**Diary Entry**
I watched as Emily shut her suitcase, carried it to the hallway, and before putting on her coat to leave, she took one last look around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She walked through the rooms, her gaze lingering on what had once been *her* flat, now just an empty shell of memories. When she reached the kitchen, she leaned against the doorframe and suddenly remembered—clear as day—the first dinner they’d shared at that very table.
That evening, James had brought her home to meet his mother. Emily had been a bundle of nerves, fear, and love for him—*Jimmy*, as she’d called him back then. She’d been terrified his mum wouldn’t like her, desperate for everything to go well. But her fears had been pointless. Margaret—James’s mother—was wonderful. She’d welcomed Emily like family, and even after the wedding, she’d always been kind, patient, especially when Emily struggled.
And at first, Emily *had* struggled. She’d grown up in a children’s home, not by choice. Her parents, both surgeons, had died in a car crash when a drunk lorry driver ploughed into them one night. She was five when it happened, then lived with her gran until she passed away a few years later. After that, the system took her.
She’d tried to fight for her parents’ old flat when she turned eighteen, but it was long gone—sold off, paperwork tangled beyond her reach. That’s when James had stepped in. He’d helped her find a job, a room to rent from an elderly woman, Mrs. Whitmore, and then… he’d fallen for her. They married three months later, moving into his three-bedroom flat with Margaret.
For years, it was perfect.
Then Margaret died. Cancer. Fast and cruel. And James… changed.
He started drinking, coming home late—or not at all. And yesterday, Emily had seen him with another woman. Arms around her, kissing her right outside their building. She’d planned to talk to him that night, but he never came home. So this morning, after a sleepless night, she packed her things.
She might’ve stood there all day, lost in memories, but then the front door slammed open. James stumbled in, reeking of booze, that woman—*Vicky*—right beside him.
*»What’re you staring at?»* he slurred. *»Pack your crap and get out. Vicky’s giving me a son—unlike you, useless cow.»*
Emily’s chest tightened so hard she could barely breathe. But she clenched her fists, shoved the pain down, and whispered, *»Don’t worry. I’m already leaving.»*
She walked out, numb, dragging her suitcase behind her. No plan, nowhere to go—until she remembered Mrs. Whitmore. Maybe she was still there?
The old woman *was* there, sitting on the bench outside the building. *»Emily? Love, what’s happened?»*
The second Mrs. Whitmore spoke, Emily shattered. Sobs wracked her as the older woman pulled her inside, made tea, and listened to the whole story.
*»Right,»* Mrs. Whitmore said firmly. *»We’re going to see someone.»*
A short bus ride later, they stood in front of an old brick house. A woman named Martha opened the door before they even knocked. *»Come in. I’ve been expecting you.»*
Martha took Emily’s hands, closed her eyes—and the room *shifted*. Shadows curled at the edges, the air thickened. Emily wanted to run, but she was frozen. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
*»You’ve been cursed, girl,»* Martha said. *»A hex. That woman doesn’t want your husband—she wants your home. And if you’d left, James would’ve been dead within a year.»*
She gave Emily instructions: find the hex hidden in their flat—*»You’ll know it when you see it»*—then bring it back.
Emily did. A dried bundle of herbs and feathers tucked under their mattress.
Martha handed her two vials. *»One goes in his food for three days. The other, in his bath tonight. By morning, he’ll be himself again.»*
Emily followed every word. Three days later, James blinked awake like he’d been sleepwalking. He apologised, begged forgiveness, swore he’d never—
*»Just love me,»* Emily whispered. *»That’s all I need.»*
A year later, she held their twins in her arms—a boy and a girl. Against every doctor’s prediction, against every odd, they’d made a family.
And no one—*no one*—would ever take that from them again.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a fight. And sometimes, you need to fight for it.