30October2025
Today marks three decades of my life, and Ive spent ten of those years in the armed forces, posted to hotspot regions abroad. Twice I came home wounded, yet somehow the Almighty saw fit to keep me alive. After my second serious injury I spent months in a military hospital before being sent back to my birthplace, the hamlet of Littlebrook in West Yorkshire.
Littlebrook has altered itself in the years I was away, and its folk have changed as well. All my schoolmates have taken to marriage and families, yet one day I spotted Emily Whitaker across the village green. I could barely recall her; shed been a shy thirteenyearold when I left for the service, and now, at twentyfive, she was a striking beauty, still single. No man had yet prompted her to think about settling down.
Im broadshouldered, sturdy, with a sharp sense of right and wrong, and I could not ignore Emily any longer.
Are you waiting for me, still unmarried? I asked, a grin tugging at my lips as I regarded the lovely girl.
Perhaps, she replied, a faint blush colouring her cheeks, her heart fluttering at my words.
From that moment we began seeing each other. Late autumn had settled over the countryside; we walked along a narrow lane, the fallen leaves rustling beneath our boots.
Steve, my father will never allow us to marry, Emily said mournfully, even though I had already proposed twice. You know my father.
What will he do to stop me? Im not frightened of your father, I declared confidently. If he harms me, hell be taken to prison and cant bother us any longer.
Emily shuddered. You dont know my father, Steve. Hes a hard man, and everything he touches turns to iron.
Harold Whitaker was the most powerful figure in the village. Once a prosperous farmer, rumors now whispered that he dabbled in illicit dealings. He was stout, with a protruding belly, a cold, calculating stare, and an ironfisted cruelty. He owned the two farms that dotted the parish and employed more than half the locals. Everyone bowed to him, almost as if he were a god.
My father wont consent to our wedding, Emily confessed. He wants me to marry the son of his old drinkingbuddy, a rotund, boozy bloke named Victor. Ive begged him a hundred times not to.
Were living in a stoneage world, Emily, I replied, bewildered. Who in modern times can force a woman to wed someone she does not love?
My love for Emily consumed me; I adored everything about her, from her gentle gaze to her fierce spirit. She, too, could not picture a life without me.
Lets go, I said, gripping her hand and quickening my pace.
She began to guess my destination, but she could not stop me.
In the courtyard of the Whitaker manor, Harold was deep in conversation with his younger brother, Simon, who lived in the adjoining cottage and was always ready to assist.
Mr. Whitaker, I announced, I wish to marry your daughter. May I have your blessing?
Emilys mother, standing on the porch, covered her mouth with trembling fingers, eyes fixed on the tyrannical husband who had long oppressed her.
Harolds glare struck me like a bolt; his eyes were daring, as if daring me to continue. He barked, Get out of my sight, you daft fool. My daughter will never be yours. Forget this road, you military man.
Well marry regardless, I replied, steadfast.
The villagers respected me, but Harold cared little for the sacrifices of a soldier. Money was his only god. Anger welled within me, and I tightened my fists as Simon stepped between us, a silent mediator aware that neither side would yield.
While Simon ushered me out, Harold corralled his daughter like a child, hurrying her into the house. He never forgave anyone who challenged his authority.
Later that night, rain fell heavy over Littlebrook as flames engulfed the garage I had just opened. Wretch, I muttered, certain the fire was no accident.
The next evening, I slipped a note to Emily, urging her to gather what she could and flee with me. She agreed, handing me a bag through her bedroom window before climbing down into my arms.
By morning well be far away, I whispered, feeling her body pressed against mine. You have no idea how much I love you.
I’m terrified, she confessed, her voice trembling.
Within ten minutes we were on the A65, the countryside whizzing past. Emilys breath came in quick, nervous bursts; she sensed a new life ahead. Suddenly, headlights flickered behind us, and a sleek Mercedesa car belonging to Harold surged ahead, blocking our path.
No, not this, Emily gasped, shrinking.
Harold, flanked by two burly men, stepped out, snatched Emily by the arm, and I tried to intervene. He struck me hard, knocked me to the ground, and beat me mercilessly without a word. Afterward his men slid back into the Mercedes and sped off, leaving me bruised on the roadside.
I staggered home, spent the following week in bed, and the police ruled the garage fire an electrical fault. I understood the truth, but my thoughts were fixed on Emily. She vanished from all my messages, her line dead.
Harold sent her to Manchester to stay with his sister, Vera, leaving a tidy sum of £2,000 for her upkeep and issuing a stern warning: Dont let her out of the house. No phone. If she returns to Littlebrook, Ill make sure she never sees daylight again.
Vera, horrified, muttered, Harold, why ruin your own daughters life?
She placed Emily in a spare room, hoping time would cool Harolds fury. Rumours spread that Emily was to wed Victor in the city, never to return to the village.
Soon youll find work, settle your life, Vera told her. Without Steve?
Without him, she whispered.
Weeks later Emily discovered she was pregnant. Vera consoled her, insisting Emily keep the news from her father. Emilys heart ached to tell me, but Harold had smashed her phone and barred any contact. Even if Vera offered her own line, there was nowhere to call.
I hate my father, Emily sobbed in a fit, He isnt a man. Vera remained silent, knowing his cruelty had broken many fates.
Time dragged on. I could not banish Emily from my thoughts. I drifted through days, avoiding women, working hard, even dabbling in drinking before quitting. Meanwhile Emily gave birth to a healthy boy, Matty, who bore a striking resemblance to me. She visited occasionally, doting on her son. Harold never learned of the child; he never set foot in Manchester.
Four years passed, and Matty grew into a bright, cheeky lad. One spring, when blossoms scented the air, Emilys mother arrived at Veras house, slumped into a kitchen chair, and wept.
Harold is dying, she announced, tears streaming. Doctors say its too late; cancer has taken him. He never went to a doctor in his life.
What will I do alone? Emily asked, her voice trembling.
No one offered sympathy; Harolds death drew few mourners beyond his cronies. As the funeral took place in June, I was still on a remote guard duty, returning only occasionally. Emily never attended; she could not forgive him.
Two weeks after my return, I learned Emilys mother had removed all pictures of Harold from the walls. The house felt lighter, as though the tyrants shadow had finally lifted.
A fortnight later, Emily came back to the village. Her mother seemed calmer, the bruises of years past fading. Emily walked with Matty along the old lane, watching the boy chase butterflies, the wind ruffling his hair. She paused against a fallen oak, feeling a familiar presence.
Emily, I whispered from the shadows. She spun, eyes wide, and we rushed into each other’s arms.
I was older, the lines on my face deeper, but the love I felt for her burned unchanged. Matty, now a lanky tenyearold, darted through the grass and fell into my lap, laughing.
Dad, he shouted, Can you buy me a football?
Of course, lad, I replied, hugging him tightly, Well head to the shop straight away. I turned to Emily, who nodded through tears, her smile softening the years of pain.
I am grateful to fate for bringing Emily and Matty back into my life. The universe rewards those who hold gratitude in their hearts, and it has bestowed upon me a family I never thought Id have.
Lesson learned: thankfulness turns even the darkest trials into blessings, and love, when nurtured, can survive the harshest storms.
