Martin adopted my son! It must be my guardian angel watching over me!
My name is Emily Whitaker, and I live in the quiet town of Stratford-upon-Avon, where the River Avon flows gently through the countryside of Warwickshire. Years ago, my life hung by a thread, and only a miracle—or perhaps a kind angel—saved me from the abyss. One man, Martin, turned everything I knew upside down, giving me happiness I never dared dream of. This is the story of how I nearly lost myself but found a family instead.
Back then, I was young, reckless, and full of ambition. I worked as a manager at a restaurant—pretty, divorced, with my little boy Oliver and a stubborn confidence I could twist fate however I pleased. I had a foreign boyfriend, Martin, a Dutchman with warm eyes. My girlfriends were green with envy—he drove me around in his sleek car, showered me with gifts, treated me to trips across the country. I revelled in their admiration and his attention, feeling like a queen.
That evening started like any other. Martin sat at his usual corner table in the restaurant, eating a steak with vegetables, sipping mineral water. At the other end of the table lay my cigarettes, lighter, and a half-empty glass of whisky. It had been a tough day—gossip and petty squabbles among the staff had left me seething. Every few minutes, I’d dart over to Martin, gulp down my drink, and vent in loud tirades. When the whisky ran out, I rushed to the bar for another. I’d been drinking too often for too long, hardly noticing how it had become part of me.
By the end of my shift, I collapsed into a chair, trying to eat, but the food wouldn’t go down. I chain-smoked, rambling nonstop, while Martin watched me—calm, with a faint smile. Suddenly, he reached out, took my hands in his, and said firmly but gently, “You need to leave this place. You’re destroying yourself. In a month, I’m going back to Holland, and I doubt I’ll return. I want to marry you—but on one condition…” He paused, lowering his gaze. My blood ran cold—I thought he’d say Oliver was a burden, that he wouldn’t take him with us. Rage boiled inside me; I braced to unleash everything I thought about men who abandon women with children.
But he continued, “I’ll marry you if you quit drinking and smoking. The women in my family don’t do that, and I don’t like it.” I froze as if struck by lightning. Tears welled—not from hurt, but from happiness. I couldn’t speak. Cigarettes? Easy! But alcohol… I’d never thought of myself as a drunk. I told myself it was part of the job, that I had it under control. Martin gave me a few days to think. That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. I remembered how he’d driven me home tipsy, how he’d unlocked the door when I swayed on my feet. Shame wracked me. He was decent, pure-hearted, a little old-fashioned in his views on love and family. What did he see in me—a woman reeking of cigarettes and whisky, reckless and lost?
I didn’t have the answer, but I felt it: he was my chance, my light at the end of the tunnel. And on the day he asked, I said, “Yes.” That choice changed everything. Today, I’m a happy wife, mother, and grandmother to two beautiful granddaughters. Oliver grew up with us—Martin adopted him, gave him his surname, his love. We live in a spacious house with a garden where two dogs and three cats race about. Martin is still the same—gentle, attentive, making me feel cherished every day.
Sometimes my mind drifts back to that night. I see his face—serious, kind, full of hope. And I whisper to myself, “Some guardian angel was surely looking out for me.” What if I hadn’t let him finish? What if I’d lashed out, shouted, sent him away? My heart aches at the thought. I could’ve stayed there—in that restaurant, surrounded by empty glasses and ashtrays, alone with my son and no future. But fate took pity. Martin pulled me from that quagmire, and I’ve no regrets. He didn’t just save me—he gave me a family, a home, a life I was too afraid to hope for. And I thank the heavens for that night, for his words, for his hand that kept me from the edge.