In the quiet town of Hartfield, nestled among the forests and rivers of the Cotswolds, I lived as Emily Whitmore. Once, I was full of hope, with bright eyes and dreams of a bright future, and people around me whispered about my determination and talent. But my story is no fairy tale of triumph—it’s a grim drama of how a man’s jealousy crushed my life, leaving only charred fragments behind.
In my youth, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. While studying at medical school, I met my future husband—James. We were young, in love, and everything seemed perfect: a wedding while still students, the birth of our daughter, and soon after graduation, our son. Fate appeared to have rolled out a red carpet to happiness. My mother took care of the children, helping me stay in school. I specialised in internal medicine, James pursued another path, and we moved back to his hometown to build our life together.
The children started nursery while James and I worked shifts: he took nights, I took days. Everything ran like clockwork—neither parenting nor marriage suffered. I loved my job, adored helping people, seeing gratitude in their eyes. But one day, everything changed—as if a dark cloud had blotted out the sun above me.
James became a different man. At first, it seemed like teasing: he joked that young men booked appointments just to see the pretty doctor. I laughed it off, but soon his words sharpened like knives. He demanded to know why I stayed late, called me dozens of times a day, distracting me from patients. I pleaded, “James, you’re a doctor too—you know my job means talking to people. I love you and our family, why are you doing this?” But he wouldn’t listen. His jealousy spread like poison ivy, strangling everything in its path.
Then came the outbursts. He stormed into my office during consultations. Once, he caused a scene in front of a nurse, shouting that I wasn’t to examine men without their clothes. I was stunned—how was I meant to listen to a patient’s heart or lungs through a coat? It was madness, but he wouldn’t stop. At home, arguments dragged on till dawn—our daughter wept, our son hid behind his computer, and I burned with shame. Rumours spread through Hartfield like wildfire: “Have you heard how James is tormenting his wife?” People pointed, and I felt the ground give way beneath me.
To save our family and escape the gossip, I begged James to move to London. With our qualifications, the children could attend better schools, and he seemed tired of the stares. To my surprise, he agreed. I thought the anonymity of the city would give us a fresh start—but the nightmare only thickened.
In London, we worked at different hospitals. I hoped the city’s bustle would cool his temper, but James spiralled out of control. He came home in rages, shouted, raised his hand. I hid bruises under long sleeves, made excuses to colleagues. Then he went further—he stormed into my supervisor’s office, demanding my dismissal, calling me incompetent. My boss just shrugged: “Emily, your patients respect you. I won’t interfere in your private life.” But I’d had enough. I filed for divorce.
James dragged it out—hiring lawyers, pressuring judges. When the divorce was final, he hissed in the courtroom: “You’ll never be with another man. I won’t allow it.” Alone, I felt anything but free. I feared men like fire: examining patients, I wondered if they beat their wives. Life narrowed to work and the children. Our daughter grew up, met a foreigner, and moved abroad. I warned her—“You barely know him!”—but she snapped, “Mum, he can’t be worse than Dad.” Our son stayed with me, tried reasoning with James, then gave up.
James, it turned out, was ill. He sought treatment; I saw a therapist to piece myself back together. I wanted to reclaim my confidence, banish the fear. And I did. Then, as if by magic, Victor—my friend’s brother—appeared in my life. He knew my past and wrapped me in kindness, but I still flinched, expecting a blow instead of tenderness, searching his gaze for jealousy instead of love. Patiently, he proved he wasn’t like James. Slowly, carefully, I let myself love again.
But happiness slipped away once more. When I told our son about Victor, he gave an ultimatum: “Him or me. I won’t have a stranger in our home.” Now Victor and I meet in secret, like thieves, and my heart clenches with dread. Our son refused to listen, robbed me of the chance to explain that I’m suffering because of him—my own child, denying me the right to happiness. It’s no choice, but a sentence. As a mother, I’ll choose our son. But it doesn’t ease the pain: my youth, my dreams—all drowned in the shadow of a man’s jealousy, leaving me alone with emptiness.