After her first failed marriage, Emma swore she’d never trust another man again and had no intention of remarrying. Her first husband, James, had been a heavy drinker before the wedding and carried on just the same afterward—despite all his grand promises.
«Once we’re married, I’ll never touch another drop,» he’d vowed, and naive Emma believed him—even though her mum warned her not to.
«Love, don’t be daft,» her mum had said. «Not one bloke’s ever quit drinking just ’cause he got married. You’ll remember my words, but it’ll be too late by then.»
And sure enough, it was. By the second day of their honeymoon, James could barely remember the night before, and he spent the next week celebrating his wedding in a drunken haze. When he finally sobered up, it was time to go back to work—thankfully, he’d tacked two weeks onto his annual leave.
Emma waited a month, then two, then three, but James kept coming home from the pub after work, never quite sober.
«James, remember what you promised me before we got married?»
«What’d I promise?»
«You said you’d never touch alcohol again,» she reminded him.
«Em, love, you don’t get it—it’s not easy to quit cold turkey. It’s bad for your health! I’ll cut down, bit by bit. I swear I’ll stop,» he’d insist.
Eight months in, Emma’s patience wore thin. She was relieved she hadn’t fallen pregnant—what kind of father would he be? In the end, she filed for divorce.
«It’s over, James,» she said flatly. «Pack your things and leave. This is my flat.» (The two-bedroom had been her nan’s.)
At first, James was too drunk to understand. But when he saw his bags by the door, it finally sank in, and he slunk off to live with his mum.
Emma swore off men for years—just the thought of dating made her shudder. But time passed, and eight years later, she felt ready to open up again. She missed companionship, warmth—someone to care for.
«Emma, come to my birthday party!» her old uni mate Lucy insisted. They’d shared a dorm room years ago, and Emma hadn’t seen her in ages.
«Wouldn’t miss it,» she promised.
Lucy lived in a posh country house with her husband and daughter—life had treated her well. When Emma arrived, she spotted a man she didn’t recognize. Nothing extraordinary—average height, unremarkable looks—but something about him caught her eye.
She sat across from him at dinner, and when their eyes met, he smirked.
«Oliver. Lucy’s brother.»
«Emma,» she replied.
And that smirk? Charming. Disarming. Oliver was the life of the party—cracking jokes, handing out compliments. She noticed him glancing her way, and her stomach fluttered.
*Not exactly handsome, but there’s something about him,* she thought. *And he seems interested too—keeps catching my eye.*
Later, he pulled her into a dance—just an excuse to hold her close—and she didn’t mind one bit. When the night wound down, he offered to walk her home.
«It’s a twenty-minute walk,» she said. «I took a taxi here.»
«Fancy a stroll?»
She agreed, and before she knew it, they were at her door—then inside her flat, then in her bed.
When she woke the next morning, Oliver was still asleep, back turned. Then he stirred, saw her, and they both burst out laughing—easy, effortless.
Soon, they were dating. When Lucy found out, she warned her.
«Ollie’s my brother, but Em… he’s not husband material. Believe me.»
Emma didn’t listen. Love blinded her—until she spotted Oliver with another woman, arms wrapped around her. Instead of confronting him, she lunged at the girl, yanking her hair.
«Stay away from him!»
Oliver played innocent. «Em, love, it’s not what you think! Just a friend!» And somehow, she believed him. Blind as ever.
Not long after, he proposed. She said yes, ignoring every red flag.
Fast-forward—they married, had a son. At first, Oliver doted on them. Then came the midlife crisis: gym obsession, muscle enhancers, endless hours lifting weights. Eventually, he quit his job.
«Ollie, *I’m* the one supporting us now?» Emma asked. He just shrugged and went back to training.
Later, he got another job—but only to finance a new car. Soon, he was out all night, coming home at dawn. One morning, she spotted lipstick on his shirt.
«Really? Couldn’t even wipe it off?»
He just smirked. «You’ve got legs—walk to work if you’re bothered.»
Still, she stayed.
Fifteen years passed. Oliver abandoned the gym, aged badly—lost teeth (maybe from the injections), sagging muscles. He grew bitter, picking fights.
On her birthday, she found him sprawled on the sofa.
«Ollie… not even a ‘happy birthday’?»
He stood, looked at her—then punched her in the face.
She fell. He went back to the sofa. Still, she didn’t leave.
Now, they live like strangers—separate rooms, barely speaking. She works two jobs; he drifts through life.
Sometimes, she thinks back to Lucy’s warning.
*Where were my eyes? Why didn’t I walk away when I had the chance?*
But time doesn’t rewind. A drunk stays a drunk. A cheat stays a cheat. And the man you marry is the man you’re stuck with—no take-backs.
What a shame she realised it too late.