PROTECTED BY LOVE
The meeting of Emily and James was written in the stars.
James had never seen his father. Raised by his mother and grandmother, he often asked about his dad as a child. His mother would mutter vague excuses—his father was a geologist, always off exploring for precious minerals. Once, in frustration, she snapped, “You never had a father, James!”
As a boy, he accepted these explanations without question, trusting his mother completely. But as he grew older, he demanded answers. After all, he couldn’t have appeared out of thin air! Eventually, his grandmother confided the truth—his mother had gone away on a business trip and returned pregnant.
James was relieved to solve the mystery. At least he hadn’t been found under a cabbage! He vowed to meet his father one day, whether the man wanted it or not. “I’m his son, not some stranger!” He also made another promise to himself: “I’ll have a real family—one wife, lots of children.”
Emily, too, had grown up without a father’s love. Her parents split before she turned two, and her stepfather took his place. A decent man, but still… He never missed a chance to compare her to his own children from his first marriage. It grated on her. So, Emily clung to her mother’s affection.
When she grew up, she made her own vow: “If I ever marry, it’ll be once and forever. If only I could find the right man.”
And she did.
It was Christmas Eve—a freezing January evening. A bookshop. Emily and James stood in line at the till, each holding a copy of Shakespeare. Their eyes met.
James seized the moment, showering her with compliments and polite questions. He couldn’t let her walk away. She had to be his wife. This girl—right here.
Emily didn’t play hard to get. Being with this energetic young man felt natural, as if she’d known him forever. Still, she came from a proper family—a well-bred girl didn’t just give her number to anyone. James admired her restraint and suggested swapping contacts. She took his but didn’t offer hers. “I’ll call after the holidays,” she said vaguely.
James wasn’t about to let this heaven-sent gift slip away. They parted ways, but he discreetly followed her and learned where she lived.
All through Christmas, he floated on air. He’d found his true love.
But the holidays passed with no call. James panicked and took action.
He slipped his newly bought Shakespeare into her letterbox. Surely, she’d guess who it was from? Emily called that same evening, indignant.
“James! Why didn’t you call? I waited!”
“Emily, I didn’t have your number. You never gave it to me in the shop, remember?” James beamed with joy.
“But you found me anyway!” she protested.
Typical female logic, he thought, thrilled that she cared.
They married quickly—no point in waiting. They had so much in common: a love like no other, dreams of a big family, and a shared passion for Shakespeare. What more did they need?
Emily taught literature at university; James was a brilliant software engineer.
In time, their daughter Charlotte arrived. Two years later, little William was born. Life was perfect.
James never stopped searching for his father. The internet helped—among dozens of names, one stood out. His father, a professor of medicine, lived in London. They met. It was emotional.
“I’m glad you found me, son. We’ll stay in touch,” his father said, embracing him.
James proudly listed his family. “You’re a grandfather twice over—and counting!”
He returned home overjoyed. His father was kind, genuine. But life kept them apart, and slowly, contact faded.
Charlotte and William grew. Emily decided to pursue her PhD—her mother and grandmother had both been scholars. She wasn’t about to fall behind.
Her chosen topic? Shakespeare. She spent years researching, writing, while James supported her every step. Just as she neared completion, their third child, Margaret, was born.
The dissertation had to wait.
Once Margaret started nursery, Emily resumed her studies. The degree was almost hers…
Then disaster struck. James fell ill. Doctors were baffled—something life-threatening, they said. Emily silently wept, knowing she carried another child.
“James, you *have* to get better. You can’t leave me alone with the children!” she begged.
His father rushed from London. After examining James, he pulled Emily aside.
“Modern medicine won’t help. But I know a herbalist—he saved me once.”
Desperate, she visited the old man. He glanced at James’s notes and handed her greenish potions.
“Bring him here in ten days. He *will* walk in.”
Emily nearly scoffed. But she had no other hope.
Ten days later, James stood at the herbalist’s door. A month later, he returned to work.
A miracle? Perhaps. The herbalist never named the illness, only advising, “Forgive everyone. Envy no one.”
Soon, their son Henry was born.
Charlotte, William, Margaret, Henry—names fit for Shakespeare’s time.
Emily and James cherished their love fiercely. They knew happiness was fragile, grief relentless.
As for the unfinished PhD? Emily let it go.
Family was her life’s true work.
