A Twist of Fate by the River
Emily sat on the porch of her parents’ cottage, gazing at the dusty footpath leading down to the river. Her fiery red hair, glinting in the sunlight, seemed like the only splash of colour in their quiet village life. Ever since she was little, she’d been different—covered in freckles, with auburn brows and a slightly upturned nose. The other kids at school had teased her mercilessly, and Emily, gritting her teeth, dreamed of just one thing: escaping this place and starting fresh where no one would point at her like she was some oddity.
Her dad would sometimes ruffle her hair and say, *”They’ll be chasing after you one day, love. You’re a proper beauty.”* But Emily didn’t believe it. At night, she’d cry into her pillow, swearing that once she finished school, she’d leave for good—somewhere she could be happy, confident, maybe even loved.
That spring, after her A-levels, a team of engineers arrived from London to inspect the new bridge. And among them was *him*—Oliver. Not exactly tall, wearing glasses, with a hint of ginger in his hair. Not the kind of man she’d imagined for herself. But when she’d walked into the office where her mum worked, his warm, attentive gaze had locked onto her. Emily hadn’t expected the flush that crept up her cheeks.
Oliver was persistent. After work, he tracked her down and asked if she fancied a walk. She’d hesitated, but eventually said yes. He brought chocolates for her and her mum, chatting about his life back in the city—living with his own mother, who worried he’d never settle down. Emily listened, and for the first time, hope flickered in her chest. Could this be her way out?
When the engineers left, Emily went back to village life—helping her dad in the garden, pushing wheelbarrows of compost, weeding, feeding the chickens and rabbits. Her mum hoped she’d stay, marry a local lad, maybe work at the village shop. But Emily stared at the dusty paths and piles of mulch and thought, *”Is this all there is for me?”*
Then, she remembered Oliver. He’d promised to return. He’d even joked about marriage. She’d laughed then, but now… why *not*? He was kind, genuine, and—oddly enough—had that same reddish tint to his hair. Maybe he’d understand her in ways others couldn’t? Emily quickened her step, catching up to her dad, and smiled for the first time in ages.
Two weeks later, Oliver arrived in his polished-up old Audi, bringing a cake, sweets, and a bottle of whisky for her dad (which her mum promptly tucked away). *”Go on, take a walk by the river. I’ll set the table,”* her mum fussed, clearly sensing what was coming. Her dad shook Oliver’s hand, eyed him sternly, but after a drink or two, softened. He must’ve realized this bloke would be good for his Emily.
Her mother-in-law welcomed her with such warmth it nearly startled her. That beaming, genuine smile melted any lingering doubts. Wandering their flat in Manchester, Emily could hardly believe this was her life now—a *city* girl, married, with a fresh start! Oliver’s mum helped her find work, and Emily signed up for an Open University course. And Oliver? He loved her in ways she hadn’t dared dream of.
On weekends, they’d drive back to the village. Oliver helped her dad despite being hopeless with farm work. Emily and her mum cooked while her parents loaded their car with veg, jams, and fresh eggs. Money was tight—Oliver, though brilliant, never pushed for raises, and Emily’s wages barely stretched.
Two years later, their daughter Lily was born. City life wasn’t a fairy tale, but Oliver gave it his all. He switched to a better-paying job, and when his mum retired, she doted on Lily. Emily finished her degree and got promoted. Sometimes, her boss, Mr. Thompson, called her in for reports. Her mate Sarah once smirked, *”Notice how often he asks for you? Bloke’s loaded—if he fancies you, you’d be daft not to play along. Everyone does it.”*
*”Don’t be disgusting,”* Emily snapped, but doubt crept in. Sarah just giggled, twirling her new diamond studs, and Emily knew exactly where *those* came from. That night, she lay awake, torn. She hadn’t married Oliver for love—just escape. He was good, loyal… but they scraped by. Maybe Sarah was right? For Lily’s sake, for Oliver… wouldn’t a little white lie about a “bonus” fix everything?
Then, she caught herself. She *loved* Oliver—his smile, his clumsy efforts to be better. How could she even *think* of betraying that? A week later, she got the promotion on merit alone. Not long after, Oliver pitched his designs to the firm’s director—and landed a leadership role.
Three years on, their son Henry arrived. Sarah teased, *”Bloody hell, Em, you really pulled out all the stops, eh? Those *meetings* with Mr. T paid off!”* Emily just smiled. She never explained. Mr. Thompson had praised her work—and on his desk, she’d spotted a photo of his wife and *their* redheaded daughter. *”You remind me of her, Emily. Gingers—best workers I’ve got,”* he’d joked. They’d laughed, and Emily thanked fate she hadn’t taken the wrong path.
At their silver anniversary, as guests cheered *”Kiss the bride!”*, Emily looked at Oliver, Lily, and Henry. Her heart was full. She’d do *almost* anything for her family… but some lines, she’d never cross.