Happiness settled into her heart once again.
Emma had noticed more than once how her husband, William, would clutch his left side—right over his heart. He tried to be discreet, rubbing at it lightly before glancing around to see if she’d noticed. She’d asked him more than once:
“Does it hurt again, William? You really should go to the doctor.”
“It’ll pass, happens sometimes,” he’d always say—the same answer every time.
Emma and William had been together for nine years in the village they’d moved to after university. He’d studied agriculture while she trained to be a teacher. But Emma never ended up working—William loved farming, and the yard was always full of animals. Two cows, sheep, a pig, chickens, ducks. All of them needed care. So Emma stayed home, on her feet all day, while William worked as an agronomist.
Emma had been raised by her grandmother since she was thirteen—her parents died young, trapped in a house fire, and she’d been staying with her gran that night. William was from the village. But three years after their wedding, his father passed from a heart attack, and less than two years later, his mother followed.
So it was just the two of them. Life was good, but they had no children. Both had hoped and waited—Emma even cried at night, praying for a baby. But none came.
One morning, William had breakfast and got ready for work, but then he clutched his chest again. Before Emma could reach him, he collapsed—his heart had stopped. The ambulance arrived quickly, but it was already too late.
After the funeral, Emma wept for days, lost in grief.
“Thirty years old, and I’m alone now,” she whispered to herself. “Why is life so unfair? I loved my husband, and God took him from me. Took everyone. What did I do to deserve this?”
Mornings, she’d go to the barn to milk the cows, tears running down her face.
“Why do I even need all these animals? I do it because I feel sorry for them—they need feeding, the cows need milking…” She’d cry, sometimes sob, thinking no one heard.
But her neighbour, Margaret, the school’s deputy head, overheard her one day and stopped by.
“Emma, I hear you crying. I understand. Why don’t you sell the livestock? What do you need them for, all alone? There’s a primary school in the next village—their teacher just left. Maybe you could work there. Our school’s full, but the older kids come here. It’s only a few miles. At least you’d be around people. Think about it—you’re a teacher.”
“Thank you, Margaret. You’re right,” Emma agreed.
By summer’s end, she’d sold all the animals, and by September, she was in the neighbouring village. The locals soon knew her as Miss Emma Wilson, settling into a big house. She scrubbed it from top to bottom, washing windows, tidying everything.
“Well, this is my new life,” she said aloud. “But the fence is falling apart, and the gate won’t shut. Needs fixing.”
She asked for help and was given the wood for the fence—but she’d have to do the work herself.
“Sarah,” she called to her neighbour, who was hanging laundry, “any idea who could fix my fence? I’ve got the materials.”
Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer.
“There’s a carpenter—real skilled, but he drinks. Won’t lift a finger without a bottle. His wife, Verity, is just as bad. Ever since they married, it’s been drink after drink. They’ve got two little girls—four and two—but social services took them six months ago. Don’t go to them yourself—I’ll talk to Mike if I see him.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
The next day, Sarah came back with news:
“Saw Verity near the shop. They’ll come tomorrow morning—just buy a couple of bottles of wine. They won’t work otherwise.”
Sure enough, Mike and Verity showed up the next day, both reeking of alcohol. Mike dropped his tools in the yard and started looking around. Emma stepped out.
“Morning,” Verity called loudly. Mike nodded in greeting.
He was scruffy, unshaven, his hair a mess—but his eyes were clear and bright. For a second, Emma froze. They reminded her of her late husband’s.
“The wood’s over there,” she gestured.
“Yeah, we see it,” Verity said, sitting on the porch steps. “Got anything to drink? Bring it out. Need something to take the edge off.”
She cracked open a bottle, poured two glasses, and Mike drank before getting to work.
Emma worried—how could he work like this? But despite the drinking, Mike was a skilled carpenter. The villagers knew—if he took a job, he’d do it right. Verity sat nearby, watching him work, refilling his glass.
By dusk, he was done.
“All finished,” Verity slurred.
Emma inspected the new fence—straight, sturdy, with a proper latch to keep the gate from swinging open. She paid him, grateful.
“Come back if you need anything else,” Verity said as they left.
Winter arrived. Emma settled into teaching, grateful to Margaret. The children kept her busy, and slowly, the grief eased. They loved Miss Wilson—and she adored them back.
One night, near New Year’s, she woke to a knock at the door. She glanced at the clock—early morning, nearly six.
She thought she’d imagined it, but the knock came again. She opened the door to find Mike standing there.
“Verity’s dead,” he said quietly. “Didn’t even hear her leave. Woke up, she was gone. Found her outside your house… frozen. We drank last night—must’ve gone looking for more and…” His voice cracked. “Don’t know what to do. She’s just lying there…”
The whole village helped bury Verity. Afterward, Mike drank for a week.
Then, another quiet knock at Emma’s door.
“Today’s the ninth day,” Mike said. “Thought we could… remember her.”
Emma frowned. “You’ve got mates—why come to me? I don’t drink.” But she let him in.
He poured himself wine, then a small glass for her. She barely sipped; he drank his straight.
“What do I tell the girls when they ask about their mum?” he muttered. “They won’t give them back to me now. I miss them.” He pulled out a crumpled photo—two little girls with his bright eyes.
“God, they look just like you,” Emma said, her heart aching. A wild thought crossed her mind—*What if they were mine?*
Before she could second-guess, she spoke.
“Marry me. I’ll get the girls back—they won’t give them to me alone. Needs to be a proper family. You can live as you like—I won’t tie you down. But those girls…” She met his eyes. “I’m serious, Mike. Let’s do it.”
They married. The village gossiped—*What’s Emma thinking? She could do better.* Only Sarah understood.
After weeks of paperwork, Emma brought the girls home.
Mike wept when he saw them.
“Daddy!” the older one, Lily, cried. “You smell funny.” The younger, Daisy, just hugged him.
Oddly, neither asked about their mother. Lily just said, “Emma’s our mum now. She loves us. It’s clean here.”
Emma enrolled them in the village nursery and kept teaching. Mike visited sometimes.
Once, she asked if he knew where to buy a cow. He stared at her slender frame.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I’ve milked cows before—we had two when William was alive. I’ll manage.”
He found one—old Mrs. Whittaker was selling hers, too frail now to care for it.
By summer, chickens pecked in the yard, and a pig grunted in the pen.
Mike kept visiting, playing with the girls, but something gnawed at him. His mates still dragged him to the pub.
One day, Lily said, “Daddy, don’t come here drunk and dirty.”
It stung. But she was right. Then he saw Emma struggling with a wheelbarrow of manure—his chest tightened. He rushed over, grabbing it.
“Why’d you load so much?” he grumbled, finishing the chores himself before leaving.
At home, he buried his face in his hands.
*What am I doing? Another woman’s raising my kids—calling her Mum, loving her. She keeps them clean, feeds them well, and all I do is drink.*
He slammed his fist on the table. *Enough.*
He cut ties with his mates, cleaned his house, and quit drinking. For a week, he stayed away.
When his friends came by, he barred the door.
“Piss off. I’m done with drinking.”
“You ill or something?” one jeered
