She dragged herself home from work near midnight, utterly drained, starving, and seething. How many times had she sworn to quit that bloody shop? Midnights dark waltz had already begun outside her council flats windows as Veronica, barely able to lift her feet, fumbled the key into the lock. Even the metal seemed to resist, unwilling to let this exhausted shadow of a woman back in. “Drained” didnt cut itshe felt like a broken machine, gears ground to dust, wires burnt out. The hunger was sharp, gnawing, the fury thick as tar, filling her from the inside.
“How much longer?” pounded in her temples. “Wheres the line? When do I finally snap?” That same question, a nightly dirge, had haunted her for a yearever since her life had become hell under the sign of *Vintage Spirits*.
Veronica worked there, that cursed shop, an aquarium of alcohol and human flaws, from eight in the morning till eleven at night. A prison. Relentless, soul-crushing. The owner, a greedy spider named Archibald Pierce, had spun his web of surveillance cameras, and every glance through the lens burned her back like a branding iron. Sitting? A privilege punished by hefty fines. “Sitting means youre not working!”that mantra was scorched into every cashiers mind. By evening, her legs burned, swollen and throbbing, begging for mercy.
And those crates Heavy, clinking coffins of bottles they had to unload themselves. Fifteen minutes to scarf down foodthen back to the front lines, to the counter where not-always-sober customers waited. She had to smile. Smile at drunks, at boorish blokes reeking of ale, at screeching women. Smile when she wanted to scream.
Her coworkers saw her as unbreakable, an iron lady. Most didnt last six months. Staff flowed like a river, slipping free of this hellish net, vanishing. Veronica stayed. Because behind her wasnt just empty air. Behind her stood the entire meaning of her lifeher son, seven-year-old Oliver. She needed the money, desperately. Those grimy, booze-stained notes were the only thread tethering them to something resembling a life. Where else could she go? Their once-bustling market town was dying. The timber mill and the factory, lifelines for thousands, now stood as grim monuments, guarded only by dust and ghosts.
Stepping inside, she barely shrugged off her coat before freezing at muffled voices from the kitchen. Her heart clenchedtrained by constant dread. Then memory nudged her: Mum had mentioned it this morning. “Veronica, love, dont forgetAuntie Irenes visiting today.”
Auntie Irene was Mums older sister. From Manchester. A different life. She hadnt visited in five years.
The kitchen smelled of fresh tea and homemade pie. The two sisters, silver-haired and lined with age, sat bathed in warm lamplight. And that light fell on Veronicaon her gaunt face, the dark circles under her eyes.
“Love!” Auntie Irene was first to rise, soft-featured, kind-eyed. “Oh, sweetheart, you look exhausted!”
She pulled Veronica into a hug, and for a moment, she was a child againsafe, warm. They fed her, fussed over her.
Then Auntie Irene set down her teacup and looked at her plainly.
“Veronica, love, how much more can you take? Look at yourself! Youre burning alive in that place. Quit. Move to Manchester with us. Its a proper cityjobs, opportunities. And” She paused. “Lifes not over. Youre only thirty. Youre young, beautiful. Who knows? You might even find happiness.”
The words sank like stones into silence. Inside, Veronica curled tighter, bitter experience pressing in.
“No, Auntie. Enough,” she rasped. “Ive had two tries at happiness. Two loud, bright failures. Im done. ButI promise, in two months, when I get leave, Oliver and I will visit. Just a week. Take him to the zoo, the theatre, the funfair. Hed love that.”
She kissed her aunts cheek and, pleading exhaustion, retreated to her room. Oliver slept peacefully, his steady breaths a rare comfort. But Veronica, despite her fatigue, couldnt sleep. The visit had stirred long-buried feelings.
And her mind, like a cruel demon, began dredging up the past.
Shed been eighteen, gold medal in hand, dreams of becoming a doctor. Shed enrolled in medical college in Manchester, living with Auntie Irene. One day, their class toured the universitys anatomy museum. There, among silent specimens, her heart had racedshed met *Him*. Ethan. A final-year dentistry student, all charm and confidence. Hed noticed herthe shy girl with chestnut plaits and summer-sky eyesand fallen hard.
He was perfect. Brilliant, well-dressed, witty. A knight from a romance novel. Theyd dated barely a month before he proposed. His parents, successful dentists with their own practice, threw a lavish wedding. On Veronicas side: just Mum, Auntie Irene, Uncle George, their son, and one friend.
They gave the couple a sleek city-centre flat, all modern fixtures. Ethan graduated, joined the family business. The money rolled in. At nineteen, Veronica had Oliverand left college.
Then things changed. First, Ethan stayed late. Then vanished for days. Always with ironclad excuses. She believed him, desperately.
Until one day, pushing the pram, she stopped at a café for waterand saw him. Her knight. With a sleek blonde, gazing at her the way hed once looked at Veronica. He kissed hertender, passionate.
The fight that followed was brutal. He didnt deny it.
“Veronica, come on,” hed said, almost indignant. “Im successful. Ive got everything. Did you really think men like me stay faithful? Its how our lot live. Everyone has mistresses. Being a devoted husbands a joke. Just deal with it.”
And she had. For five humiliating years. Too ashamed to return to Mum broken. Shed waited, hoping hed change.
But even patience has limits.
She left. Took Oliver and her meagre belongings back to Mum. Their flat, it turned out, was in his mothers name. The car, the garagehis fathers. Auntie Irene begged her to sue, but Veronica was too deep in despair. Ethan paid paltry child supporthis accountant made sure of that.
“Just like that? Its over?” Mum had asked, staring at her hollow-eyed daughter.
With Oliver in nursery, Veronica took the job at *Vintage Spirits*.
But youth fought back. Her wounded heart still craved love. A year later, she met *Him*. The second one. Greg. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a roguish grin. He owned a dodgy bar he grandly called a “bistro.” The local loud crowd hung there. He reeked of expensive cigars, booze, easy money.
“This ones real,” naïve Veronica had thought. “Not some posh fraud like Ethan.”
She was painfully wrong. The honeymoon ended fast. Greg came home drunk nightly, stinking of cheap perfume and other women. Fights, smashed plates, tears. On-again, off-again for two toxic years.
Then one night, watching Oliver sleep, shed had enough.
She left. Again. Life, love, menall illusions shattered. Only work, home, her son, and grey despair remained.
Now Auntie Irenes talk of fresh starts had ripped open half-healed wounds.
The aunt left, but made Veronica swear to visit that summer with Oliver.
She kept her word. Mum joined them. Auntie Irene threw a feast, glowing with joy.
At the table sat her cousin, his wifeand another guest. A man in his thirties, stocky, with kind, sad eyes and a bald head he didnt bother hiding. “Nicholas Peterson,” Auntie introduced. “My late friends son. Works at city council. Single, by the way.”
Veronica understood. Auntie was playing matchmaker. She braced for resistance.
But Nicholas was pleasant. Attentive. Poured her tea, joked gently. Buthe wasnt her type. Compared to dashing Ethan or rough Greg, he seemed ordinary.
Still, when he asked her to coffee the next day, she couldnt refuse.
It went surprisingly well. He brought irises (how did he know they were her favourite?). He listened, joked without ego.
Walking her home, he stopped, meeting her eyes.
“Veronica, I know this is new. But Ive met many people. And youyoure extraordinary. Strong. Beautiful. I wont promise fireworks. But I could love you. And Oliver. Properly. For good. Think about it.”
He gave her three days.
She walked home, thinking: “I married for grand passion. Howd that end
