STARING INTO THE ABYSS
Oliver and Emily married as soon as they turned twenty. Their love burned like wildfire—uncontrollable, all-consuming. They couldn’t exist without one another, their hearts beating in sync, bound by an unseen thread. Seeing this fierce passion, their parents wasted no time in making their union official, fearing such intensity might lead to ruin. The wedding was lavish, unforgettable, a fairy-tale affair. The white satin ribbons on the car bonnet, armfuls of roses, fireworks lighting up the night sky, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the endless cheers of “Kiss the bride!”—it all seemed like the start of an everlasting happiness.
Emily’s parents, unfortunately, couldn’t contribute to the celebration. Their modest income vanished into daily necessities and, regrettably, into liquor. The costs fell entirely on Oliver’s mother, Margaret—a strong-willed but kind-hearted woman. Her full name often drew amused smiles, and she’d laughingly insist on being called just Maggie. She’d tried time and again to dissuade Oliver from marrying Emily, whose parents made no secret of their drinking. “Ollie, think carefully, love,” she’d say with concern. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I fear your love might burn out quicker than a matchstick.” But Oliver, blinded by devotion, swore their bond could defy all prejudice—that Emily was his destiny, and no bad blood could ruin their happiness.
The newlyweds stood on the threshold of a new life, brimming with hope. To them, the future promised nothing but joy, laughter, and endless love. The world lay at their feet, ready to be conquered together. But life, the cruel playwright, was already drafting their tragedy.
For their wedding, Maggie and her husband gifted the couple a cosy flat in a quiet northern town. “Live, love, and be happy, my dears,” she toasted. The first years passed smoothly, like something out of a storybook. Emily gave birth to two daughters—Sophie and Alice. Oliver adored his girls, took pride in fatherhood, and their home felt like an unshakable stronghold of warmth.
But before five years had passed, shadows crept in. Emily began disappearing without explanation, returning with the sharp scent of wine Oliver couldn’t ignore. He begged for answers, but she only brushed him off—until one night, defiance hardening her voice, she spat, “I never loved you, Ollie. It was just young foolishness. I’ve found the man I truly need.” She confessed she’d fallen for another—a married man with three children. Oliver was shattered. The world he knew collapsed, his heart encased in ice. The woman he’d given everything for had trampled their past.
Without a backward glance, Emily ran off with her lover to a remote village, nestled between moors and woodlands. “Love in a cottage is paradise enough,” she declared, leaving the girls in Oliver’s care. But grief-stricken, he drowned in loneliness. Maggie, wasting no time, took Sophie and Alice under her wing. She and her husband spoiled them with affection, filling the void their mother had left. The girls grew up loved, yet bitterness festered toward the woman who’d abandoned them.
To numb the pain, Oliver fell under the sway of a friend who drew him into a religious sect. There, he was swiftly remarried to a widow named Beatrice, who had two sons of her own. The union was sanctified by the sect’s laws, and Oliver’s life spiraled into new obligations. Beatrice piled tasks upon him, leaving no room to dwell on the past. When he mentioned his daughters, she’d coldly reply, “They’ve got a mother. Let her step up. You’ve got my boys to look after now.” Broken, he obeyed—yet deep down, he still ached for Emily.
Seven years passed. One day, Maggie opened the door and froze—there stood Emily, worn thin, her eyes hollow, clutching the hand of a little girl. “This is Lily, my daughter,” she murmured. “Can we stay?” Maggie, lips tight, studied her former daughter-in-law. “Life’s not been kind, has it? Another gift from fate?” she remarked acidly. Emily, staring at the floor, confessed that her lover had become a drunkard and brute—that she’d fled his beatings. “Why not go to your parents?” Maggie pressed. Emily only begged to see her girls, knowing her mother-in-law, sharp as she was, wouldn’t turn her away.
The reunion with Sophie and Alice was icy. Now teenagers, they regarded their mother with distrust and hurt. They knew her, but their hearts held no warmth for the woman who’d left them. Maggie often lamented that her granddaughters were “orphans with living parents,” and the pain of it lingered in their eyes. Still, she couldn’t turn Emily and Lily out. She took them in, though her own heart warred with resentment.
But a month later, Emily vanished, abandoning Lily with Maggie. Later, they learned she’d returned to her tormentor, unable to break free. Now Maggie and her husband raised three granddaughters. The house remained full of warmth despite the strain. The girls adored their grandparents, helping where they could, cherishing their care.
Time marched on. Maggie and her husband passed, leaving the girls to fend for themselves. Sophie married, yet her union remained childless—as if fate denied her deepest wish. Alice, never finding love, embraced solitude, facing old age in quiet. Lily, barely seventeen, had a baby by an unknown father and fled to the village to seek her mother’s comfort.
Emily, now alone, watched as her lover’s daughters took him away, blaming her for his illness and ruin. “Stay out of our lives!” they snapped. The village scorned her, branding her a hopeless drunk. Gossip swarmed like wasps, but she no longer cared. Her days blurred into grey stretches of regret.
Oliver, having escaped the sect and Beatrice, returned to his mother’s flat. He lived alone, scraping by on odd jobs, sleeping in a cold bed with only three cats for company. The love that once burned in his heart had turned to ash. Happiness had knocked at their door—his and Emily’s—but they hadn’t answered, leaving it to dissolve into the void of their broken lives.