The first day of winter had begun on decidedly the wrong foot. Emily needed to work, but the weather had other ideas. A miserable mix of sleet and rain poured down, the temperature hovered just above freezing, and it was neither here nor there. A light coat was out of the question—she had to bundle up in her thickest parka and proper snow boots.
This was her first day back after a long break. Last summer, she’d been so blissfully in love with her Rupert that she’d foolishly quit her job on his advice. He’d splurged on seaside holiday packages, and when her boss refused her time off, she’d handed in her resignation without a second thought. Back then, the sky seemed paved with diamonds. Emily was convinced that, somewhere along those golden sands, a proposal awaited her. Why bother with work when Rupert would take care of everything? His money would make her meagre salary look like pocket change.
She had dreamed of weddings, babies, and a grand life in his countryside manor. How she cursed her own naivety now!
Not only had there been no proposal, but Rupert had simply wined and dined her, gifted her a few romantic nights, and brought her home. He didn’t abandon her immediately—oh no. For nearly six months, he strung her along, letting her believe their relationship was headed somewhere. Until, a week ago, Emily finally snapped and demanded to know his plans.
“Plans? Not many, love,” he’d said. “I’m getting back with my ex-wife. You see, Dad and I share the family business, and he’s taken ill. Said he’ll leave it all to my son, with her managing things until he’s grown—unless I reconcile, in which case it all comes to me. Bit of a harsh bargain, but there you are. Sorry, darling.”
Then came the usual drivel about love, regret, and what a tragic, powerless victim he was. Emily threw on the last gift he’d given her—a ridiculously expensive designer coat—and with a curt, “Goodbye,” she vanished from his life.
She didn’t miss Rupert. She missed the time she’d wasted.
After licking her wounds, she swallowed her pride and begged her old boss to take her back. Lingering outside his office, she listened to the muffled scolding from within—some poor soul was clearly getting an earful for their mistakes. When the coast was clear, she stepped in, flashing her brightest smile.
She made her case simply: she needed work. Personal life hadn’t panned out. The boss, fond of her but happily married, gave her a sympathetic look.
“Wouldn’t rehire just anyone, but I’ll take you back—not in your old role, though. That’s filled. How about my secretary? Margaret’s off on maternity leave come December. But no more vanishing acts, understood?”
She agreed. And here she was—first day back. Pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, subtle makeup, sleek ponytail. She’d stuffed her heels in her bag to change into at the office. As she hurried to the bus stop, her phone buzzed.
“Come in early. Emergency meeting.”
Emily checked the time. Early wasn’t happening. She’d need a cab. Just as she dialled, a blur on a skateboard—of all things, in this weather!—slammed into her. Next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the pavement. Parka ruined, tights shredded, phone skidding across the wet tarmac.
Minor damages. The boy, however, was clutching his leg in pain. With help from passersby, he limped up but couldn’t put weight on it. A kind soul handed her phone back. Paramedics arrived.
“Who’s coming with him?”
Suddenly, everyone found their shoes very interesting.
So Emily went. She scooped up the skateboard and his battered schoolbag—strap torn—and climbed into the ambulance. At the hospital, while the boy was examined, her phone buzzed to life. Five missed calls from her boss.
She dialled back. No answer. Moments later, a text:
“Never mind. Changed my mind. Good luck with the job hunt.”
And just like that, her career was over. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. Crying? Please. She’d find another secretary job. Probably.
Before she could dwell, the boy reappeared, hobbling on crutches.
“Don’t fret, Mum. It’s not so bad. Though letting him skate in this weather was terribly reckless—”
“Not his mum, and we’re in a hurry. Thanks all the same,” Emily said, guiding him to a bench.
The boy—about fourteen—gave his address. She booked a cab while he called someone.
“Gran, don’t panic! Just took a tumble on my board. Be home soon.”
Emily heard shrill squawking through the receiver.
The cab arrived. Leaning on her, he managed to limp inside. His name was Gregory, and though his clothes were decent—clearly not from a struggling family—why had he called his gran and not his parents?
“Dad’s away on business,” he explained. “Left me with Gran.”
They pulled up to a tidy house where an anxious woman waited. Emily gave a quick rundown and was promptly invited in for tea.
The flat was immaculate. Cradling a hot mug, Emily listened as Gran scolded Gregory for sneaking off with that “bloody skateboard.” They swapped numbers before parting.
“I’ll check in. Call if you need anything,” Emily said.
Nowhere left to go. Work had evaporated before it even began.
“Probably for the best,” she sighed, heading home.
The week crawled by in a blur of job applications—too far, too little pay, too many extra courses required. Nothing fit. By week’s end, she rang Gregory, who beat her to it.
“Em! It’s Greg. Leg’s fine—no worries. Fancy coming to my birthday Saturday?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. Nice kid. Pleasant gran. Why not?
Saturday morning, she picked out a gift—a sturdy, expensive schoolbag—and set off. The address led her to an impressive house: gravel drive, well-tended garden. Gran waved from the porch.
“Emily, love! Come in!”
Greg grinned behind her.
She handed over the gift. Then a man stepped into the hall—tall, unfairly handsome—and extended a hand.
“James Whitmore. The lad’s father.”
Emily’s face burned.
She scanned the room for Greg’s mother, but only Gran hovered nearby. Over cake, James thanked her properly.
“Could’ve been worse. Thank you for not leaving him.”
After cake, James offered her a lift home.
…Funny how life works. They talked all evening. Widowed, raising Greg since he was seven (with Gran’s help, of course). His business demanded long hours, and a teenage boy needed watching.
“Juggling it all’s a nightmare,” he admitted.
Emily shared little—just the lost job, the boss who wouldn’t listen.
A week later, James called with a job offer at his firm.
By Christmas, they were celebrating together—beaming Gran, ecstatic Greg, and Emily with James, just starting their new life, their new family, their shared future with that clever, kind-eyed boy.
