She didn’t come home… Because she couldn’t anymore.
He returned from his business trip a little earlier than usual—just past half six in the evening. The flat was eerily silent, an unsettling quiet lingering in the air. No sounds, no scent of cooking, none of her usual *”You’re back? I’ll get dinner ready.”* He walked through every room, checked the bathroom, the loo. The stove was cold. The kettle empty. The fridge neatly stocked with fresh, homemade meals in tidy containers. But the woman who’d prepared them was nowhere to be found.
*”Where the hell is she?”* he thought bitterly, dialling her number. The line rang, but no one answered.
*”Fine. I’ll eat first, then figure it out.”* He tossed his phone onto the sofa and sat at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. Still no answer. Suspicion prickled at the back of his mind.
*”Got herself a lover, has she? Bloody bitch… I’m the one breaking my back up north, bringing money home, while she’s swanning about in the car I bought. The one I bloody taught her to drive! Ferrying the kids, lugging groceries, and now they’re grown, she’s decided to have herself a good time. Well, I’ll sort her out…”*
He remembered how he’d scolded her over every scratch on the car, dictated which shops she could go to, when to cut her hair, even what colour she was allowed. And she hadn’t worked—he’d insisted she focus on the house and the kids.
*”Ungrateful cow’s probably out gallivanting. I’ll knock some sense into her. She’ll stay home where she belongs.”*
The lift hummed. He darted to the door, peered through the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys still hanging by the door. So she *was* home. Just… left on foot? Worse.
*”Has she actually done it? Run off?”*
He tore through the flat. Checked the wardrobe—clothes still there. Still no answer to his calls.
*”Stupid cow. Half nine and she’s still not back.”*
He switched on the telly to distract himself but, barely registering the programme, slipped into a restless sleep.
He woke at quarter past eleven. Still no sign of her. His chest tightened. Furious, he dialled again. This time, a woman’s voice answered.
*”Hello, good evening. I’m a nurse from the surgical admissions unit. Who am I speaking to?”*
He roared: *”What the hell is this? Have you lost your mind?”*
The call cut off. He redialled. A man answered.
*”Please refrain from abusing our staff. Can you come to the hospital? Surgical unit?”*
*”Why? What’s happened?”*
*”There are documents to sign. We did everything we could. Unfortunately… our condolences. Your wife’s heart stopped.”*
He froze.
*”What rubbish? Her heart? She doesn’t even have one… She just doesn’t want to come home! Where is she?”*
*”Your wife has passed away,”* the voice repeated.
Just like that. His world shattered.
Later, they explained: the clinic nurse had called her in. Screening results had flagged something. Doctors wanted a closer look. She left the clinic but never made it to the bus stop—she’d felt dizzy, sat on a bench. Insisted to herself she’d be fine. That her husband would come home to hot food and pressed shirts. That she’d prepare everything. Just a small op, routine, she’d manage…
But she ran out of time. Never made it back.
Now he stood in their flat, surrounded by her touch—her hands, her care. And he realised: he hadn’t known how much he needed her. Not until it was too late.
On the table, her list remained: *”Buy apples. Make broth. Wash shirts. Talk to him—enough with these business trips?”*
But they’d never talk again.
