**Diary Entry: A Twist of Fate**
I’ve always been independent, even as a child. Mum and Dad worked long hours, so I’d come home from school, heat up soup, eat, and do my homework—sometimes even boiling pasta myself. That’s how it’s been since primary school.
In sixth form, a few university students came for teaching placements. One of them, Mr. Daniel Harris, taught history—tall, serious, dressed in a grey suit and glasses. The lads called him a bookworm, snickering behind his back at first, but by the end, they were hanging on his every word. He had a way of making history come alive, asking questions that made you think, reconsider, even rewrite events in your mind. The boys adored him. For the first time, someone listened to their opinions.
And me? I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I started reading history books just to impress him. One day, I gathered the courage to speak up. He praised me, saying, *”If reform had gone the way you suggested, society would be entirely different now.”* But then he added, *”History can’t be rewritten—only reinterpreted.”*
When his placement ended, my interest in history faded. Then, one afternoon, walking home from school, I spotted him rushing towards me.
*”Hello, Emily,”* he said.
He *remembered* my name. My heart leapt.
*”Are you heading to school? Lessons are over,”* I mumbled, flustered.
*”No, I wanted to see *you*.”*
I froze, cheeks burning. *Me?* Not Lucy Bennett, the prettiest girl in class—just plain Emily Carter, “Cricket,” as Dad affectionately called me.
*”Walking home? I’ll join you.”*
We strolled side by side as he asked about school, friends, my university plans.
*”Not history? I thought you’d taken a liking to it. I’ve got books you might enjoy.”*
Was he inviting me over? The thought sent me reeling.
*”Thanks, but I’m applying for economics,”* I muttered. *”Though I’d love to borrow those books.”*
*”Next time, I’ll bring some. My choice, if that’s alright.”*
*Next time?* My pulse raced. *”There’ll be a next time?”* The words slipped out before I could stop them.
He smiled—*really* smiled—and suddenly, he looked boyish, younger. *”Of course. If you want.”*
At my doorstep, he said, *”Call me Daniel. We’re not in school anymore.”*
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
He texted a few days later. We met a couple of times before exams swallowed us both—mine for A-levels, his for his degree. After graduation, we reunited. I kept our meetings secret until I finally confessed to my friends. They were *jealous*. None of them had an older boyfriend.
At university, we kept seeing each other. When Mum found out, she demanded to meet him. Serious, dependable, a *teacher*—Dad approved. No bad habits, just stability. Mum relaxed; I floated on air.
We married during my third year. Kids could wait, Daniel insisted. He loved order—aligned jars, stacked books, folded towels. Gently, he’d remind me to tidy up. At first, I humoured him. Then I copied him, eager to please.
One day, he found water droplets on the bathroom floor after my shower. *”Emily, I’ve asked you to wipe the floor.”*
*”I will next time. You’re showering after me anyway.”*
*”Not next time. Now. Where’s the mop?”*
His grey eyes chilled me. No glasses—he didn’t need them, just wore them to look older.
*”You’re serious? It’ll dry.”*
He wasn’t joking. I shrank under his glare, mopping hastily. *”And hang the towel properly.”* His finger jabbed at the crumpled fabric.
*”I was about to—you distracted me!”*
Under his watch, I straightened everything. Humiliation burned. He scolded me like a child.
Plates had to be stacked by size, laundry folded precisely. If I forgot, he’d correct me. No daytime affection—just a raised hand if I reached for him.
I realised I didn’t know him. Worse—I didn’t *love* him. I’d loved the *idea* of him—a teacher, mature, envied by my friends. The shock came when I learned he got manicures, buffing his nails like a model. Was that even *manly*?
Living under a microscope exhausted me. The thought of staying terrified me. I planned to leave—until I learned I was pregnant. At nearly thirty, with no children yet, I was thrilled. Maybe fatherhood would soften him.
It didn’t. He monitored my diet, scolded me for a pizza box in the bin (*”You’ll poison our baby!”*). I sneaked treats in cafés.
With a newborn, keeping order was impossible. Daniel never yelled—just pointed at messes with quiet disdain. Even alone, I couldn’t relax. The moment baby Timothy slept, I’d frantically clean, dreading his return.
Mum approved. *”I never thought you’d be so tidy!”* She adored her son-in-law. When Tim started walking, I trailed him, picking up toys. The final straw? Daniel checked my phone.
*”You don’t trust me? How *dare* you!”* I sobbed.
I packed my bags while he was at work. Mum took his side. *”He doesn’t drink, cheat, or skip work. Millions of women would kill for this! Go back.”*
*”I *can’t*.”*
Dad surprised me. *”Let her stay. Look at her—she’s a shadow.”*
Daniel visited, begging me to return, bringing toys for Tim. But the boy hid behind me. Mum nagged relentlessly. Life here was no easier.
With Tim nearing nursery age, I needed work. I decided to leave town. Daniel threatened to take our son—*”You’re too careless.”*
I filed for divorce. It dragged, but eventually, it was done. A job in a nearby county offered a subsidised flat. Dad backed me again when Mum protested. *”Go. Settle first, then take Tim.”*
I agreed.
On leave, driving home to fetch Tim, I stopped at a roadside café. Returning to my car, I found a flat tyre. Tears pricked my eyes.
Then a blue BMW pulled up. A young man stepped out. *”Need help?”*
*”Flat tyre.”*
*”Got a spare?”*
He changed it swiftly. *”You heading to Norwich?”*
*”Yes—thank you!”* I fumbled for my purse.
*”Don’t.”*
*”How can I repay you?”*
*”Dinner.”*
I laughed. *”I’m older, married, with a child.”*
*”Just dinner,”* he grinned. *”Your number?”*
Two days later, he called.
*”Where are you going?”* Mum frowned as I dressed up.
*”Nowhere.”* I swapped the dress for something plainer.
At the restaurant, Tom—*so young*—smiled. *”You look stunning. How’d your husband let you out?”*
I laughed freely—something Daniel never allowed.
We talked, danced (ignoring stares), even kissed later. *This means nothing,* I told myself. *I’ll leave soon.*
Mum’s lecture awaited me. *”Divorced, chasing boys? Tim needs his father!”*
Next day, Daniel visited—stiff in his suit despite the heat. Tim dragged me to play, sparing us conversation.
*”You’ll never do better,”* Mum hissed.
But Tom called again. I refused—until he showed up at our door with a train set. Tim’s eyes lit up. Mum watched, lips pursed.
Later, Tom kissed me. *”I’m not letting you go.”*
I pushed him away. *”You’ve got your whole life here!”*
*”Then I’ll move with you.”*
Dad whispered to Mum one night: *”Let her be. She’s glowing.”*
Tom’s mother resisted at first. *”He’ll leave with you—I’ve lost him.”*
*”I’d never ask that.”*
*”Make him happy, then.”*
I quit my job, ready to leave. At the same café, my tyre flattened *again*. *”A sign?”* I panicked.
Then Tom’s car appeared. *”Fancy meeting you here,”* he teased.
We married despite disapproval. A year later, our daughter arrived. Mum dotes on Tim, who calls Tom *Dad*.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Tom stays—through sleepless nights, through chaos. For now, I’m happy. Let theEven now, years later, whenever I see a flat tyre, I smile—because sometimes, life’s little mishaps lead you exactly where you’re meant to be.
