“Bloody hell, first she goes and gets old, now she’s ill as well! That’s it, I’m filing for divorce!” snarled the husband, slamming the door behind him without a backward glance. Little did he know just how badly he’d miscalculated…
Emily sat at the kitchen table, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles whitened. The voice on the other end had just delivered news so shocking, the world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. Her thoughts spun wildly, yet not a single one formed a coherent plan.
What now? The question hammered inside her, unanswered. She wouldn’t confide in anyone—years had taught her people rarely rejoiced in another’s joy, even less so in their suffering. Words were cheap; the heart was a mystery.
Once, she could have turned to her parents. They had been her rock. But they were gone now, and she missed them more than ever. Her husband? There’d been trust once, but lately, she’d felt his coldness creeping in. The snide remarks about age, the pointed jabs—how women faded faster than men, how she’d “let herself go.”
But Emily didn’t see the change in herself. She still visited the hairdresser, kept her nails neat after that disastrous salon visit, dressed with care. Time had left its marks, but hadn’t it done the same to him? Other couples their age still held hands, still laughed. Yet she spent more evenings alone while he “worked late.” And she knew the truth behind those excuses.
She wouldn’t trouble the children. Her daughter had just married, was expecting her first baby; her son was studying up in Edinburgh. Emily wouldn’t burden them. But one thing was clear—she needed answers from her husband. Was there any trace left of the man she’d fallen for?
That evening, she met James at the door, her expression grave.
“Something wrong?” he asked, catching her look.
“Yes,” she breathed, steadying herself. “I’ve had some bad news from the doctor. If things get harder… will you be there?”
James shifted uneasily. “What kind of news?”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is—will you stay if I need you?”
He exhaled sharply, dragged a hand down his face, and dropped into the armchair.
“Look, Em… you’ve given me the perfect opening here. I’ve been putting this off, but—I’m leaving. You aged too soon, now there’s this illness… Sorry, but I’m not signing up to be a carer. I’ve got my life to live, and this? It’s baggage. There’s someone else, anyway. You’ll manage. You always do.”
He stood abruptly, strode to the bedroom, and shoved clothes into a bag.
“I’ll collect the rest later. Get well. No hard feelings.”
The door slammed. Emily didn’t cry. Just smiled bitterly. “Well, that settles that.”
Days passed. She sat by the window, lost in thought, when her phone rang. Her son’s name flashed on the screen.
“Mum, you home?” came his cheerful voice.
“Of course. When are you visiting?”
“That’s the surprise! I’ve got a placement back home—can you believe it?”
Emily laughed. “Best news I’ve had in ages.”
For the first time in years, her chest felt light.
A week later, Jack was home. That evening, she steeled herself to speak.
“Jack, there’s something you should know,” she began. “A solicitor called. Turns out… I was adopted. My birth mother left me as a baby, ran off with some wealthy man abroad. She hired a detective to find me after she was widowed—but died in a plane crash before we met. Now there’s an inheritance.”
Jack whistled. “Blimey. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know how to feel. She abandoned me—should I take her money?”
“Mum, if you don’t, it’ll go to some stranger. This way, you’re set.”
“You’re right. But I’ve no idea where to start. No passport, no clue about the process…”
“We’ll sort it,” he said firmly. “I’ll find us a solicitor.”
Days later, Emily stood on foreign soil, the hum of an unfamiliar city around her. Beside her was William, the sharp-witted solicitor handling her case. He’d turned out to be more than just professional—he listened, really listened.
“Emily, I nearly turned this job down,” he admitted. “But something told me meeting you would matter.”
She smiled.
Papers were signed, but selling the estate took time. William showed her the city’s hidden gems, its quiet corners. Slowly, she realised—she was happy. Truly happy, for the first time in years.
At the airport, as she prepared to leave, William hesitated.
“I’ll miss you,” he said simply.
“Then come visit,” she replied.
“I will.”
Back home, she divided the money fairly—a flat for Jack, a trust for her daughter, the rest wisely saved.
She never thought of James—until the day he turned up on her doorstep. Drunk, dishevelled.
“Em… take me back,” he slurred.
“Leave.”
“Who else would want you?” he scoffed.
Then the lift doors opened—and there stood William, flowers in hand.
James paled.
“Go,” Emily repeated. “We’re done.”
She shut the door.
Years passed. Emily became a grandmother. William proposed, and she said yes.
Then came the call—James had suffered a stroke. He was asking for her.
She gathered the children.
“Mum, I wouldn’t go,” Jack muttered.
“Darling, forgiveness is what makes us human.”
At the hospital, a frail, aged James lay in the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Emily shook her head.
“I’ll arrange a carer. But don’t expect more.”
That evening, in the garden, William took her hand.
“Regrets?”
“None. Without him, I’d never have known real happiness.”
She met his gaze—and smiled.
