Life had always been against me—until now. Now, I feel alive, real, *strong*.
For years, I was trapped in an endless cycle of misfortune. I kept waiting for my luck to turn, for fate to finally smile at me. But no—she turned her back, tossing one cruel twist after another my way.
When I was six, my nan sent me to the corner shop for a bottle of fizzy pop. Proud and serious, clutching that glass bottle like a sacred treasure, I marched down the pavement—only to trip and smash it to pieces. I came home sticky, drenched in sugary shame, my eyes swimming with tears.
Then there was the summer at the seaside in Brighton. Mum had bought me and my sister these gorgeous dresses—flowy, bright, like something out of a dream. I insisted on carrying the bag myself, swelled with pride at being trusted. We stopped at a café to celebrate, laughing over ice cream. Of course, I forgot the bag under the table. Left it there like a right clutz. By the time I remembered, it was gone.
Want more? The heartbreaks of my teenage years? I won’t even go there—still too raw, the memory of each shattered piece of my heart.
University was worse. I helped my *best friend* cheat on an exam, whispering answers like a fool. *I* got caught. *She* passed, graduated, even landed a decent job—thanks to me, of course, since I’d spent nights coaching her.
Years later, fate twisted the knife. I was working at an airline, checking tickets behind a desk. And who waltzes up? Her. My *friend*. Some mess with her documents. Naturally, I fixed it—went above and beyond. And what thanks did I get? Fined. Violated some rule I didn’t even know existed.
That was my life—one long trail of stumbles and sucker punches. Then I met *him*. Daniel. Thought I’d finally struck gold. We married, moved into a flat *I* mortgaged. Cosy evenings, dreams of the future. I worked two jobs, scraping every penny for the payments, while he—so I thought—had my back.
Then I came home one night, exhausted, to find *her* in *my* bed. Daniel was gone. And *she*—had the audacity to scream at *me*, to tell *me* to leave!
The divorce was brutal. Daniel hired some slick solicitor, spun it so the flat was *his*. All those payments? He’d just been transferring *my* money from *my* account—easy, since he worked at the bank. I was left with *nothing*.
I begged my boss at the travel agency for help. He booked me a cheap hotel room. Relief, finally—until they accused me of stealing some expensive trinket. Kicked me out. Fired me. I packed my bags and fled to my mum’s village.
Mum lived with a man named Arthur by then—calm, wise, with eyes that saw too much. I poured out my sorrows, and he listened. Then one day, he said:
*“Luck won’t come knocking, love. You’ve got to chase it. It tests you—sees if you’re worth it.”*
He sent me to work for his cousin—a bloke who ran a judo dojo in the next town. I started as a secretary, but every night, I watched. Then I tried. Clumsy at first, but slowly, something inside me shifted. A year later, I was a different woman. Two more, and I walked away, ready.
Misfortune didn’t vanish. But now, I saw the light too.
Revenge? No. Judo taught me to use an opponent’s force against them. And when I saw Daniel again—years later, at a party with *her*, that woman—I didn’t need vengeance. Until he grabbed her hair. Until he hit her.
I moved without thinking. One twist, one throw—he was on the floor. The room *roared*. I wasn’t a hero. But for the first time, I wasn’t a victim.
Now? I’ve rebuilt. A home. A family. The girl they called “Jinxed Jenny” is gone.
Some say I should write a book. Why? All I’d say is this: *“Two years in that dojo changed everything.”*
And that’s enough.
