Clashing Personalities
“Will you be late? What time are you leaving, Jim? Jim!” Emma tugged at her husband’s shoulder, but he only swatted her away, making it clear he wasn’t ready to wake up and wasn’t going to be late.
Emma glanced at her phone—only seven in the morning.
*Why did I wake up so early on a Saturday? There’s nothing to do. I packed his bag yesterday…* She almost crawled back under the warm duvet when suddenly—
That same nagging anxiety washed over her again. Lately, she’d been feeling it more and more. On paper, there was nothing to worry about. Her husband was beside her. They had a lovely flat in the city centre, fully renovated with designer furniture, top-of-the-range appliances. Jim had his own car, Emma had hers. They’d even bought a cottage in the countryside for weekends. Everything was perfect, really.
Most people would kill for a life like this. Try living in a cramped rental, commuting by bus, juggling kids’ homework and family dinners, scraping together mortgage payments, school fees… Just falling asleep before the alarm rings, only to start the cycle all over again. *Imagine having my problems!* she thought bitterly. *Some premonition—what nonsense!*
But she knew this feeling too well. A sudden, inexplicable dread, a hollow ache, as if something vital was slipping away. It came without warning and left just as abruptly. It would fade for a while, then return without reason.
This morning, it was back. Emma got out of bed, gave Jim one last look, and headed to the kitchen. Another business trip today. Lately, they were endless. A new boss had taken over a year and a half ago—better pay, solid company, promising future. Jim was a key player, head of his department. But the job swallowed up all his time, and now weekend trips were the norm.
She made breakfast and returned to wake him.
“Jim, are you getting up or what? You’ll miss your train. You said you were leaving after lunch, right?”
“Yeah. After.” His voice was thick with sleep, but he finally sat up.
“Come on, breakfast’s ready.”
“Mhm.” He trudged after her, still half-asleep.
At the table, he barely looked up from his phone. Emma realised they hardly spoke anymore. They weren’t fighting—everything was fine. He still brought her flowers now and then. Sometimes she’d convince him to go out for dinner, and he’d agree. They’d take walks, visit friends, catch a film, but it wasn’t the same.
“Jim, take me with you.” The words spilled out before she could stop them.
“Mhm.” He didn’t glance up.
“Seriously, why not? You’ll be in a hotel, right? You’ll be at meetings all day, but evenings we’d have together.”
“What? No! Why would you even—” He finally looked up, blinking as if surfacing from deep water.
“Why not? You’re driving, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but what would you even do there? It’s the weekend—relax at home. I’ll be back Monday or Tuesday.”
“Explore! I’ve never been. I could shop, maybe visit a museum—”
“Oh, come off it! It’s a dreary little town—nothing to see! We’ve got shops on every corner here!”
“Jim, I’m *bored*. I won’t get in your way—”
“Em, no! If you want a getaway, book a holiday! Go alone!”
“Alone? We’re married, remember?”
“Here we go again. Work’s insane right now—the boss is riding us hard! It’s not my fault he’s got us working weekends!”
“Funny, he only ever asks *you*. I saw Robinson at the mall last Saturday—whole family in tow. But *you* were working.” She hadn’t planned to argue, especially before a trip, but the words tumbled out.
“Oh, brilliant. Let’s dredge up who was where. Thanks for breakfast.” He pushed back from the table and disappeared into the shower.
She tidied up while he watched telly, then packed sandwiches and a thermos for the road.
“Em, where’s my bag?” His voice carried from the hall.
“On the dresser,” she said flatly.
“Right. I’m off. Don’t sulk—there’s really nothing there.”
“Fine. Wasn’t planning to. Bye.”
Jim left. Emma stayed. Saturday—she could call a friend, meet up, grab dinner somewhere cosy.
But who? Sarah was swamped with two kids. Marie and her husband had bought a cottage and never came to town on weekends. Claire had vanished off to London ages ago. Everyone had their own lives, their own families.
Emma was nearly thirty-eight. No kids. One youthful mistake—an abortion. Back then, they’d just moved in together, scraping by in a tiny rented flat on entry-level salaries. When she told Jim, he’d said it wasn’t the right time. She hadn’t argued—their situation *was* dire. What kind of life could they have given a child?
Now? Entirely different. She wouldn’t be so lonely. There’d be purpose. Maybe even a better marriage.
Their child would’ve been fourteen by now.
“I wonder what they’d have been like,” she murmured aloud, then burst into tears.
She splashed water on her face in the bathroom, staring at her reflection.
“No. Enough. I’m calling Vicki.” She forced a smile and dialled her friend.
“Vick, hi!” she chirped.
“Oh, Em, hey. What’s up?” Vicki sounded sluggish, unnatural.
“Fancy a coffee or some shopping? You free?”
“Ah… can’t. I’m a bit under the weather.”
“Really? Caught a bug?”
“Yeah, just a cold.”
Emma went shopping alone. It was dull. Then inspiration struck—she’d surprise Vicki. Poor thing was alone, no family nearby.
She bought pastries, groceries, medicine, hailed a cab, and headed over.
*She’ll be thrilled. Might even stay the night.* She rang the bell.
The door swung open—and there stood Jim. For a heartbeat, Emma couldn’t speak.
“Jim? What are you—” Her voice cracked.
He froze, speechless.
“Jim, who is it? The delivery?” Vicki called, then appeared behind him.
Silence.
“Yep. Delivery. Get well soon.” Emma thrust the bags at Jim and turned away.
She called another cab. Minutes later, Jim stormed out.
“Let’s go home. We need to talk.” He marched toward his car.
“Why home? Your *boss* is waiting upstairs. How long’s this ‘business trip’ been going on?” She wiped her cheeks as her cab pulled up.
“Just know—I don’t want to see you at the flat again.”
She left. He stayed.
“Drop me at the promenade, please.”
The evening air was crisp. *This.* This was the feeling she’d ignored. She’d known something was off but couldn’t—or wouldn’t—face it.
She wasn’t crying now, just walking, gaze fixed on the horizon.
“Oi, sorry!” A man bumped her shoulder.
“Len?” She blinked.
“Emma? Blimey, can’t believe it!”
Len—her childhood friend. They’d been inseparable since nursery, stayed close through school. Then he’d joined the army. They’d written letters. Then she’d met Jim, Len had settled where he was stationed, married. Last she’d heard through mutual friends.
“EmAnd as Emma watched Len and his daughter laugh under the golden streetlights, she realised some beginnings only come after the right endings.
