She didn’t come home… Because she never could again.
He returned from his business trip a little earlier than usual—half past six in the evening. The flat was eerily quiet, an unsettling stillness hanging in the air. No sounds. No scent of dinner. No cheerful call of, “You’re back? I’ll get you fed in a moment.” He wandered through every room, peeked into the bathroom, even checked the loo. The hob was cold. The kettle empty. The fridge neatly stocked with Tupperware—all fresh, all homemade. But the woman who’d put it there was missing.
“Where on earth has she got to?” he thought irritably, dialling her number. The line rang, but no one answered.
“Fine. I’ll eat first, sort this out later.” He tossed his phone onto the sofa and slumped at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. Still nothing. Suspicion gnawed at him.
“Found herself a fancy man, has she? Typical. I’m up in Manchester breaking my back, bringing home the bacon, while she’s joyriding in the car *I* bought. Taught her to drive myself, the daft sod! Ferrying the kids about, hauling groceries—and now they’re grown, she’s off gallivanting. Well, I’ll put a stop to *that*.”
He remembered how he’d berated her for every tiny scratch on the car, dictated which supermarket to shop at, when to get her hair cut, even what colour it should be. And she’d never worked—*he’d* insisted she focus on the house and kids.
“Ungrateful cow’s probably out on the town. I’ll give her what for—keep her at home where she belongs.”
The lift hummed. He bolted to the door, squinted through the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys still hanging by the coat rack. So she *was* home. Or had she just… walked somewhere? Worse.
“Has she actually left me?”
He stormed through the flat. Checked the wardrobe—her clothes untouched. Still no answer to his calls.
“Bloody witch. Half nine, and she’s still not back.”
He flicked on the telly to distract himself, but the plot blurred into background noise as he dozed fitfully.
He woke at half past eleven. Still no sign of her. His chest tightened. Fuming, he dialled again—this time, a woman’s voice answered.
“Good evening, this is Sister Andrews from A&E. Who’s speaking, please?”
He barked, “What the hell’s A&E got to do with anything? Lost your marbles?!”
The line went dead. He redialled. A man answered now.
“Sir, I must ask you to stop harassing our staff. Can you come to the hospital? Surgical ward.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“There are papers to sign. We did all we could. I’m so sorry… your wife has passed.”
His breath left him.
“Don’t talk rot! Heart trouble? She never had one—she’s just avoiding me! Where *is* she?”
“Sir, your wife is deceased,” the voice repeated.
And just like that, his world crumbled.
Later, they explained: the surgery nurse had rung her about screening results. Something had worried the GP. Asked her to come in. She’d left the clinic but never made it to the bus stop—dizzy, she’d sat on a bench, convincing herself it was fine. That her husband would come home to hot meals and ironed shirts. That she’d handle it. Just a routine procedure, after all…
But she ran out of time.
He stood in the flat—every bit of it shaped by her hands, her care—and realised too late how much he’d needed her.
On the table, her to-do list remained: *”Apples. Chicken broth. Wash shirts. Talk to Tom—enough business trips?”*
But they’d never have that talk.
