**A Dream’s Omen: How My Husband Took Our Son Away**
Emily first saw James at the village hall dance. The moment the music started, he strode over to her, and his gaze never left her the entire evening. They walked home together under the stars, and before parting, he asked,
*”May I see you tomorrow? Another walk?”*
*”Yes,”* she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest.
That was the beginning. In a small village, gossip travels fast, and soon the whole parish whispered—*”Those two? A wedding’s coming, mark my words.”* James was a hardworking man, skilled with his hands, and Emily—sweet, gentle, the kind of girl mothers hoped their sons would marry.
And so they did. Six months later, he proposed, and the wedding was the talk of the village. Then came their son, Oliver, and life settled into its rhythm.
But slowly, everything changed.
James was the sort of man neighbours always called on—to fix a fence, mend a roof, offer advice. But few paid him properly. Some offered a loaf of bread, others a bottle of ale, others just a promise of *”next time.”* James never pushed—they were his own, after all. But those evenings with friends became his undoing.
*”You’ve been drinking again,”* Emily would murmur, weary. *”How long will this go on?”*
*”Don’t start,”* he’d grumble. *”I work hard, don’t I?”*
She grew tired. Oliver was growing up, and James stumbled home drunk more often. One night, she finally said, *”If you don’t stop, I’ll leave. This isn’t what I married you for.”*
He swore he’d change. For a week, he was golden. Then came another night at the pub. Another fight. *Another* empty promise. But she stayed—for Oliver, who adored his father. When James was sober, they built birdhouses, walked the fields, laughed together. For *him*, she endured.
Then his body gave out. Years of drink and exhaustion took their toll. He grew weaker. *”We must go to London,”* she pleaded. *”See a doctor. This is serious.”*
*”I’ll rest. It’ll pass,”* he insisted.
By the time he agreed, it was too late. The doctor sighed. *”You should have come sooner. There’s not much we can do.”*
Emily nursed him until the end. Neighbours brought meals, family helped where they could, but every morning, she woke with *one* thought: *”Just let him hold on.”* He didn’t. The village turned out for his funeral.
Then came the dream.
On the fortieth night, she woke to see him standing over her bed, his eyes hollow. *”Are you happier without me?”* he whispered. *”Enjoy it while you can. But I’m taking Oliver… He’ll be with me.”*
She jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, and ran to Oliver’s room. He slept peacefully. Yet something inside her *splintered*. From then on, she never let him out of her sight, checking every step, every breath. She told no one of the dream—hoped it would fade.
Six months later, Oliver was walking home from school. He stepped into the road without looking…
The ambulance arrived quickly. Too late.
Emily didn’t scream. Didn’t weep. She sank to the floor, her body numb, her heart *gone*—as if it had stopped the moment his did. Her boy. Her light. *Gone.*
Then came the funeral. The whole village again. Then—*silence*. The house, once full of laughter, was a stranger now. No husband. No son.
Years passed. Emily rebuilt herself, piece by shattered piece. Fate granted her a second chance—a quiet widower with two daughters. A good man, who never drank. Friendship turned to love, and in time, they had a son of their own. She loved him *fiercely*. But the fear never left.
The dreams never returned. Only sometimes, in the dead of night, she’d wake and whisper, *”Forgive me, Oliver. I couldn’t save you.”*
Now she is a grandmother. Her grandchildren run through the house, their laughter bright as chalk on pavement. She smiles. But her soul? Still *cracked*. Because what the dream took, no second chance could ever mend.
So when people say, *”It’s just a dream—it means nothing,”* Emily stays silent. Inside, she thinks, *”They come. They warn. But not everyone listens.”*
Fate gives its warnings. But not everyone can change the end.