THE HEART BEATS AGAIN
Emma had her Lily without knowing who the father was. A slip before marriage, as they say.
There was, of course, a young man courting her—though he never mentioned wedding bells. Still, he was dazzlingly handsome, terribly charming, and Emma would loop her arm through his and stride past the sunflower-like pensioners perched on benches by the flats, their heads turning slowly, tracking the couple like old, worn weathervanes.
The young man never held a job, preferring instead to flit through life like a mayfly. Emma fed him, housed him, tucked him into bed beside her. She would have laid herself out like a Persian rug beneath his feet if he’d asked.
Then one fine day, he declared her dreadfully dull—claimed she didn’t cherish him enough, didn’t spoil him properly. Really, if she loved him, she might’ve taken him to the seaside just once…
Emma wept for a week. Then she tore up his photographs and burned them. A month of solitude, of aching, until she met Victor.
One morning, running late for work, Emma stood fuming at the bus stop when a cab pulled up. The driver flung the door open, offered her a ride. Without thinking, she leapt in.
He struck up conversation—polite, refined, neatly shaven, sharp as a pin. His cab smelled of polish and freshly pressed cotton. There was something tender in his manner, something that spoke of care—Emma decided it was his mother’s hand guiding him.
Victor (so he introduced himself) was nothing like the first. She gave him her number without hesitation. It was the only time she ever rode for free.
They began seeing each other. Flowers, gifts, tender words—Emma basked in it.
One spring afternoon, they walked through the woods. Lighthearted, giddy, she picked snowdrops. Victor joined in, gathering his own bouquet. Hers went into her lap; his, carefully placed on the back seat.
Emma’s stomach dropped. *A wife.* She didn’t ask. Better the sweet lie than the bitter truth.
But soon Victor’s wife arrived at her door with two small children in tow. *”Here you are, darling—raise them! They adore their daddy!”*
Emma stammered, *”I didn’t know. I won’t break your family. No nests under another’s eaves.”*
That evening, she ended it.
The next was Mamuka—a whirlwind Georgian who swept into her life and vanished just as quickly. They met at a friend’s birthday. He was fire, charm, endless plans. No time for sorrow with him.
For a year, he carried her like a treasure. Then he left for Georgia—homesick, or his mother called, or the English weather didn’t suit him.
Emma felt discarded. *”Enough tears. I’ll live alone.”*
Then she learned she was pregnant.
A daughter. Veronica. Lily took after Mamuka—dark curls, laughing eyes—and somehow, that comforted Emma.
Of course, there were nights she howled into her pillow, envying married friends. But raising Lily left no time for weeping.
On Lily’s first day of school, she was seated beside Daniel. He called her *”curly-headed nitwit.”* They loathed each other. Fought in the halls.
Emma marched to the address the teacher gave her.
The door opened to a man wiping his hands on a tea towel. *”You here for me? Come in—I’ll fix you coffee. Just need to feed my little terror first.”*
The flat was a bachelor’s den—dust, scattered socks, the stale tang of tobacco.
*”Right then,”* Emma thought.
He returned with two steaming cups. (That aroma would stay with her forever.)
*”What brings you here?”*
*”I’m Lily’s mother.”*
*”Ah. My Danny’s smitten with your girl.”*
*”And that’s why she’s scratched up?”*
*”Sorry?”* Genuine confusion.
*”Just—speak to your son. Thank you for the coffee.”*
She left, but couldn’t sleep. There was something about him—solid, warm. Not a prince, but real.
At the next parents’ evening, she confirmed it: no mother.
He walked her home afterward—*”Alex.”*
*”Emma.”*
He invited her for New Year’s. After seven years alone, she said yes.
Later, Alex confessed: his wife had left him for his best mate. He kept Danny. Never realized how much he’d miss a woman’s touch, how much his boy needed a mother.
Emma and Lily moved in. The children grunted approval.
Years passed. Alex adored Lily; Emma cherished Danny.
Then they married—Lily and Danny.
Alex and Emma went to the seaside, finally alone. A week of sun, of flowers, of Alex whispering love like a prayer.
On their last morning, he kissed her, murmured *”I love you, Em,”* and waded into the water.
He never came back.
No body. No grave.
Emma raged, then hollowed. Hated the sea. Hated breathing.
Yet time, cruel and kind, dulled the edge.
Now she walks through autumn parks with her grandchildren—Katie and Max. They stop for ice cream; she has coffee. That same coffee.
The smell wraps around her, and for a moment—just a moment—Alex is there.
She thanks fate for him. For twenty-five years.
Life ends. Love doesn’t.
