From pain was born love: I thank God for sending me Simon!
My name is Emily Carter, and I live in the quiet town of Bakewell, nestled in the heart of Derbyshire along the River Wye. Since childhood, I’ve been utterly enchanted by children—even as a little girl, I’d spend hours watching toddlers play in the park, dreaming of the day I’d have one of my own. By twenty-five, that dream felt almost tangible. I’d pause in the park, watching children laugh, stumble, and pick themselves up again, my heart aching with longing to be a mother.
Daniel was my first real love. We made plans, talked of marriage, and when I discovered I was pregnant, joy washed over me like a rising tide. I could already picture our family, our home, our little one. But for him, the news was a shock. He paled, withdrew, and then simply packed his things and walked out of the flat we shared. I was left alone—abandoned, with a child growing inside me and not a single word of goodbye. I never saw him again. At night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Thoughts swarmed like wasps: abortion, adoption, raising the child alone. The first two options I dismissed outright—they would have been a betrayal of myself. The third terrified me: I knew I’d face my parents’ disapproval, their endless criticism, but I was ready to fight.
They say the morning brings wisdom, and that day, it brought me hope. Walking to work with a heavy heart, I bumped into Simon at the doorstep. He was my neighbour—tall, kind, and a man who’d made no secret of his fondness for me. I’d caught his lingering glances, seen him rush to help with shopping bags when I returned from the store. Usually, I’d pass him with a quick «hello,» but that morning, I stopped. We talked. He asked about Daniel, and without knowing why, I poured everything out—the pain, the fear, the loneliness. That evening, he waited by the door with a red rose in hand, and a month later, we married. I hadn’t wanted a wedding—it felt hypocritical—but Simon insisted. «Trust me,» he said. «Everything will be alright.»
My husband was pure gold—gentle, clever, caring, with a heart as open as the sky. But I didn’t love him. When our daughter, Lily, was born, he worked miracles: in four days, he transformed our house into a wonderland, fixing everything with his own hands, crafting her room into something straight from a fairy tale. Friends helped, and I saw him glowing with pride. Something stirred in me, warmth spreading through my chest—but the spark, that magic, still wasn’t there. Simon fought for my heart, never giving up, wrapping me in care, but I remained as cold as stone.
Then fate struck again. Our son was born—frail, sickly, with a grim diagnosis. The doctors looked at us with pity. «It’s kinder to let him go,» they said. I met Simon’s eyes and saw the same horror tearing at his soul. We refused, clinging to each other like lifelines. But a week later, our little boy was gone. That night, we wept together—he held me, whispering that perhaps our son had gone where there was no more pain. That loss shattered us but bound us tighter than I’d ever imagined. For the first time, I felt it—love. Not just respect, not just gratitude, but love, deep and true. From pain, like rising from ashes, love was born.
Then, as if by miracle, our boys arrived—two boisterous, bright whirlwinds. Now our home brims with laughter, warmth, and life. I’m mad about Simon, the father of my children, my saviour. He walked into my life as I was falling into darkness and pulled me into the light. I believe God sent him so we could weather the tears together and one day cradle our grandchildren. Every morning, I look at him and think: thank you for being here. Thank you for never giving up. From our grief grew happiness—real, unshakable, solid as rock. And I know: with him, I’ll walk this path to the very end.