The Secret That Tore the Family Apart
In a cosy riverside town where the street lamps glowed softly in the evenings, Emma wiped down the kitchen counter. The scent of freshly baked apple pie still lingered in the air when the phone suddenly rang. The screen lit up with the name of her old friend Sophie, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years.
“Sophie! Hello! I’m so glad to hear from you!” Emma exclaimed, drying her hands on her apron.
After the usual pleasantries, Sophie’s voice turned hesitant. “Em, have you and James split up?”
“No! Why on earth would you think that?” Emma’s heart skipped a beat.
“Strange, because how else would you explain this?” Sophie’s tone was uneasy.
A moment later, a message arrived with a photo. Emma opened it, stared at the image, and froze—as if the world had crumbled around her.
—
“Bloody hell, I’ve had enough!” James stormed into the flat, tossing his keys onto the hallway dresser.
“Jim, what’s wrong?” Emma asked, surprised. She always got home from work before him, making sure the house was tidy and dinner ready.
“What’s wrong? Everything!” he snapped, tearing off his jacket. “This job, the routine, the drudgery! No light at the end of the tunnel. Em, let’s just get away—somewhere peaceful. The Lake District, even a holiday lodge. I’m at my limit!”
“But we’d have to book time off,” Emma mused. “And we promised your dad we’d help with the cottage…”
“Bugger the cottage!” James cut in. “It’s not going anywhere in two weeks, but I’m about to snap! What matters more—some garden beds or me?”
“Of course you do,” Emma said quietly, seeing how serious he was. “I’ll talk to work—they owe me leave. Two years without a proper break.”
“So, I’ll book the tickets?” James perked up, rubbing his hands.
“Go ahead,” Emma nodded. She’d been longing for an escape herself: their son’s graduation, his move to university in another city, the leak from upstairs that ruined the ceiling. She was running on empty.
“Sorted, then,” James declared. “The Lakes are pricey—we’ll do a lodge. Nice scenery, a lake nearby, and it won’t break the bank.”
Emma didn’t argue. She rarely did. Even when James had bought cheap wallpaper after the leak instead of the one she liked, or when he’d talked her out of a better job, saying,
“That’s halfway across London! You’ll neglect the house. So what if the pay’s good? Don’t I earn enough? There’s a till job at the corner shop—close by, and you’d get discounts.”
Emma had given in. The shop job bored her, but it meant she kept the house in order. Only once had she stood her ground—when James tried to pressure their son into a different university.
“No.” Her voice was firm. “Our son chooses where he studies. Don’t you dare bully him!”
James, caught off guard by his usually pliant wife’s defiance, backed down—but never missed a chance to grumble about being “disrespected.” Emma would soothe him, insisting it wasn’t so.
The lodge was booked, bags packed, leave approved. Two days before departure, James’s father, Arthur, rang.
“Em, hello,” his voice trembled. “Can’t reach James. Is he all right?”
“Hello, Arthur. He’s just popped to the chemist—left his phone here. Is everything okay? You sound worried.”
“Threw my back out,” Arthur sighed. “Can’t move. Could James come over? Just to help with the ointment. The nurse charges a fortune, and the neighbour who used to help has moved.”
“Of course. He’ll be back soon, and we’ll come,” Emma promised.
When James returned, he scowled at the news.
“Perfect timing, isn’t it? Why now?”
“Jim, how can you say that? He’s your father! Illness doesn’t wait for convenience. Let’s go check on him.”
“He’s got a sister, remember,” James muttered.
“His sister can barely walk herself!” Emma raised her voice. “Enough—we’re going.”
Grumbling, James followed. Arthur’s door was ajar. He stood hunched by the kitchen window, pain etched on his face.
“Twisted wrong,” he murmured guiltily. “If Mary were still here, I wouldn’t trouble you.”
Mary, James’s mother, had passed years ago. Since then, Arthur lived alone. Visits from his son were rare, though his grandson had dropped in often before leaving for uni.
“Dad, why now?” James snapped. “We’ve got a holiday booked!”
Emma tugged his sleeve.
“Sorry to be a burden,” Arthur’s voice wavered, and Emma’s heart ached.
“Don’t be silly,” she said gently. “Where’s the ointment? Let’s sort you out.”
Half an hour later, Arthur could straighten enough to shuffle to the sofa with Emma’s help. She checked his fridge—enough for a day.
“I’ll come tomorrow, reapply the cream and make you something,” she promised.
At home, the argument erupted.
“Have you lost the plot?” James fumed. “We’re leaving, and you’re playing nurse?”
“He’s your father!” Emma pleaded. “Who else will help him?”
“Call an ambulance—let the hospital deal with it!”
“You know he won’t go. They might not even admit him for this. He’ll recover faster at home.” Emma was stunned by his coldness. “Maybe he’ll improve by morning.”
But Arthur was worse the next day—barely able to move, let alone cook or wash.
“Jim, we have to stay,” Emma sighed.
“Do what you want!” James spat. “I’m going on holiday—with or without you. I didn’t slog all year to babysit an old man!”
Emma hoped he’d reconsider. But by dawn, James and his suitcase were gone.
“To hell with duty! To hell with guilt!” James thought as the train rattled onward. “I’m entitled to this!”
While Emma sacrificed her holiday to care for Arthur, James enjoyed the lodge. He answered her call just once, tersely telling her not to bother.
By the second week, he’d struck up an affair with the local barmaid, Lucy. Their fling grew serious—so much so that going back barely crossed his mind.
But in small lodges, paths cross. Emma’s friends, holidaying there too, spotted James with Lucy. Back home, they cautiously asked Emma if they’d divorced. Her silence and denial said it all.
Meanwhile, James sent one text: “Staying longer—no tickets.” Emma cried in secret, shielding Arthur from the truth. But rumours reached him anyway.
“The bastard!” he seethed. “What kind of son—what kind of man—does this? Abandoning his wife, who gave up her break for me!”
“Arthur, please,” Emma begged. “You’ll strain your back again. Have some chamomile—it helps. I’ll manage. Our son’s grown; he’ll be fine. And I’ll take that job James talked me out of—they’ve asked again.”
“Em, forgive me,” Arthur’s tears fell. “Thank God Mary didn’t live to see this shame. I don’t know how we raised such a son.”
A month later, James returned. He’d quit his job remotely.
“Em, we need to divorce,” he announced. The flat was in Emma’s name, so he had no claim. But he had another plan. After the divorce, he went to his father.
“Dad, I’m leaving. Starting fresh. I want my share of the flat and the cottage.”
“Your share?” Arthur’s voice shook with rage. “You’ve got the nerve to demand anything? Who sat by my bed? Who cooked, helped me to the bath? You? You get nothing! It’s all going to Emma and our grandson. Show your face again, and you’ll regret it!”
Stunned, James slunk back to the lodge with divorce papers. Lucy, learning he had no money or home, dropped him for the café’s new manager.
James left to work odd jobs abroad, cursing his luck. Too late, he realised he’d shattered his own life—and there was no way back.
