Okay, so let me tell you this story about Emma. Right, so she met her future husband, James, in the most random way—completely by chance on the street. She’d overslept before her uni exam, rushed to the bus stop, and just missed the bus by seconds.
“Just brilliant,” she huffed, stomping her foot in frustration. “Now I’m definitely gonna be late.”
“Hey, where you headed?” A bloke on a bike stopped next to her. “I can give you a lift.”
“On that thing? You joking?’’ she snapped.
“Better than walking, innit? Or you could just stand here waiting for the next bus. Good luck with that.” He gave her a look, waiting.
No mobiles back then, payphones were dodgy at best, and no way to just flag a cab. What did she have to lose?
“We’ll get there faster than the bus if we cut through the backstreets,” he urged.
Emma bit her lip, torn, but time wasn’t on her side. She climbed onto the bike rack sideways, holding on tight as he pushed off the kerb. The wobble nearly made her jump off, but once they picked up speed, it smoothed out. Ten minutes later, they were outside the medical school. She hopped down.
“Thanks,” she said, noticing the sweat on his temples. “Was it hard?”
“A bit,” he admitted, grinning. “What’s your name?” He sat back on the bike, one foot propped on the steps. Their faces were level now.
“Emma. Yours?”
“James. Good luck on the exam!” And off he rode.
She watched him go, then hurried inside. By the time she got to the lecture hall, a few students had already gone in. Everyone else was cramming against the walls, noses in their notes. Emma tried to steady her breathing, get her head in the game.
The door swung open, and out bounced Liam, grinning like an idiot.
“First-class honours?” she asked.
“Upper second,” he beamed, waving his grade slip at her.
“Next!” The examiner poked her head out, eyeing Emma strangely before ducking back in.
The other students hesitated. Emma took a deep breath and walked in. She grabbed a paper, skimmed the first question, and—yes. Knew it cold.
“Number?” the examiner prompted.
“Thirteen.”
“Take a sheet and start prepping. Who’s ready?”
“I am,” Emma blurted.
The examiner’s perfectly arched brow shot up. “Sure? Maybe you—”
“Positive,” Emma cut in.
The examiner glanced at the professor, who nodded. Emma strode to his desk.
When she walked out later, one of her mates asked, “How’d it go?”
“Brilliant!” Emma grinned, barely containing herself.
“Who’d you get?”
“The professor. He was in a good mood today.” She practically floated down the old iron staircase, her heels clicking lightly.
Outside, James was waiting by his bike, leaned against a tree. Emma practically flew down the steps.
“Didn’t leave?”
“Wanted to see how you did.”
“Aced it!”
“Fancy a ride?”
“Where?” She blinked. No way was she revising today, but she hadn’t planned on going anywhere with a stranger.
“Wherever. Boat ride? Cinema? Or just a walk.”
“Don’t you work?”
“Got another week off,” he said.
So they rowed on the lake, grabbed coffee, then sat in the dark of the cinema. By the time James dropped her home at dusk, Emma knew—she was smitten.
“Mum, I’m back,” she called, stepping inside.
“Where *were* you? I was worried! How’d the exam go? Now’s not the time to slack off—fail your year, and no more student loan,” her mum scolded.
“Won’t fail,” Emma promised.
A year later, she and James married. He was older, already working. They moved into a tiny, peeling-flat and were stupidly happy.
Then, eighteen months in, James’s dad died of a heart attack mid-lecture—he was a uni professor. His mum was shattered, drifting around the house or just staring at the ceiling. Scared for her, James suggested they move in to help. Emma agreed.
She’d get home from uni before James, cook, clean. His mum would wander into the kitchen, looking at Emma like she didn’t recognise her.
Emma confided in James. They took his mum to the doctor. The diagnosis? Dementia, fast-tracked by grief.
A year later, she stepped into traffic—gone to buy the milk James’s dad had loved. Just like that.
Now it was just them in the big house. Then their son, Oliver, came along. Life rolled on—fights, make-ups, raising a kid—until the storm hit.
James had been distant. “Married a fit girl, not… this,” he’d say, scowling. “Hit the gym, get your roots done, *do* something.”
It stung, even if he wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t getting any younger either, belly starting to show.
“You know I can’t get fake nails—I’m a dentist!”
She suspected an affair, but he was always home on time, no trips. Still, dread curled in her chest.
The night of his birthday party at a posh restaurant—his idea, not hers—she dolled up. Pre-James would’ve showered her in praise. Now? A stiff, “You look nice.”
The room was packed. Toasts, gifts, his boss announcing a promotion. Then dancing.
Emma begged off, claiming tiredness. James swept some young thing onto the floor. Emma slipped to the loo, overhearing:
“—flirting right in front of his wife! You said she was a mess, but she’s actually alright. He’s not leaving her. They’ve got a kid.”
“Just wait,” the other voice—younger, sharper—replied.
Emma couldn’t move. When she returned, James was whispering in the girl’s ear. She bolted, took a taxi home.
Oliver was with her mum for the night. She changed into pajamas, scrubbed her face clean. Mum worshipped James—no way she’d take Emma’s side.
James stormed in two hours later. She’d humiliated him. The torrent of blame was endless.
“You humiliated *yourself*. Cheating, right in front of me! Promised her you’d leave? Fine. Do it. Now.”
He didn’t deny it. “Should’ve said sooner. The flat’s mine—my parents’. You’ll be the one leaving. Jen’s pregnant.”
Somehow, she didn’t break. Just packed a suitcase for her and Oliver, called a cab. The whole ride to her mum’s, it felt unreal.
Mum opened the door, saw the suitcase, and *knew*. Over tea, she berated Emma:
“Go back. Fight for him. Don’t let some tart steal your family.”
Emma fake-agreed just to escape. That night, she sobbed into her pillow.
Monday, she asked coworkers about rental flats.
Her senior colleague pulled her aside. Friends of James’s had moved to Australia. Their dad—terminal cancer—needed a live-in carer. Too sick to travel, and they’d promised the flat to whoever cared for him till the end.
Emma took it. Went part-time at the clinic. Now to convince Mum to keep Oliver—no place for a kid around death.
Mum exploded. “Promise? Ha! They’ll swindle you. And they’ll blame you when he dies!”
The next few days were hell. Mum nagged nonstop. Emma was ready to live *anywhere* else.
Caring for the old man was grim. She wasn’t a nurse. But no rent meant survival. He handed over his pension card. At first, she cooked proper meals—but he barely ate. Soon, she lived on toast and eggs. The flat stank. Oddly, she *lost* weight.
He lasted eight months—doctors gave him two.
His daughter Skyped often, checking on him, then eased up when she saw he was well cared for. She sent money for the funeral but couldn’t fly back.
After the burial, a solicitor handed Emma the deed—signed *eight months prior*. She’d owned the flat all along.
The money covered the funeral and a refurb. Hardest part? Scrubbing the stench from the walls.
She fetched Oliver, went back to full-time work. The year was brutal, but busyness numbed the hurt.
Life settled. Oliver grew up, graduated, married his uni sweetheart. Her parents bought them a one-bed flat.
When their daughter arrived, space got tight. Then his wife got pregnant again. Oliver came over, tense.
He’d always resented her leaving James. Now? “You’re alone in a three-bed. We’re suffocating. Sell it, buy yourself a one-bed, give me the rest. *Fair*,She handed him the keys to the flat the next day, bought a tiny studio by the sea, and finally let go of the past, knowing she’d given him everything—even if it left her with nothing but peace.
