Friday, 12th November
“Right then, I’m off… Emily.”
“Go on.”
“I’m leaving, Emily, you hear?”
“Go on then, Oliver, go.”
Only once the door slammed shut behind Oliver did Emily let the tears fall. She sat curled up in her grandmother’s old armchair, weeping silently like she used to as a child—quiet enough that no one would hear. She cried until she started hiccuping, just a little girl again.
How could she go on without Oliver? Without the man who’d shared her life all these years?
Emily stood to make supper, then stopped. What was the point? Oliver wasn’t coming home. She collapsed back into the chair, the tears coming harder now.
Then she remembered the children. Charlotte would be back soon from university lectures, hungry as always. Later, James would return from football practice. They’d need feeding. She forced herself up, wiped her face, and walked to the kitchen.
Memories of Oliver brought fresh sobs. How could she live without him?
That evening, the children tumbled through the door as usual, nudging and teasing each other. Then they noticed their father’s absence.
“Mum, where’s Dad? Away on business?” asked Charlotte.
“Yeah, where is he?” James chimed in.
Emily broke. Sinking onto a chair, she wept openly.
“Mum, what’s wrong? Is he in hospital?” Charlotte’s voice wavered.
“No,” Emily managed. “He’s gone. For good. Another woman.”
“What?” they exclaimed in unison. “Mum, you’re joking!”
But it wasn’t a joke.
James’ lip trembled. He was only thirteen, still a boy despite the footballer’s build. He looked helplessly between his mother and sister, fighting tears.
“Right,” Charlotte rubbed her brow decisively. “James, go wash up and do your homework. Mum, enough of this. We need to think.”
Charlotte was sharp, practical. James obeyed without argument.
Later, she knocked on his door.
“Crying?”
James shook his head, eyes down.
Charlotte ruffled his hair and pulled him close.
“We’ll be alright, Jamie. We’re still a family. He’s the one alone.”
“D’you expect me to pity him?” James choked.
“Pity? No. But let’s be happy—the happiest. He’ll regret this one day.”
Once she’d calmed them, Charlotte locked herself in the bathroom and finally let go. How? How could their dad—the best dad—do this? He wasn’t some charmer, just an ordinary bloke with a bit of a belly from Mum’s roast dinners. His jokes were mediocre (only Mum laughed). Drove that old Ford he’d fix himself. Worked as a mid-level manager at the factory, wages modest.
Yet Charlotte had once boasted to friends how her dad was the only one who’d never cheat. Turns out, she was wrong.
Life settled into a rhythm, duller now. “Dad” vanished from their vocabulary—just “him,” and even that grew rare.
One day, Charlotte heard panting footsteps behind her.
“Charlie, wait!”
She turned. There stood Oliver, flushed and awkward in a too-tight suit, tie strangling him.
She spun away, speeding up.
“Charlie, please!” he begged.
“What d’you want?” she snapped.
“Here—money,” he shoved a wad of notes at her. “Take it. Come visit us, yeah? Lydia—she’s lovely, runs a fur shop. Pick out a coat! Get your mum one too, mink for her birthday! Lydia says it’s fine. We’re off to Greece again soon—”
“Piss off into the woods,” Charlotte cut in.
“Why woods?” he blinked.
“For your furs. Would say worse, but Mum raised me polite… Dad.”
Oliver froze like she’d thrown ice water on him. He knew money was tight at home. They’d always scraped by, and now he’d gone and messed everything up.
It started with Gary from work. He’d dragged Oliver round to his friend’s place, where Lydia held court—loud, brassy, built like a wardrobe. She eyed him like he was dessert. Oliver left early, lied to Emily about overtime, heart hammering with guilt.
Then Gary coaxed him back: “Just half an hour!” Lydia again.
“Come on, Ol! She imports furs from Greece—two shops! Get Emily that mink coat!”
“Why? I’ve got Emily.”
“Live a little! What’s it cost you? A coat for the missus—fancy that?”
“…Suppose so.”
And he went. Again. And again. It was always about that damned coat. Next thing he knew, he was in bed with Lydia, crying the whole drive home. Then Emily found out… and threw him out.
Lydia was thrilled.
That evening, Charlotte simmered.
“Did he come to you?” James mumbled.
“You too?”
James nodded.
“Told him to sod off. Hate him.”
Oliver moped at Lydia’s.
“What’s wrong, Olly?” she cooed.
“The kids won’t speak to me. Emily neither… I offered money—”
“She kicked you out,” Lydia shrugged.
“Yeah, but how’d she know? We were careful!”
Lydia rose from her ludicrous four-poster (the likes of which Oliver had never seen), sipping champagne—another thing he hated, along with the strawberries that made him itch.
“Oh, I told her,” she said breezily.
“You what?”
“Described that mole of yours… and how you cry after, you know.”
“You—? Why?”
“How else would you leave her, silly?”
“I’m going home.”
“She threw you out!”
“I’ll beg. Emily’s kind. If she won’t have me, I’ll sleep in the porch.”
“Olly, we bought her that coat—”
“Keep it, Lydia. Don’t call me.”
“Emily, love—”
“I’ve said my piece, Oliver.”
“Just listen! I never meant— It was Gary’s idea! ‘Get the coat,’ he said… Then Lydia told you. I only wanted the coat for your birthday!”
“Go.”
“Is he still there?” Emily asked Charlotte later.
“Yeah. Raining now—he’ll catch cold.”
“Sod him… A coat, he says. Mink. For my birthday.”
“Should we let him in?” Charlotte murmured.
Emily glanced at James, sniffling in silence.
“…Alright. He’s still a person.”
They called him in. Sat him at the kitchen table with tea, avoiding each other’s eyes.
“Forgive me… Emily, please. Kids—”
“What’d we do?” James muttered. “You hurt Mum.”
Then they all cried, holding on tight.
“Ollie,” Emily whispered later. “What’s Greece like?”
“Oh, Em,” he grinned, spinning tales of places he’d barely seen.
He never spoke to Gary again. Years later, they bought Emily that coat—real rabbit fur. Not for any birthday. Just because.
—Sometimes, the things we chase blind us to what we already have. Funny how it takes losing everything to see it.
