She never came home… Because she never could.
He returned from his business trip a little earlier than usual—half past six in the evening. The flat was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that prickles the skin. No sounds. No scent of dinner. No familiar call of, *”You’re back? I’ll get your plate ready.”* He wandered from room to room. Checked the bathroom, the loo. The hob was cold. The kettle dry. The fridge neatly stocked with fresh, homemade meals in labelled containers. But the woman who made them was nowhere to be found.
*”Where the hell is she?”* he thought bitterly, dialling her number. The line rang and rang. No answer.
*”Fine. I’ll eat first. Then we’ll see.”* He tossed his phone onto the sofa and sat at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. Still nothing. Suspicion coiled in his gut.
*”Got herself a lover, has she? Bloody hell… While I’m breaking my back up north, bringing money home, she’s swanning about in the car I bought. The one I taught her to drive! Used it for the kids, for shopping—now they’re grown, she’s off having fun. Well, I’ll sort her out…”*
He remembered scolding her for every scratch on the paint, barking orders about which shops to use, when to cut her hair, what colour she was allowed. And she never even worked—he’d insisted she stay home, just tend to the house and kids.
*”Ungrateful cow’s probably out gallivanting. I’ll knock some sense into her. She’ll stay put where she belongs.”*
The lift hummed. He lunged for the door, peered through the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys still hanging by the coat rack. So she hadn’t taken it. She’d gone somewhere on foot? Even worse…
*”Did she actually leave me?”*
He tore through the flat. Checked the wardrobe—clothes still there. Still, her phone rang unanswered.
*”Selfish bitch. Half nine, and she’s still not back.”*
He flicked on the telly to distract himself, but the noise blurred into a fitful, angry doze.
He woke at half eleven. Still no wife. His chest tightened. Furious, he dialled again. This time, a woman’s voice answered.
*”Hello, good evening. This is Sister Clarke from A&E. Who am I speaking to?”*
He snarled, *”What the hell do you mean, A&E? Have you lost your mind?”*
The line cut. He redialled. Now, a man’s voice.
*”Sir, stop insulting our staff. Can you come to the hospital? Surgical ward.”*
*”Why? What’s happened?”*
*”There are papers to sign. We did everything we could. I’m sorry… your wife has passed.”*
His voice died.
*”You’re lying. Heart? She doesn’t have one! She just doesn’t want to come home! Where is she?”*
*”Your wife is gone,”* the voice repeated.
Just like that. The world shattered.
Later, they explained: the surgery nurse had called her in. Routine scan results—something off. They’d asked her to come straight away. After the appointment, she’d stepped out of the clinic but never made it to the bus stop. Dizzy, she’d slumped onto a bench. Told herself it was fine. That he’d be home soon—there’d be dinner, ironed shirts. That she’d manage. A simple procedure, they did them all the time…
But she ran out of time. Never made it back.
He stood in the flat—every inch shaped by her hands, her care. And he understood, too late, how much he’d needed her.
On the table, her list remained: *”Apples. Cook broth. Wash shirts. Talk to John—enough with the trips?”*
Now, they’d never talk.
