Waking that morning felt like dragging herself up from the depths of a murky river. Emily had spent the night tossing in her cozy, warm bedroom, the echoes of yesterdays argument with her husband still ringing in her ears. The fight had been brutalMatthews insistence on selling their flat to fund some dubious business venture had left her feeling hollow.
She rose, sipped a bitter cup of coffee, and began packing his things into a large leather suitcase. Only then did she noticehis passport was gone.
“So, he left on his own. Good riddance,” she muttered, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.
Matthew had always threatened to walk out after their rows, only to slink back days later. For a while, they muddled throughshe as a senior sales assistant at a department store, him flitting between shady gigs, chasing his big break. Then came his latest scheme: importing brandy from Turkey, bottling it at a local distillery, and selling it through back-alley shops.
“Trust me,” hed said, “therell be inspections, contracts. The distillerys on board.” But the whole thing reeked of trouble. Worse, it demanded a fortunemoney they didnt have. The flat, inherited from Emilys parents, was his solution. When she refused, he called her a penny-pinching miser. The fight exploded. And now he was goneprobably to his ex-wife, Lydia.
Lydia had divorced him years ago, then reappeared, newly single, with her plush townhouse and two kids in tow. Shed been calling Matthew lately, luring him over “for old times sake.” Emily had always suspected that, if not for the children, hed have moved in permanently.
Now, she felt nothingno jealousy, no rage. Just numbness. Matthew had failed as a husband, as a man. All bluster, no substance. Always scheming to “make a quick buck,” as he put it. Well, good luck to him. Let Lydia fund his nonsense.
Emily wiped her tears, took a deep breath, and resolved to take control. She wouldnt waste another moment on him. The flat was hers. Her future, too. She dialed her old friend Charlotte, a solicitor at a prestigious firm.
“Charlie, I need help,” she said firmly. “Matthews left. I want a divorce. And I need to know if hes tangled me in any debts or scams.”
Charlotte got to work. Within days, she uncovered the truth: Matthew had already signed dodgy contracts with his Turkish “partners,” even tried to remortgage the flat. Thankfully, without Emilys signature, they were worthless. Worse, hed pawned his fathers Jaguar for an advancehow hed convinced the old man, a gruff ex-army major, was anyones guess.
Meanwhile, Matthew, smug in his “brilliant plan,” had moved in with Lydia. Flattered by his attention, shed poured her savingswrested from her ex-husbandinto his venture. The kids were shipped off to her parents (“Gran dotes on them,” shed shrugged).
Matthew promised her riches. But the brandy never arrived. The Turks vanished with the money. The distillery denied any deal. Left drowning in debt, sued by furious “investors” (including Lydia), he was thrown out. He crawled back to Emilyonly to find the locks changed.
Soon after, he was arrested for fraud. Prison swallowed him whole.
Emily, freed from the toxic marriage, blossomed. She took a small loan against the flatnot for schemes, but to open an organic skincare shop. Her sales experience paid off; within months, shed cleared the debt and turned a profit. Charlotte handled the paperwork. For the first time, Emily felt steady.
Only one question nagged her: How had she ever loved a man like Matthew? Youth? Naivety?
Theyd met at her mums office party. She was twenty-five, her university friends drifting away, no new prospects in sight. Her mum had hoped shed click with one of the cheerful junior managers. Instead, Emily was drawn to Matthewbrooding, recently divorced.
“Hes thirty-three, stuck in a dead-end job,” her mum warned later. “He talks big, but its all smoke.”
Emily didnt listen.
Three months after that talk, her mum passedquietly, hiding her illness till the end. Matthew stayed by Emilys side, moved into her flat. A year later, they married. Then came the miscarriage.
“Maybe it wasnt meant to be,” hed said, cold as stone.
She wept; he vanished into pubs. And thenwell. The end wrote itself.
Now, in her sunlit office, Emily smiled. Her mums words echoed in her mind. Shed been right all along.
The next day, a bouquet of crimson roses in hand (her mums favourite), Emily visited the cemetery. Birds trilled in the oak trees. The photo on the headstone showed her mum, young and vibrantthe woman who couldnt shield her from mistakes.
Emily touched the cool marble. “Its over, Mum. Dont worry.”
The roses swayed in the breeze, as if in reply. She remembered her mums last words:
*”Darling, Ill always be hereright in your heart. When it aches, listen. Youll feel me.”*
Emily pressed a hand to her chest. The heartbeat was steady, her palm warm. Tears fell. She knew, thenshed never betray that love again.
