The Single Mum with Baggage
Emma had raised her son alone ever since her husband walked out over a decade ago. He’d always paid child support—never missed a penny—and as far as he was concerned, that made him a stand-up bloke. His conscience was clear. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
He’d left, taking his things and the car, dumping Emma with an unpaid mortgage and their son. In all those years, he never once visited, never called on the boy’s birthday, never sent so much as a card.
“Bet he’s already swindled some other poor soul into his mess,” her mum would sigh. “Men like that never grow up till they’re old and grey. Should’ve listened to me—never take on a mortgage. Now you’re stuck slaving away for that flat forever.” Never mind that it was her parents who’d pushed her into it in the first place.
So Emma lived paycheck to paycheck, working two jobs, raising her son, Jamie. At least he wasn’t a troublemaker.
After her second shift, exhausted, she’d drag herself to the supermarket, then trudge home, desperate to drop the heavy bags, kick off her shoes, and just sit for five minutes with her eyes closed. She felt like one of those tired old horses at the fair—decked out with ribbons, plodding in circles, carting kids around for a fiver a ride. That was her life: work, shop, home, repeat.
She wore sensible clothes from Primark, only treating herself to something new on rare occasions. Even then, she’d save it for “special days”—which, let’s be honest, never came—until it was out of fashion.
As she walked, she’d wonder what to cook for dinner, whether Jamie was home yet… Her tote bag dug into her shoulder, groceries in one hand, steadying the strap with the other. If Jamie was in, she’d get a five-minute breather before boiling pasta and tossing in some cheap sausages.
She hadn’t always been like this. Once, she’d had thick hair, bright eyes, a figure to turn heads. Like any girl, she’d dreamed of love—and it had come in the shape of Daniel. Handsome, charming, full of promises. A flashy BMW, kids, the whole dream. He got the car, alright. Then he drove off into the sunset, leaving her with the mortgage and a baby.
Now she kept her eyes on the pavement. One wrong step, and she’d twist an ankle in a pothole or get splashed by some idiot speeding through a puddle.
“Emma!”
A stylish woman—designer coat, flawless makeup—stepped into her path.
It took a second to recognise her. Sophie. They’d gone to school together, back when Sophie was all braces and awkwardness. Now she looked like she’d stepped off a magazine cover. Emma suddenly felt shabby in her worn-out trainers.
“God, it’s so good to see you! I’m visiting Mum, but everyone’s moved away. Em, how’ve you been?”
*Like it’s not obvious*, Emma thought. “Oh, you know. Same as always.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and Jamie. You?”
Sophie sighed dramatically, like she was basking in sunshine. “Met a Spaniard. Live in Barcelona. Just popped back for a week. Listen, we’re not letting you go—let’s grab a drink. Or better yet, invite me over! Where d’you live?”
“Uh… nearby. But the place is a mess. Dishes from last night still in the sink—”
“Please, I don’t care. I grew up British, remember?”
Emma unlocked the door, calling out, “Jamie? You in? We’ve got company.”
A lanky teenager appeared.
“This is your *son*?” Sophie cooed. “Proper little heartthrob! What year are you in? Uni plans?”
“Still deciding. Mum, dishes are done. Got homework,” he mumbled before disappearing.
“Wow, so independent,” Sophie said, a hint of envy in her voice.
“You got kids?” Emma asked, swelling with pride.
“Nah. Husband’s older—grown kids from his first marriage. No nappies for him, thanks.”
Emma threw together dinner while Sophie gushed about Barcelona.
“So, why’d you split? He a drinker?” Sophie finally asked.
“Nah. Things were fine till Jamie came along. He never slept—colic, reflux, the works. I was on maternity leave, we had the mortgage, the car payments… Dan said he couldn’t take it. So he left. Drove off in his precious BMW.”
“What a wanker,” Sophie muttered. “Ditched you with a kid and a mortgage?”
Emma didn’t bother explaining how close she’d come to losing everything. Her parents had helped—barely.
“Look, your bad luck’s over. Loads of single blokes in Spain—not young, but fit, keen to settle down with a pretty woman. They *love* British girls. You know how we are—stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on. My husband’s got friends. I’ll find you someone rich before I fly back.”
“Who’d want me? Single mum, remember? ‘Baggage’, as they call it.”
Sophie scoffed. “Better baggage than a deadbeat dad. Trust me, you’re perfect. Jamie’s nearly grown. I’ll sort this. Skype still working?”
Emma fished out a half-finished bottle of wine left from her birthday.
“Just… tidy yourself up first. New haircut, better clothes,” Sophie advised.
Emma bit her tongue. Money was tight—no room for “investment pieces”.
Sophie left, and Emma waited. She daydreamed about quitting her jobs, moving to Spain, everyone whispering *”Lucky cow”* behind her back. A big house, a doting husband, Jamie at a top university…
She even started smiling. Took Sophie’s advice—got a haircut, bought a dress and heels. Went into her overdraft, but it’d be worth it.
“Gotta spend money to make money, love,” Sophie had said.
But weeks passed. No calls. Then, out of the blue:
“Found you someone! Bit older—early fifties. Owns a chain of shops. Dress up tomorrow, I’ll Skype you. Oh, you *haven’t* learned Spanish? Christ. Fine, I’ll translate.”
“You’re marrying a Spaniard now?” Jamie asked from the doorway.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“I’m good here. But if you’re happy… We eating tonight, or…?”
The next day, Emma primped nervously. What if he hated her? She curled her hair, squeezed into the new dress, and parked herself at Jamie’s computer, banishing him to his tablet.
No call. She was halfway into her pyjamas when Skype finally rang. She forced a smile.
A bald man, easily seventy, filled the screen. Sophie popped up beside him in a second window.
Emma had practiced: *”¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?”*
The man beamed and launched into rapid Spanish.
“He likes you,” Sophie translated. “Says you’re pretty. That’s José. Say his name a lot—blokes love that.”
They stumbled through the chat. Then José vanished, and Sophie said, “He wants to visit.”
*”Here?”* Emma blanched. “I thought *I’d* go to Spain—”
“No passport, remember? José’s impatient. Just for a day or two. Well? Do you fancy him?”
“You said fifties. He’s *seventy*.”
“And? You want Spain or not?”
“I—yeah. Okay.”
Emma prepped frantically, splurging on posh snacks. Jamie peeked in the fridge.
“Tell him to visit more often. I’ll eat like a king.”
A week later, she met José at Heathrow, having shipped Jamie off to her mum’s with strict orders: *Don’t breathe a word*.
They fumbled through basic English and hand gestures. She panicked he’d invite himself to hers, but he booked a hotel. They had dinner; she refused to go upstairs.
“Tomorrow,” she lied.
All the way home, she plotted escape routes.
No luck. José was pushy. She drank too much wine to fake enthusiasm, then hid in the bathroom. When she came out, he was snoring. She scribbled *”Thank you for a lovely evening”* on hotel stationery (Google Translate helped), then bolted.
Jamie came home the next day. They feasted on leftover tapas.
A week later, Sophie called.
“Bad news, love. José met some twenty-five-year-old on the flight home. Engagement ring and all. Don’t worry, I’ve got another—”
“No more, Soph. I’m done.”
“Suit yourself.”
They hung up, both irritated.
Next morning, Emma wore the new dress to work. Waste not, right?
By lunch, her feet were bleeding. She collapsed ontoShe limped home barefoot, vowing never to chase fairy tales again—until a stranger stopped to help, and suddenly, the future didn’t seem so bleak.
