**Thursday, 10th September**
Its been exactly eight years, two months, and seventeen days since I showed my husband the door. Not that Ive been countingthe date just stuck in my mind, the start of my real life. Our son, Jamie, is grown now, independent, hardly comes home except for the odd phone call. Mum, got exams, then work, and Lottie and I he says, and I swallow the loneliness, cheerfully replying, Of course, love, I understand! And its true. My life has meaning. Order.
This morning, sunlight slipped through the curtains, golden and insistent, tracing patterns on my face. A whisper: *Wake up. The worlds waiting.* I stretched, light with the satisfaction of hard-earned peace. Forty-three, but feeling thirtyslim, steady, with sharp blue-grey eyes that fool everyone. My secret? Routine. Up at six, a jog through the park, a cold shower, breakfast, then off to the office. Im a manager at a firm in London, and I value my job. My boss, a punctuality fanatic, materialises like a spectre at 9:01 sharp if youre late. Sleep earlier next time. Explanatory note on my desk by noon, hell say, his voice making even the innocent flinch.
The team respects me. Im competent, reliable. But my personal life? Quiet. After the divorce, I filled the space with work, self-care, and my loyal golden retriever, Archie. Hes my alarm clock, my therapistfour years of unwavering companionship. Back when I got him, a friends husband said, Get a retriever. Theyre love on four legs. He wasnt wrong.
Growing up, I always had dogs. But during my marriage to Andrew? Impossible. Bring a filthy mutt into this flat, and Ill toss it off the balcony, hed snarl, eyes blazing. In the end, *he* was the one who leftafter fifteen years, the last three pure hell. The final straw was the night he raised a hand to me. Jamie, thank God, wasnt home.
I told myself then: *Better alone than trapped.* And I was right. Eight happy years. Men? I kept them at arms length. Andrew had poisoned romance for me.
—
**Later**
This morning, Archie waited by the door, leash in mouth, tail thumping. Clever boy, I laughed, lacing my trainers. No alarm needed with you around!
Our local park was livelyjoggers, cyclists, fellow dog walkers. I unclipped Archies lead, and he bounded ahead, glancing back to check I followed. Then, from the bushesa yowl. A tiny black kitten, frozen in fear. Archie stiffened. I rushed forward, but my foot caught a hidden stone. A crack. White-hot pain. I crumpled, gasping. My ankle*wrong*. Archie, what have you done? The kitten vanished. So did Archie.
Panic clawed at me. The pain, the fear of being helplessthen, miraculously, Archie returned, trailing a tall, broad-shouldered man I vaguely recognised from the park.
Hullo, he said, crouching. Your guard dog here sounded the alarm. Im Simon.
The ambulance arrived swiftly. Fracture, the paramedic confirmed. Hospital, X-ray, then a cast.
ButArchie? I stammered.
Simon didnt hesitate. Ill take him.
—
**Two Weeks Later**
Simon visited daily. Brought groceries, walked Archie, made tea. We talkedbooks, old films, the quiet joy of routine. Behind his easy confidence, I glimpsed loneliness, a divorce he rarely mentioned.
Tonight, he arrived with roses and champagne. Birthday, he explained, grinning at Archie, who wagged madly.
You never said! Ive no gift
Youve given me plenty, he interrupted, taking my hands. Enough that Id like to make it official. Marry me?
Archie barked, as if seconding the proposal.
I laughed, suddenly light. Yes.
—
**Now**
No grand weddingjust a registry office, close friends. Simons father hugged him, murmuring, *This* is your true match.
Our house is full of laughter, Archies joyful barks, and Jamies visits with Lottie and their baby, who adores her Uncle Archie. Sometimes, I catch myself watchingSimon with our granddaughter, Archie flopped contentedly at their feetand think: that broken ankle? The best accident of my life.
