Broken Wings of Love: When the Past Comes Knocking
Emily came home earlier than usual. The project she’d been slaving over was finally done, and she decided to treat herself and her husband—Oliver. She stopped by the supermarket, picked up his favourite treats—cheese, fruit, seafood—and hummed to herself as she climbed the stairs.
“Oliver, you home?” she called, spotting his shoes and jacket in the hallway.
Silence. No telly, no footsteps, no familiar “Oh, you’re back early! What’ve you got?”
Emily frowned. Setting the bags down, she moved through the flat. Oliver’s clothes were strewn about—shirts, socks, a belt. In the bedroom, she finally found him. He stood with his back to her, by the open wardrobe, a suitcase in one hand and a handful of shirts in the other.
“There you are! I’ll whip up dinner,” she said brightly, though her voice wavered. “Another work trip?”
Oliver turned. His face was oddly calm. He took her hands.
“Em, go to the kitchen. Start cooking. I’ll join you in a bit. Need to explain something.”
Emily didn’t understand but obeyed.
In the kitchen, her hands shook, her legs unsteady. She turned on the oven, began preparing Oliver’s favourite roast fish, chopped a fresh salad, arranged the cheese. She relaxed slightly. “Probably just overthinking again,” she told herself.
But deep down, a storm was brewing.
Twenty minutes passed. Still silence from the bedroom. She opened the window—warm air rushed in. Then, barely a sound, Oliver appeared behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“Dinner’s ready,” she murmured, about to turn. But he held her tighter.
“Emily… You’ve always been clever. Understanding. Hope you’ll understand now. I’m leaving.”
Time froze.
“It’s stronger than me… I’m sorry.”
He’d wavered for months, torn between past and present. But today, it was final.
“You’re brilliant. Kind. Smart. But I don’t love you. Maybe I did. Or thought I did…”
He pulled away, grabbed his bag, and bolted, leaving Emily stunned. Behind her, the lovingly prepared meal grew cold.
She stood there—empty-eyed, engulfed in silence.
That night, she didn’t sleep. She wept, screamed into her pillow, stared at the ceiling. At dawn, as she finally dozed, the doorbell rang.
Oliver stood there, wearing the same clothes. Beside him—a slender blonde with icy blue eyes.
“This is Grace,” he said. “Remember me mentioning my first love?”
Yes, she remembered. Grace had shattered him. After her betrayal, Emily had picked up the pieces when they first met in the supermarket car park. He’d nearly crashed into her car.
She’d taken him into her life, given him care, warmth, a home. And he… had returned to the one who’d abandoned him.
“We met again,” Oliver continued. “Grace divorced. We reconnected. Those ‘work trips’? I was with her.”
“Why are you here?”
“So you’d hear it from me. Grace wanted to thank you. For helping me back then.” Grace nodded silently.
“You want me to be happy, right?” Oliver searched her eyes.
Emily shut the door in his face.
“What’s she got that I don’t?” she sobbed into her friend Hannah’s arms. “Fine, she’s stunning. But she betrayed him! And now he forgives her?”
Hannah bit back the words: “I warned you. Never get involved with a man who’s still hung up on the past.” Instead, she stroked Emily’s shoulder and whispered:
“It’ll pass. You’ll be happy too. I promise.”
“But I’d already found mine. He was my prince…”
For two weeks, Emily barely left the flat. Then she returned to work—haunted, numb to the whispers.
“This isn’t healthy,” Hannah declared months later. “We’re going to the seaside.”
Emily resisted. Stared at her phone, at photos of Oliver and Grace, at Grace’s rounded belly.
“They’re having a baby, Han… They’re happy…”
“And you will be too—but only if you stop looking back!”
Slowly, things changed. Emily revived. Smiled again. Opened up to a kind coworker who’d always fancied her. Then—a wedding.
Hannah, now with a bump of her own, scoffed her third ice cream in the bridal salon as Emily tried on dresses.
“You’ll be the most gorgeous bride!” she laughed. “Trust me, it’ll all work out.”
But fate loves irony.
When Emily returned home, Oliver was slumped by her door—a three-year-old girl asleep in his arms.
“This is my daughter, Sophie. Grace left us. Wants a ‘fresh start’ without us.”
“And you came… to me?” Emily’s voice shook.
“I’ve got nowhere else. Help me…”
“I’m getting married in four days, Oliver.”
He nodded, eyes downcast.
“I get it. But I—I can’t do this alone. I don’t know how to be a dad. I’m lost.”
Emily looked at the sleeping girl. A tiny hand curled under her cheek.
“I’ll help where I can. But between us—it’s over. For good.”
The past may return. But it’s up to us whether we let it back in.
