**Lost Love, Found Family**
For months, Edward carried a heavy thought—he wanted to leave. No shouting, no shattered plates, no tears. Just vanish, as if he’d stepped out for bread and never returned.
He and Abigail had lived together for eight years. No children, no dramatic fights, no fiery passion. Their life was smooth, like the tarmac on the high street of their quiet town. Every morning mirrored the last: coffee, toast, her neat handwriting in the planner. Once, Edward realised he couldn’t remember how last Friday differed from this one.
Abigail was the perfect wife. Too perfect, and it was suffocating. The house gleamed, dinner was always hot, everything done before he asked. One evening, he thought of tea—and in that instant, she walked in with a steaming mug.
*“How do you always know?”* he asked, masking irritation.
*“I just do,”* she said softly. *“Because I love you.”*
He nodded, but something inside him twisted. He didn’t hug her, didn’t kiss her—just muttered *“thanks,”* like she was a stranger. His feelings had evaporated, leaving only hollowness. No anger, just an indifference more frightening than any argument. Abigail seemed to understand. She visited his study less, touched him rarely, often went to bed alone.
Then one day, he noticed she’d stopped waiting by the door. Just slipped quietly upstairs without a word, as if she’d already let him go.
—
Emily crashed into his life like a spring storm. A young intern at their construction firm, she was everything Abigail wasn’t—brash, lively, with laughter that made his pulse quicken. The way she tossed her hair, the careless flick of her pen—it all drew his eye.
Edward noticed her immediately but kept his distance. She was too young, too bright. Yet Emily, sensing his interest, didn’t retreat. Lingering by his office, fiddling with her sleeves, starting conversations that hid sparks beneath small talk.
Soon, she consumed his thoughts. Her voice echoed in his head, her silhouette haunted the office windows. For the first time in years, he felt alive. Guilt gnawed at him, but he brushed it aside: *“Nothing’s happened.”*
Until it did.
Late evening, empty office, the lift. Just the two of them. Silence. Then Emily stepped close and kissed him—light, wordless.
*“Wanted to try that,”* she whispered, stepping back with a grin.
Edward stood frozen, heart pounding like a schoolboy’s. Blood burned in his veins.
She never took another step forward, but her glances, her fingers brushing his—they pulled him deeper. She played the game deftly, never pushing. And he lost himself in it, deaf to Abigail’s voice across the dinner table.
Emily filled his mind. He didn’t realise when fantasy became betrayal.
They met at a roadside motel. Rain tapped the windows, her perfume thick in the air. It happened fast, feverish. Edward felt free, as if shackles had snapped. He wasn’t a cheating husband—just a man reclaiming his life.
Leaving, Emily tucked her hair behind her ear and winked:
*“We’re adults. No strings.”*
He nodded, but unease already coiled in his chest.
At home, dinner waited under a lid. Abigail slept on the sofa, a blanket tucked around her. He sat beside her, watching. She opened her eyes. They didn’t speak, but her gaze said everything.
Edward wanted to explain—*“I’m sorry,” “It’s not you,” “I’m lost”*—but the words choked him. Abigail didn’t ask. Just turned to the wall.
He hadn’t betrayed his wife. He’d betrayed the man she still believed in.
Yet the next day, he drove to Emily again.
—
Edward left for a business trip, delaying the inevitable talk with Abigail. Emily followed as if it were natural. Evenings blurred in his hotel room, the past erased.
On the fourth day, he walked back alone. Rain sheeted down. Crossing the road, he saw a woman with a pushchair step onto the tarmac. A car screeched round the bend. Edward shoved them clear—then impact swallowed him.
—
A week in a coma. The diagnosis was grim: spinal injury, risk of paralysis. Waking, he found Abigail at his bedside, holding his hand. No tears, no speeches—just there.
Emily visited on day five. Lingered by the door, distant.
*“I’m too young for this,”* she said flatly. *“Not my burden.”*
She left without looking back, as if closing a book.
Edward understood: she’d never known him. Never wanted to.
Abigail stayed. Spoke to doctors, cleared his tray, dozed in the chair by his bed. Her hand in his was the only anchor left.
After discharge, life crumbled. Work “gently” let him go. He saw Emily once more—arm in arm with his replacement. She walked past, blind.
Treatment, pills, rehab—all fell on Abigail, a primary school teacher. One day, Edward noticed her sapphire ring was gone.
*“Just a thing,”* she murmured. *“You matter more.”*
—
Come spring, he took her to a riverside bistro. Quiet, with a live violin and warm candlelight. Abigail smiled, her eyes glowing with a warmth he’d once ignored.
*“What can I do for you?”* he asked as coffee cooled between them.
*“I’d give my life for you,”* she said. *“But I need nothing. Just live.”*
He took her hand, feeling its warmth for the first time in years.
A week later, James Whitmore called—the businessman whose wife and daughter Edward had saved.
*“I owe you,”* he said firmly. *“There’s a desk job. No travel. I’ll teach you.”*
Work brought purpose, income, hope. Edward felt needed again. But most of all, he wanted Abigail back—not as his wife, but as the woman he’d loved and failed to cherish.
He planned to propose anew. But she left first.
One morning, Abigail served breakfast, straightened his blanket, kissed his forehead. By evening, she was gone. A note lay on the table:
*“I knew about Emily. The motel. I stayed silent because I lost our baby then. I didn’t want to live, but stayed for you. Now I leave for myself.”*
Edward reread it until the words blurred. His hands shook, but inside—only numbness. The pain wasn’t sharp, just smothering, like winter snow. He hadn’t known he’d broken something irreparable.
Two days later, he found her. Pounded on her door, begged. Abigail opened it—calm, in an old cardigan, exhaustion in her eyes.
*“I didn’t know—”* he choked.
*“You did, Edward. You just didn’t care.”*
The door closed softly, leaving him on the cold step.
—
Three years passed. James’s business thrived; Edward became his right hand. He had money, respect, trips abroad. Yet each night, he returned to a flat that smelled only of loneliness. He stopped drinking tea—without Abigail, it was pointless.
People called him cold, calculating. He didn’t argue. Ice lived in his chest where his heart had been.
Then one evening, driving home, a song crackled on the radio. A woman’s voice sang: *“I miss you…”* Edward swerved to the kerb, gripping the wheel. The melody shattered his armour.
He called the station, requested a dedication. An hour later, the song played again:
*“For Abigail… If you’re listening—I miss you. Every day. Forgive me.”*
He didn’t know if she’d hear. But he hoped somewhere, by an old radio, she’d pause, and her eyes might glisten.
For the first time, he cried—not from pain, but loss.
—
Late spring, he wandered the park. Scanned faces, as he often did now. Then a boy—five, maybe—barrelled into him. Blonde, coat flapping, stubborn gaze.
*“Dad?”*
Edward froze. The boy grabbed his hand:
*“Dad, don’t you know me?”*
A woman hurried over, flustered:
*“Oliver, love, this isn’t—”*
But the boy wriggled free:
*“It is! Mum said he’d find us!”*
Edward stared. His own eyes, his chin. The woman tugged the child away:
*“Sorry, he imagines things—”*
But Edward knew. His son.
—
A week of restless searching. Nothing. Then fate intervened.
Late one night, leaving the chemist, a shout echoed down an alley. A blow to the head. Mugged. An ambulance.
A&E stank of antiseptic, lights buzzing. The curtain twitched. A woman in scrubs entered, scanning notes. Looked up—and froze.
*“Edward?”*
Abigail.
Her hands trembled as she reached for his wound, and in that touch, after all these years, he finally felt himself coming home.
