She dragged herself home from work just past midnight, utterly shattered, starving, and furious. How many times had she sworn to quit that godforsaken shop? The witching hour had long since danced its dark ballet outside her cramped flat when Veronica, barely able to lift her feet, fumbled the key into the lock. Even the metal seemed to resist, unwilling to let this hollowed-out ghost of a woman back inside. “Shattered” didnt cut itshe felt like a broken machine, gears ground to dust, wires fried. The hunger was sharp and gnawing, the anger thick as tar, coating her insides.
“How much longer?” throbbed in her temples. “Wheres the breaking point?” She asked herself this nightly, ever since her life had turned into hell under the neon sign of “VinoWorld.”
Veronica worked therea boozy aquarium of human flawsfrom 8 a.m. till 11 p.m. Pure drudgery. Soul-crushing, endless. The owner, a greedy spider named Archibald Prescott, had spun a web of surveillance cameras, his gaze through the lenses burning her back like a branding iron. Sitting down? A privilege punishable by a hefty fine. “Sitting means slacking!”a motto seared into every cashiers brain. By closing, her legs were swollen, throbbing, begging for mercy.
And those crates Heavy, clinking coffins of bottles she and the other women had to unload themselves. Fifteen minutes for a sad sandwich, then back to the frontlinethe till, where customers ranged from pleasantly tipsy to outright vile. Smile. Always smile. At drunks, at leering blokes, at screeching ladies. Smile when she wanted to scream or sob.
Her coworkers called her the Iron Lady, unbreakable. Most quit within six months. Staff flowed like a river, wriggling free of this hellish net and vanishing. Veronica stayed. Because behind her wasnt just empty air. Behind her was the entire point of her lifeher seven-year-old son, Oliver. She needed the money. Those grubby, booze-stained notes were the only thread tethering them to something resembling normalcy. Where else could she go? Their once-bustling industrial town was now a graveyard. The old factories, former lifelines for thousands, stood as gloomy monuments guarded by ghosts and dust.
Stepping inside, she barely shrugged off her coat before freezing at the muffled voices from the kitchen. Her heart clenchedtrained by years of expecting disaster. Then memory nudged her: “Veronica, love, dont forgetAunt Irenes visiting today.”
Aunt Irene. Mums elder sister. From Manchester. A different world. They hadnt seen her in five years.
The kitchen smelled of fresh tea and homemade cake. The two sisters, silver-haired and soft with age, sat bathed in lamplight. That light fell on Veronica nowon her gaunt face, the shadows under her eyes.
“My darling!” Aunt Irene surged up first, a woman with kind eyes and a warm embrace. “Look at you, poor lamb, worn to the bone!”
She hugged her niece, and for a moment, Veronica felt something long-forgotten: safety. Childlike warmth. They fussed over her, fed her, then
Aunt Irene set down her teacup and cut to the chase. “Veronica, love, how much more of this can you take? Youre burning alive in that place. Pack up. Move to Manchester. Its a proper cityopportunities, decent work. And” She hesitated. “Life isnt over. Youre only thirty. Youre young, beautiful. Who knows? You might even find happiness.”
The words sank like stones. Veronicas insides twisted into a knot of bitter experience.
“No, Auntie. Ive had enough,” she rasped. “Two tries at happiness. Two grand, disastrous failures. Thats my quota. Butpromisewell visit this summer. Just a week. Take Oliver to the theatre, the zoo. Hed love that.”
She kissed her aunts cheek, pleaded exhaustion, and slipped away. Oliver slept peacefully, his steady breath the only calm in her storm. But Veronica, despite her weariness, couldnt sleep. The visit had dredged up old ghosts.
Her mind, like a cruel demon, began replaying the past shed tried so hard to bury.
…At eighteen, shed been bright-eyed, a straight-A student dreaming of becoming a doctor. Shed moved to Manchester for college, living with Aunt Irene. Then, on a field trip to a medical museum, her heart had raced for the first time in years. Shed met *Him*. Daniel. A dentistry studentcharming, confident, everything she wasnt. Hed spotted hera shy girl with chestnut plaits and summer-sky eyesand fallen hard.
He was perfect. Educated, witty, impeccably dressed. A knight from a storybook. They dated barely a month before he proposed. His parentswealthy dentiststhrew a lavish wedding. Her side? Just Mum, Aunt Irene, and a college friend.
Daniels family bought them a posh flat, kitted it out in designer everything. He graduated, joined the practice, earned loads. By nineteen, shed had Oliver. Dropped out of college.
Then things shifted. Daniel stayed late. Vanished for days. Always with ironclad excuses. She believed himdesperately.
Until the day she saw him in a café, kissing a blonde with the same adoration hed once reserved for her.
The fight that followed wasnt pretty. No apologiesjust cold logic. “Veronica, be realistic. Successful men dont do monogamy. Its embarrassing. Get used to it.”
She endured five humiliating years before leaving. The flat? In his mothers name. The car? His dads. She walked away with nothing but Oliver and a mountain of shame.
Youth, though, is stubborn. Her heartbroken, stupid thingstill hoped. A year later, she met *Him* again. Gavin. A rogue with a smirk and a dingy bar he called a “bistro.” He smelled of whiskey and bad decisions.
“This ones real,” naive Veronica had thought. “Not some posh fraud.”
Wrong again. Gavin came home drunk, reeking of cheap perfume. Fights. Broken plates. Two toxic years. Then, one night, watching Oliver sleep, shed finally snapped.
No more men. No more love. Just work. Home. Her son.
…Aunt Irene left, but not without extracting a promise: summer in Manchester.
Veronica kept her word. That summer, she, Mum, and Oliver boarded a train. Aunt Irene threw a feast. Among the guests was a bald, unassuming bloke”Nicholas, my late friends son. Works at the council. Single, by the way.”
Veronica bristled. A setup. But Nicholas was nice. Attentive. Brought her irises (howd he know?). No flash, no bravadojust steady.
At their café date, he said quietly, “Veronica, I wont promise fireworks. But Id love you and Oliver. Properly. Think about it.”
She did. Grand love had burned her twice. Maybe quiet love was the answer.
They married modestly. Moved into his bookish, coffee-scented flat. Then came the miracles.
Nicholas tracked down Daniel, talked man-to-man. No threatsjust sense. Soon, Oliver had his surname. “Were family now.”
He didnt cage her. He rented her a boutique, stocked it with stylish dresses. “Women should stand on their own,” he said. And she did. Within years, she owned three shops.
Nicholas was her anchor. Proud of her success. A father to Oliver. Then came their daughterLily.
Seven years later, theyre still here. No drama, no betrayals. Just quiet, solid joy.
Veronica loves himnot with wild passion, but with something deeper. Shes learned: happiness isnt a fireworks display. Its the steady sun after a storm. And its worth every scar.
