“Yes, that’s just how I am,” he’d say. There were other women, but he had no intention of leaving his family.
All her friends told Emily she was mad. And she… well, she knew it herself. But even with that knowledge, she couldn’t change a thing. Her feelings for her husband had faded long ago—slipped away unnoticed between laundry, dinners, sleepless nights, and endless work. Once, she’d raced home on wings of love; now, she trudged through the door out of habit—exhausted, worn down, her eyes empty. At forty, Emily looked fifty, and that wasn’t an exaggeration—just the hard truth.
The only one who truly pitied her was… her mother-in-law. Evelyn Carter. A woman with a sharp tongue but an enormous heart. She’d moved in with Emily and her son after coming up from a little market town in Yorkshire for medical treatment unavailable back home. They’d given her the spare room, and she’d taken charge of seven-year-old Lily, too young to be left alone while Emily worked from dawn till dusk.
Her husband… Oh, James. He behaved as if some midlife devil had taken up residence in his skull. He came home late—or more accurately, early—reeking of sweet perfume, which he brushed off as “a new cologne,” though the whole building knew he had someone else. Or rather, several someones.
He got names mixed up. Called Emily “Sophie” one day, “Megan” the next, then “Hannah”—always with that smug little squint, as if to say, *So what if you caught me? What now?* He didn’t even bother hiding. He seemed proud of it. *”Yes, that’s just how I am,”* his eyes taunted.
It might have gone on forever if, one night at three, the phone in the hallway hadn’t shrieked like a banshee. His latest fling was demanding to know where her *”puppy”* was—why wasn’t he answering? Emily was stunned—not by the call, but by how easily this woman had slithered into her home, her night, her life.
When James slunk in at sunrise, hungover and sheepish, Emily snapped. His clothes flew into the hallway with such fury that even the cat bolted under the sofa. He stammered excuses—
*”Fine, there’s another woman. But I’m not leaving! We’ve got kids. Mum’s ill. We’re family!”*
But Evelyn stepped out of the bedroom and did something she hadn’t done in years—raised her voice.
*”If you want to be with someone else, go. Just stay gone. I’ll find somewhere to stay. My treatment’s nearly done. And your son’s got exams. Enough sofa-surfing. We all deserve better.”*
Emily tried to protest—this was *her* house, *her* call—but Evelyn cut her off.
*”I won’t interfere, but while I live here, I won’t let this flat turn into a brothel. Tell him to pack his things. I’ll stay till the weekend, find a room. After that—it’s up to you.”*
Under his eldest son’s glare, James muttered and stuffed shirts into a duffel bag. It was awkward. Humiliating. But deserved.
After he left, Emily realized something: for the first time in years, the house was quiet. Truly quiet. No shouting, no midnight calls, no demands for food. Evelyn visited weekly, bringing scones for Lily and updates. And Emily? She noticed she could breathe again. Even her reflection seemed different.
Then, two months later—just as Evelyn’s treatment ended and she prepared to leave—James reappeared on the doorstep. Flowers in hand. Guilt on his face. Words that turned Emily’s heart to ice:
*”Forgive me. She kicked me out. I’ve realized everything. Give me another chance. Let’s start over?”*
Evelyn, already in her coat, suitcase in hand, looked at her daughter-in-law.
*”Your choice. I won’t interfere. But it’s time you thought about who *you* pity—and who *you* are.”*
Then she took the children’s hands and disappeared into the kitchen.
Emily stood in the hall, staring at the man who’d betrayed her—not once, but countless times. The man who’d been her family. Now just a guest. And the decision, for once, wasn’t his.
It was hers.
