In a small flat on the outskirts of Manchester, where the air smelled of freshly baked shepherd’s pie and old books, Emma sat at the kitchen table, tears streaming down her face. Her world was crumbling: her only friend, Rebecca, was divorcing her husband, James. For Emma, who’d never had a family of her own, they were like kin. Their breakup tore at her heart like a crack in an antique mirror, reflecting her loneliness back at her.
Rebecca and James stayed tight-lipped about the reasons. *”It’s personal,”* they’d say, and Emma would nod—*”Of course, none of my business.”* But inside, she couldn’t settle. Who was to blame? There’s no smoke without fire, after all. Dark thoughts swirled in her head. She felt ashamed for doubting them—Rebecca and James had been her anchors, her dearest friends. Had someone poisoned their love? Or had suspicion done its damage? Emma would’ve moved mountains to help, but how could she if they wouldn’t talk? The knot in her chest only grew tighter.
Rebecca’s divorce turned Emma’s life upside down. Before, they’d often escape to Rebecca’s cottage in the Cotswolds—planting flowers, tending the veg patch, laughing till their sides ached. Now, the cottage stood empty, just like Emma’s heart. Rebecca had been like a sister to her. Growing up, while Emma lived in a spacious house with her parents, Rebecca—from a crowded council flat—used to sneak over to breathe. Emma had everything: her own room, parents who were pillars of the community—her mum, a painter; her dad, a maths professor—their cherry-red Jaguar, their two-storey country home. To Rebecca, it was another world. One she quietly envied.
At the cottage, with its creaky wooden stairs and carved banisters, the air smelled of beeswax polish and old paperbacks. Her mum’s paintings hung on the walls, and her dad loved pointing out constellations. James, when he visited, would tinker in the shed with Emma’s dad’s tools, fixing things, sometimes even starting up the old Jag. Its leather seats and walnut dashboard still held the warmth of her father’s hands. He’d have been glad to see his tools and car brought back to life under James’s care, even if James wasn’t family—just a bloke who knew his way around an engine. But now the shed was locked with a rusted padlock, and the Jag gathered dust.
Emma had always known she wasn’t pretty, never the graceful type—marriage wasn’t in the cards for her. Her parents once tried setting her up with a friend’s son, but nothing came of it. After the divorce, Rebecca vanished—no calls, no texts. Emma, aching with loneliness, didn’t know how to carry on. Then, out of the blue, James rang: *”Em… can I come over? We need to talk.”*
He arrived on a crisp autumn Saturday. Out of habit, Emma made his favourite: steak and ale pie with a proper flaky crust, and roasted potatoes—comfort food. James climbed the cottage’s worn-out steps, the place that once felt grand now as tired as Emma herself. He stared at the peeling paint for a long moment before speaking.
Rebecca and James had been together fifteen years. When they married, she’d seemed fragile to him—a girl life had cheated. She’d told him stories of being forced to raise her younger siblings, of feeling like an outsider in her own home. James had pitied her, spoiled her with gifts. When Rebecca got pregnant, he was over the moon—but she, blaming morning sickness, never smiled. She was hospitalised, then later, eyes downcast, said she’d lost the baby. Doctors said it wasn’t viable. James held her, and she whispered, *”Later… there’ll be other chances.”* But *later* never came.
Over time, James noticed how Rebecca mocked Emma. Called her *”that hopeless spinster,”* sneered at the cottage, the old Jag, the books and paintings Emma treasured. At first, James played along—Emma *was* quirky, like she’d stepped out of another era. But when Rebecca snapped, *”No wonder no one wants you—too wrapped up in your little fantasies,”* something in him twisted. He defended Emma, and Rebecca exploded: *”You’re just like her! I thought you had ambition, but you threw it away! I won’t go back to scraping by—not after my childhood! But you, with your precious morals, couldn’t stomach a little corner-cutting, could you? Walked away from a promotion like a coward!”*
James listened, his heart freezing over. This wasn’t the Rebecca he’d loved. How do you move on from that? But he kept it from Emma. She shouldn’t know Rebecca had spent years resenting her—or that now, with nothing left to envy, Rebecca had turned cruel.
While Emma set the table, James chopped firewood—the nights were getting cold. They ate, making small talk, but something new hummed in the air between them. Soon after, Rebecca married her former boss and vanished from Emma’s life completely. James started visiting more often. He helped with odd jobs, brought little gifts—a basket of blackberries, wildflowers picked from the meadow. They walked by the river, talking about everything, and Emma felt her heart slowly stitching back together.
It felt strange, almost wrong. James—her best friend’s ex. But he’d become closer to her than anyone. To her own disbelief, Emma fell in love. Guilt gnawed at her—was she stealing someone else’s happiness? Worse, she couldn’t believe anyone would ever love her back. It just… didn’t seem possible.
They married in winter, during a snowstorm. They drove to the cottage, lit the fire, and—cheeks flushed from more than just the heat—whispered about love. By autumn, they had a daughter. They named her Elizabeth, after Emma’s mum. Sometimes, Emma thought she was dreaming. At thirty-eight, she was loved. *Really* loved. The house woke up with baby cries and the sound of James’s hammer—fixing the porch, the fence, piece by piece rebuilding the heart loneliness had cracked. Emma bloomed, though sometimes she still feared waking up to find it all gone.