To the End
Emily sat alone at the dinner table once again. The clock read nine, and still, no call or message from Edward. “Stuck at work again,” she thought, though she hardly believed it herself.
Over the past month, these “delays” had become far too frequent. At first, it was rare—once every other week. Then weekly. Now, it felt as though Edward had stopped coming home on time altogether.
She remembered how it began. At first, he’d blamed work—an urgent project, a tight deadline. She believed him and waited up late.
But soon, the excuses grew absurd. On Monday, he claimed he’d been trapped in the car park because a snowplough was blocking his exit. Emily said nothing but watched carefully. She knew perfectly well his office had an underground garage where no snowplough could reach.
On Wednesday, it was an “urgent meeting,” though his firm rarely held in-person discussions—and when they did, it was over video call in the morning.
Then yesterday, he said he’d been stuck in the office because… his stomach had turned, and he’d spent over an hour in the loo with indigestion.
Emily wasn’t a fool. She knew he was hiding something. Hysterics wouldn’t drag the truth out of him. But what could it be?
“How are you feeling?” she asked as Edward slumped onto the bed, sighing heavily.
“Not great,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach. “Had a dodgy takeaway for lunch—must’ve been food poisoning.”
“Awful. I can imagine,” Emily said, watching his reaction carefully. “I’ll fetch you some medicine. Works wonders.”
“No!” Edward nearly shouted, then caught himself. “The lads at work gave me something. Can’t recall the name, but it helped.”
“Really? Well, alright,” she shrugged. “Just be careful—who knows what they handed you.”
“You’re right,” he forced a smile. “I’ll shower and turn in—still feel rotten.”
“Of course.” She brushed his cheek and stepped out.
The moment Edward shut the bathroom door, Emily snatched his phone from the nightstand. Her fingers flew over the screen—messages, calls, apps—nothing suspicious. Then she checked the banking app.
*”Transfer: £5,000 to Angelica W.”*
Her stomach twisted. The bathroom taps turned off—she closed the apps and hurriedly returned the phone.
*Don’t panic. Don’t panic.* She clenched her fists. *Who the hell is Angelica W.?*
The name niggled at her. A colleague? Someone from accounting?
Sleep wouldn’t come. The bed felt vast and cold beside Edward’s oblivious slumber. When she finally drifted off, fragments of dreams—half-formed words, shadowy figures—left her restless.
She jolted awake.
*Angelica.*
The name burned in her mind. Edward’s ex, the one he’d mentioned only in passing—“just a silly school thing.”
Emily sat up, cold sweat down her spine. It all made sense now: the late nights, the flimsy excuses, the sudden “food poisoning.” And now this—£5,000.
She gripped her head, trying to steady herself.
*”School thing,”* echoed in her skull.
Dawn crept in as she lay there, watching Edward’s peaceful face, piecing together the puzzle.
Last night’s suspicion was undeniable—Angelica was his ex. But why now, years later? And why the money?
She slipped out of bed, brewed coffee, and grabbed a notepad. She needed a plan.
*What now?*
Confront Edward? But he’d clearly been lying. Would honesty even help?
Hire a detective? Too extreme—where would she even start?
Find Angelica herself?
Every second wasted made things worse. But how could she act without tipping him off?
She opened his socials, scouring old photos. Most were recent—family holidays, work events. Then, buried deep, an old snapshot of a younger Edward, arm around a girl.
*Her.* Angelica.
Emily shut the laptop. Two paths lay ahead: ignore it and risk worse, or dig for the truth, no matter how bitter.
The choice was clear. She had to know. *Whatever it takes.*
That evening, she sat in the lounge, fidgeting with her phone, rehearsing a speech—when the front door opened.
“We need to talk,” Edward said flatly, still in his coat.
She tensed. “I was about to say the same.”
“Let me speak first,” he said, sinking onto the hallway bench. “You won’t like it. I don’t expect forgiveness, but don’t judge me yet.”
Her pulse spiked.
“Remember Angelica? My first love. We were together at the end of secondary school,” he said, voice unsteady.
It felt like walking to the gallows.
“Right after uni started, she got pregnant. I was young. Selfish. Terrified.” He paused.
Emily wanted to shake him—*get on with it!* But she already knew. A child. A life he’d walked away from.
“I gave her money. Told her to… deal with it. Then I vanished.” His voice broke. “She went to the clinic. It went wrong. Complications. She begged for help, but I shut her out.”
“She… ended it?” Emily asked, then bit her lip—why did that *relief* slip in?
“Yes. But after, she never married. Kept getting sick—three surgeries. Then… cancer. Spread everywhere. Three months left, if that.”
She stood frozen.
“I lied. I’m ashamed. But I had to help. She’s alone—no family, no husband. I failed her when she needed me.” He buried his face in his hands.
Silence. Emily stared at this man she’d known forever, torn between fury and pity.
“You blame yourself?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t just you.”
“But I *made* it happen.”
“Can’t anything be done?”
“No. She’s fading. The doctors say she should just… stay home now. Be comfortable.”
She inhaled sharply. “You said she’s alone.”
He nodded. She stepped back, hands clutching her chest. Edward, still in his coat—*he wasn’t staying.*
“I won’t abandon her. But I won’t lie to you anymore. You’ll probably leave me, and I’d deserve it.”
She had no words.
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll keep lying. Hiding. Until it destroys us.”
She closed her eyes. She loved him. But the man before her now was a stranger—one who’d betrayed love once and was doing it again.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” she whispered. “For then. For now. For forcing this choice.”
He reached for her—she stepped back.
“I’m not asking forgiveness. Just know I love you. But I *have* to do this.”
He grabbed his keys. She watched him go, helpless. *God, this would be easier if it were just an affair.*
Hours crawled. She paced, sat, paced again—seething, then recalling his shattered expression.
He hadn’t *betrayed* her. He was trying to fix a past mistake. And he’d told her the truth.
Her phone glowed on the coffee table.
*”I understand,”* she typed. *”I love you. Let’s help Angelica.”*
Minutes passed. Then—
*”Thank you.”*
She closed her eyes, tears falling. She’d made the right choice.
