address—
—to a stunning new-build, gravel drive, lush garden.
Nan waved from the door. Greg beamed behind her.
Inside, she handed the gift over—then froze.
A man stepped into the hall.
Hand outstretched, he said, “Daniel Whitmore. His father.”
Her face burned—he was gorgeous.
No mum in sight.
Over cake, she asked about Greg’s leg.
“Bit rough,” Daniel admitted. “But fixable. Thanks for helping him.”
The evening passed with laughs, toasts.
Then he offered her a lift home.
And that’s how fate works sometimes.
The drive turned into a chat, then another.
Widower. Raised Greg alone since he was seven—Nan helped, of course. Business ate his time.
“Juggling it all,” he sighed.
She shared little—just the lost job, the boss who wouldn’t listen.
A week later, he called. Offered her a role at his firm.
By Christmas, they were together—beaming Nan, delighted Greg, and Emily with Daniel, stepping into a new life, a new family, and the joy of raising that clever, kind-eyed boy.
