On a bleak January evening, as a snowstorm howled outside, stripping the trees of their last remnants of hope, Emma sat by the window, clutching a crumpled note in her hands. The hastily scribbled words, penned in a familiar masculine script, marked the end. Five years of marriage had dissolved into those lines. Daniel was gone. He had simply packed his things and vanished, offering no real explanation. All he’d said was, “We’re not meant to be together anymore.”
Emma couldn’t understand. Everything had been fine. They’d been saving for a house, supporting each other through hardships, sharing the load. She had loved Daniel deeply. And him? He’d just left, leaving behind an emptiness that ached.
She cried all night. The next morning, steeling herself, she went to work. And there, on her desk—flowers. Such a small thing, yet it stung. “Who are they from?” she asked. “From Oliver, the IT guy,” her colleagues giggled. Emma was surprised. She hadn’t noticed how he brought her coffee every day, left little chocolates with notes. And now—flowers. She tossed them away. Too soon.
But things changed. Oliver proved persistent yet gentle. He didn’t push, didn’t demand—just stayed close. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Emma was nervous. “Will your mum like me? I’ve just been divorced…” she fretted. “She’s kind, don’t worry,” Oliver reassured her.
At first glance, his mother—Margaret—seemed warm and gracious. Dinner went smoothly. Emma relaxed. When Oliver proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. She finally believed happiness was possible again.
But a week before the wedding, Margaret called Emma, insisting on meeting outside her office.
“Don’t tell Oliver,” she said firmly.
Emma stepped outside. Margaret stood by her car, clutching a bag. “Must be wedding plans,” Emma thought. But she was wrong.
“Listen, love, you’ve reeled my son in far too quickly,” Margaret began, her tone cordial but icy.
“Excuse me? Wasn’t it him who proposed?” Emma stammered.
“I don’t know what you’ve convinced him of, but you won’t have him. Walk away now. I won’t let him suffer,” she said, then left.
Emma stood frozen. A day later, Daniel called.
“We need to talk,” he said.
They met. The conversation was hollow—polite, even friendly. He kissed her cheek and walked away. “What was that?” Emma wondered. No answers came.
That evening, she returned home. Oliver was waiting.
“Hey,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“You seem tense…” Emma frowned.
“Come with me,” he led her to the kitchen. Placing his phone on the table, he ordered, “Look.”
The screen displayed a photo—her and Daniel, embracing, saying goodbye. Someone had taken it discreetly.
“This was your mum…” Emma choked back tears.
“Yes, she sent it. But you let him touch you. I can’t ignore that,” Oliver said coldly.
“You don’t trust me?” Her eyes welled up.
“I don’t know what to believe. We’re postponing the wedding. I’m leaving.” He grabbed his bag and walked out.
Alone again. Like a cruel cycle repeating. Every time she dared to hope, to open her heart—someone knocked her down. She sat at the kitchen table, replaying Oliver’s words, Margaret’s venom, Daniel’s hollow smile, that wretched photo.
*Maybe I’m cursed. Or just not meant for happiness,* she thought, staring into the dark beyond the window.
Outside, the snowstorm raged on.
