**Diary Entry**
The carpet of golden leaves crunched underfoot as I walked home, my mind still replaying the mornings near-disaster. In the hospital dispensary, Id been lost in thought, mechanically sorting pills into little plastic cups, my hands moving faster than my mind. It was only when Sister Margarets sharp voice broke through my daze that I realised Id nearly given patients double doses. The shock sent the bottle tumbling from my grasp, scattering tablets across the tray like fallen confetti.
*”Emily, what on earth are you doing?”* Her voice was tight with alarm. *”You couldve killed someone! Step awaynow!”*
I stammered an apology, my hands shaking as I stared at the mess. *”I just I wasnt thinking.”*
*”No, you werent,”* she snapped, sweeping the pills into the bin. *”Go home. Write up a leave request starting tomorrow. Ill handle your rounds.”*
The weight of the last twenty-four hours pressed down. *”Its James,”* I whispered. *”He left me yesterday.”*
Sister Margarets face softened, but only slightly. *”Men. Even the decent ones stray eventually.”* She sighed. *”Take the week. And for heavens sake, pull yourself together.”*
She even called me a taxi, charging it to the hospital account. I barely registered the ride, too busy replaying Jamess cold words: *”Its over, Emily. Ive met someone else.”* The flat felt hollow without him. I needed air, distractionanything.
Then my daughter, Sophie, called. *”Mum, come stay with us for a bit. Bring your knittingthe babys due soon!”*
Relief washed over me. Id go to Manchester, see Sophie, clear my head. But first, disaster struck againI left my handbag in the taxi. Panic flared until I remembered: my keys were in my coat, my phone in hand. The cards could be blocked. Still, the loss gnawed at me.
At Sophies, I finally confessed about James. *”Dont you dare take him back,”* she warned. I didnt plan to.
Returning to London, Mrs. Wilkins next door mentioned a visitor*”Tall, well-spoken chap. Asked after you but didnt know your name.”* Odd, but I shrugged it off.
Then, two days later, a knock. There he stood, holding my handbag. *”Found it in a cab,”* he said, smiling. *”The driver mentioned a distraught woman from the hospital. Took some digging, but here you are.”*
*”How can I thank you?”* I fumbled for a twenty-pound note.
*”Keep it,”* he laughed. *”Im Oliver, by the way.”*
A week later, he returnedwith flowers. *”Dance lessons,”* he announced. *”You need a distraction.”*
I went. I was terrible, stepping on his toes, but he was patient. Over tea, he joked, *”Youre worse than my gran, and shes got two left feet.”*
We kept dancing. Then, one evening, I came home to find James in the hallway, suitcase in hand. *”Emily, I made a mistake. She cant cookIve got heartburn from takeaways.”*
I laughed. *”You left. Stay gone.”*
He blustered, threatened the flat, but I stood firm. *”Sophies names on the deeds. Good luck arguing with a newborns rights.”*
The slam of the door echoed like freedom.
At the next lesson, Oliver waited anxiously. *”I thought you wouldnt come.”*
I danced like Id never done beforelight, effortless. The instructor cheered, *”Emily, thats the spirit!”*
Olivers eyes held mine, warm and approving. For the first time in months, I wasnt thinking of James. I was thinking of the next dance, the next step forward.
