The weight of guilt wouldn’t let go.
Emily’s life had split into before and after. She was a bright Year 11 student, excelling in her studies, but home was far from peaceful. Her mother, Margaret, was the reason for their strained life. She constantly nagged her husband, James, demanding more, while doting on Emily with pity.
James worked tirelessly, yet nothing was ever enough for Margaret.
“Our furniture is ancient—we need to replace it. The Thompsons next door have redecorated, and we should too,” she’d snap. Emily couldn’t understand why they had to keep up with the neighbours.
“This furniture is fine,” James would argue. “Emily’s nearly grown—she’ll need money soon, whether for uni or her own life.”
“And the car! We’re still driving that old thing. My sister and her husband just bought a brand-new Audi,” Margaret would retort, her voice sharp with entitlement.
Money was all Margaret cared about. She’d rage at James, calling him a failure, never sparing him a shred of kindness. Emily’s heart ached for her father—strong on the outside, yet broken within.
That evening, another row erupted—or rather, another one-sided tirade.
“I should’ve married Simon back then. I’d be living in luxury now. But no, I chose you, a deadbeat!” Margaret shrieked. Emily slammed her bedroom door, trying to block it out. “You’ll always be a loser. I’m done counting pennies—I’ll file for divorce tomorrow!”
“If you divorce Dad, I’m staying with him,” Emily burst out, storming into the hallway. “You can live alone.”
“You ungrateful little—” Margaret slapped her across the face.
It was the first time she’d ever hit her daughter. Emily clutched her cheek, tears welling, then grabbed her schoolbag and ran. Dusk had fallen, and in her frantic state, she barely saw the car before it struck her.
—
Daniel had spent the day fighting with his wife, Victoria. Married five years, they had no children—she never wanted them, always claiming, “It’s not the right time.” But for the past two years, their arguments had grown bitter. Victoria only took, never gave.
She couldn’t love. Couldn’t care. Refused to cook, feeding him ready meals from the corner shop instead. When he complained, she’d sneer,
“Instead of nagging, why don’t you take me to a restaurant?”
“I’m not a millionaire, just a site foreman. You don’t work—we live on my wages. Get a job if you want fancy dinners.”
“Dream on! You’re the husband—you’re supposed to provide!”
That night, he came home to no dinner. Victoria had spent the day gossiping on the phone—she had no real friends, just acquaintances. She kept people at arm’s length, afraid they’d outshine her.
“Nothing to eat again?” Daniel sighed.
“No. I’m not your personal chef.”
“Fine. I’ll stay at my parents’. And I’m filing for divorce.”
She laughed, hurling insults until he stormed out. Hungry, furious, he sped down the unlit road—no traffic lights, no crossings. Then, out of nowhere, a girl darted in front of him. He braked hard, but the impact still sent her flying.
“What have I done?” he thought, rushing her to the hospital.
The court ruled it an accident—she’d run into the road, the street was dark, and he’d cooperated fully. But her mother, Margaret, screamed for maximum punishment. Emily had spinal injuries. Daniel got prison time.
Victoria wasted no time divorcing him, emptying their flat. Only his grandmother’s flat, left to him, remained untouched.
Prison gave him time to reflect.
“I should’ve left Victoria sooner. My parents warned me—she was a leech, draining me dry. At least she’s gone now. I’ll start fresh.”
But guilt clung to him. People told him it wasn’t his fault—Emily had run out, he’d paid his dues—yet he couldn’t shake it.
Released in spring, he returned to an empty flat. Jobless, he called his old boss on a whim.
“Dan! Come back—we know it wasn’t your fault.”
Work helped, but nights were long. If only he hadn’t sped that night.
“If I’d left Victoria earlier, none of this would’ve happened.”
Weekends with his parents offered distraction, but guilt always followed him home.
One day, curiosity led him to search for Emily online. He expected a girl—she’d been sixteen—but found a young woman. Time had moved on without him. She stood in photos, smiling, leaning on a cane.
He wrote her, not expecting a reply. But she answered. They talked, and when he asked how she could bear speaking to him, she said,
“I pity you.”
“Why? You should hate me.”
“My spine healed, just my leg was broken. You lost years. And honestly? My mother’s glad I’m disabled. She still milks Dad for money—they’re divorced now. She’d have done the same to you if she could.”
Their friendship deepened. Then Daniel realised—he loved her.
One day, he said, “Emily, we can’t hide forever. Tell your mother.”
She called, but Margaret’s screams filled the line.
“Stay away from my daughter! You ruined her life!”
The call ended. Days passed with no word. Then Margaret called—Emily was in hospital. She’d tried to take her own life.
Daniel rushed there. Outside her room, Margaret and a man—Emily’s father—waited. The man stood.
“Daniel… I can’t say I’m happy to see you. But Emily’s happiness means everything. She says she loves you.”
The doctor emerged. “She’s stable. One visitor—five minutes.”
Margaret moved to enter, but Emily’s father stopped her, nodding at Daniel.
Inside, Emily smiled weakly.
“I waited for you. Don’t leave again.”
—
Now, Daniel and Emily live together, raising their young son. Both sets of parents keep their distance, watching their happiness from afar. The guilt has finally lifted.
