Emily had always been an independent and well-behaved child. Her parents worked long hours, so she would come home from school, heat up soup, eat, and do her homework. Sometimes she even cooked pasta for herself—and she’d been doing it since primary school.
In her final year of sixth form, a group of university students arrived at her school for their teaching placement. Among them was Daniel Whitmore, a tall, serious man in glasses and a grey suit who taught history. The boys jokingly called him “the nerd,” mocking him and trying to disrupt his lessons. But by the end, they were hanging on his every word. He taught history like no other teacher before him—asking questions, encouraging debate, and letting them imagine alternate paths history could have taken.
The boys were enthralled. For the first time, someone actually cared what they thought. Emily, however, was watching Daniel with adoration. She started reading history books just to join in discussions. One day, she gathered the courage to share her thoughts. Daniel praised her, saying, “If reforms had gone the way you suggested, our society would be very different now.” But he added that change had been nearly impossible back then.
“History can’t be rewritten,” he said meaningfully. “But textbooks can be—by highlighting the right events.”
When his placement ended, Emily lost interest in history. Then, one afternoon, she spotted Daniel rushing toward her after school.
“Hello, Emily,” he greeted her.
Her heart leapt—he remembered her name!
“Are you going back to school? Lessons are over,” she said nervously.
“No, I came to see you.”
Her face burned.
“Walking home? I’ll come with you.”
They strolled side by side while he asked about her plans. “Not considering history at uni? I thought you were interested. I’ve got plenty of books—you’re welcome to borrow them.”
Was he inviting her to his place? Not Lucy, the prettiest girl in class—*her*, Emily Dawson, “Ladybug,” as her father fondly called her.
“Thanks, but I’m studying economics,” she mumbled. “Though I’d love to borrow the books.”
“Brilliant. Next time I’ll bring a few—my picks, if that’s alright.”
*Next time?* Her pulse raced.
“Will there… *be* a next time?” she blurted, then cringed.
“Of course. If you want,” he said, smiling.
That smile—suddenly he looked boyish, young. She realized he wasn’t that much older than her.
“Just call me Daniel. We’re not in school anymore.”
When they reached her house, she could barely speak. Before leaving, he asked for her number.
He didn’t call. He texted. They met a few times before exams swallowed them both. After graduation, they reunited. Emily kept their meetings secret until she finally told her friends, who were green with envy—none of them had an older boyfriend.
At university, they continued dating. When her mum found out, she insisted on meeting him. Daniel, ever the respectable teacher with no vices, won them over. By her third year, they married.
Children could wait, Daniel insisted. He loved order—aligned jars, stacked books, folded towels. He gently reminded Emily not to leave her things strewn about. She humoured him at first, then mimicked his habits to please him.
One day, he found droplets on the bathroom floor after her shower.
“Emily, I asked you to wipe the floor,” he said, irritation thinly veiled.
“They’ll dry,” she said, stunned.
His grey eyes turned cold. “Do it now.”
She grabbed the mop.
“And hang the towel *properly*.”
Under his glare, she obeyed. Humiliation burned through her.
Daniel’s demands multiplied. Dishes aligned by size. Folded laundry in measured stacks. No daytime affection—just a raised, manicured hand.
She realised she didn’t love him. She’d loved the *idea*—an older man, a teacher, the envy of her friends. The shock of discovering his salon visits (buffing nails, trimming cuticles) clashed with her image of masculinity.
Tiptoeing around his rules exhausted her. Then she learned she was pregnant.
She hoped parenthood would soften him. Instead, he obsessive over her diet. Finding a pizza box in the bin, he accused her of poisoning their child. She sneaked treats in cafés.
With a baby, order was impossible. Daniel never shouted—just pointed at stray socks, messy counters, unwashed plates. Even alone, she couldn’t relax, frantically tidying before his return.
Her mum praised her new neatness. His.
When little Thomas started walking, Emily followed him, picking up toys. The final straw? Daniel checked her phone.
“You don’t trust me? That’s *disgusting*.”
She packed her bags and left.
Daniel followed. Her mum took his side.
“He doesn’t drink, cheat, or gamble! Millions of women would *kill* for this! You’re leaving your child fatherless?”
“I *can’t* live with him, Mum. He’s a robot!”
Unexpectedly, her father intervened. “Let her stay.”
Daniel visited, pleading. Thomas hid behind her. Her mum nagged daily.
Ready to return to work, Emily decided to move away. Daniel threatened to take Thomas, calling her unfit. She filed for divorce.
A job in a neighbouring county offered a fresh start—a work-provided flat. Her dad helped sway her mum.
“Go. Get settled. Then take Thomas.”
Alone, she called daily, aching when he was ill. She bought a second-hand car for visits.
On a holiday drive home, she stopped at a roadside café. Leaving, she found a flat tyre. A blue BMW pulled up.
A young man stepped out. “Need help?”
Jake changed the tyre effortlessly.
“Let me pay you,” she said.
“Dinner instead?” He grinned.
“You’re *far* too young. I’m married, with a child.”
“Just dinner.”
She gave her number.
Two days later, he called.
“Where are you going?” her mum snapped as Emily dressed up.
“Nowhere.” She switched to a plain sundress. *Not a date.*
“You look beautiful,” Jake said. “Husband’s a fool.”
She laughed—something she never did with Daniel.
They dined, danced (ignoring stares), even kissed.
“*Proper* carry-on—divorced, a *child*, and now *this*?” her mum hissed that night. “Call Daniel. He’s visiting Thomas.”
“*You* called him? I’m *done*!”
“Then *leave*! But not Thomas!”
Daniel arrived, stiff in a suit. Thomas dragged her off to play, sparing conversation. Her mum fawned over tea.
“That man’s a *catch*,” she nagged later.
Jake called. Emily refused another date.
Then he showed up at her door.
“Who’s *this*?” her mum sneered.
Thomas adored the toy train set Jake brought. Her mum sulked until she saw them laughing together.
“You’re not leaving without me,” Jake whispered later.
She pushed him away.
“I’ll follow you.”
Her parents argued that night.
“Leave her be,” her dad said. “She’s *happy*.”
Jake’s mum resisted too, but relented: “Make him happy.”
Emily quit her job. Driving back, she stopped at the same café.
A flat tyre. *Again.*
“*Really?*” She spun, searching for nails. Nothing.
A car honked. *Jake.*
He swerved, parked, rushed to her.
“Another flat?” He laughed.
“It’s a *sign*,” she whispered.
“To wait for me.”
They married despite disapproval. A year later, their daughter arrived. Her mum took Thomas on weekends—he now called Jake “Dad.”
Emily waited for Jake to tire of sleepless nights. He never did.
Slowly, she stopped waiting for the worst. *Let it come later. For now, she was happy.*
**Lesson:** Love shouldn’t feel like a prison. The right person brings joy, not rules—and sometimes, happiness arrives in unexpected ways.
