**Destiny**
“Guess what? I was just chatting with Emily. Can you believe it? Thomas has gone off the rails *again*,” said Sophie, pausing as the telly cut to another ad break during her favourite soap on BBC Two.
She glanced at her husband. He was half-reclined against the propped-up pillows, utterly engrossed in a commercial for cheap car insurance.
“Dave… are you even listening? Thomas is at it again,” she repeated, sharper this time.
“I heard you. Why do you care?” he muttered.
“What do you mean, *why*? Emily’s my friend. I worry for her! Has Thomas said anything to you?” Sophie studied his profile, searching for a tell.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages, anyway. And honestly, your friend’s a bit of a drama queen. I’d scarper too. Now, shush—the show’s back on.”
“Oh, is *that* so? That’s what he told you, is it? So it’s Emily’s fault now? Blame the woman—classic. Easier than admitting you lot are just stray tomcats. And who *made* her like that? He’s been at it for years!” Sophie pursed her lips while Dave glared at the screen like it held state secrets.
“Listen, I nag you all the time too. How many times must I say—wipe your *bloody* boots before trampling mud through the house? And the bath! You leave it looking like a swamp. Does that make *me* a hysterical shrew? Or are *you* off gallivanting somewhere? Keeping Thomas company, eh?” She fixed him with a look.
“Oh, here we go. Now it’s *my* turn.” Dave flung the duvet aside and stood. “I’ll finish this episode in the kitchen.”
“I just feel sorry for Emily,” Sophie called after him.
“They had such a legendary romance! He used to climb up to her window with roses—*second floor*, mind you. And now you blokes can’t even be bothered?” she shouted toward the open door.
“It’s always the same. ‘Sweetheart,’ ‘love,’ ‘darling’—until you find some tart, then suddenly we’re all ‘clingy nutters,’” she mused aloud, as if he could still hear. “Emily’s forgiven him *dozens* of times. First time, he was on his knees, sobbing, swearing on the kids’ lives he’d never stray again. Nice bloke, my foot. He’s drained the soul out of her. Probably won’t stop till he’s dead…” She trailed off, listening. The kitchen was eerily quiet.
*Or is Dave cheating too? Why’d he bolt? Hit a nerve? Nah—he’s too lazy. Thomas at least hits the gym. Mine’s got a gut and a receding hairline…*
But the seed of doubt took root. Sophie abandoned the show, shoved her feet into slippers, and marched to the kitchen. Dave was perched on a chair, blowing fag smoke toward the cracked window. A draft nipped at her.
“Since when do you smoke?”
He startled, ash dusting the table.
“Christ, you scared me.” He brushed it onto the floor. “Just… stressed. Thomas and I go way back.”
“Then *talk* to him. Should be ashamed—what example is he setting for his boys?” She snatched the ashtray from the sill and plonked it in front of him.
“As if he’d listen. Not my circus. His life, his mess.” Dave took a final drag, stubbed it out, and shut the window.
“Bed.” He sidestepped her.
Sophie shook her head, flicked off the light, and followed. Dave lay turned away, glued to some bloke ranting on *Newsnight*. She killed the telly and settled in. Lately, they’d taken to sleeping back-to-back like estranged flatmates.
They’d met at uni, all starry-eyed and breathless. Married two years later. Life unfolded—rows, make-ups, the usual slog. Their daughter graduated and fled to London. Happiness wasn’t something Sophie dwelled on. Yet here they were: 27 years together, 25 married. A quarter-century.
Emily’s voice haunted her: *Why does he do this? I gave him everything. Raised his kids. Now—no youth, no husband, just loneliness…*
Across the bed, Dave lay rigid, staring into the dark, swallowing sighs.
—
Two days later, Dave was late. Sophie didn’t fret. Traffic? Work crisis? Pub trip? His mood always gave it away. Cheery and tipsy meant mates. Grumpy meant the office had imploded.
Finally, the lock rattled. No usual grumbling. Just quiet shuffling, then footsteps to the kitchen.
He sat ramrod-straight against the wall, coiled tight as a spring. Sophie’s stomach dropped. That same gnawing dread from before. Dave stared blankly, like he was steeling himself.
“Something wrong?” she whispered, panic rising. “Dinner’s still warm…”
“Not hungry.” He left without meeting her eye.
A faint whiff of perfume clung to him. Foreign, but familiar. She’d smelled it before.
She waited by the telly, but he never came. Sick? Asleep already? She peeked into the bedroom—still in his work suit, gripping his knees like a man awaiting sentencing.
“Dave…”
“Sit,” he said.
She obeyed, catching that scent again. The tension was suffocating. Somehow, she already knew.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else,” he said finally.
“You’re leaving?”
A pointless question. Men only say this when it’s decided.
“Yeah. I… can’t stop thinking about her.”
*Constantly. So it’s been going on a while. And here I was, blaming pub lads.* She smirked.
“If you go, don’t expect me to take you back like Emily does.”
“I know. It’s done. I’ll pack.”
She wanted to scream—*What about me? Our daughter? Twenty-five years?* But suddenly, none of it mattered. She’d never thought *they’d* end up here. But she’d known this: if he strayed, she wouldn’t play the forgiving fool like Emily.
She walked out, door clicking shut behind her. Hangers clattered. A suitcase zipped. Then footsteps.
“Sorry,” he muttered, passing her.
Sophie clenched her fists. No scene. No satisfaction for *her*. Let him explain why his ex-wife was so composed. Tears could wait.
The door shut. Then the floodgates opened. When the storm ebbed, she called Emily. Only she’d understand. They wept over lost youth, cursed men, mourned their lot.
She told their daughter nothing. Pretended solo life was grand—no cooking, no muddy footprints, no snoring. She decluttered, repainted, stayed busy. Grief needed motion, not wallowing.
She waited. A month. Two. One evening, she logged into Facebook—first time in years.
Two messages: a spammy “hello beautiful” and one from “Michael.” His profile pic? A stock photo. Barely any info. Red flags galore.
Still… why not? A petty revenge fantasy. Let Dave see *she* had admirers too. She replied—married, but open to *respectful* chat.
Thus began the letters. Rambling, profound, oddly tender. He quoted Auden, Larkin, even tossed in original verse. She lived for his notifications.
*”Know what ‘destiny’ means? ‘Des’—like a verdict. ‘Tiny’—the soul. Combined: the soul’s judgment. ‘Not meant to be’ means the soul didn’t earn it. Poetic, no?”*
He confessed: he’d hurt his wife. Betrayed her. Felt hollow. Missed his old life, his quiet rituals… *Her.*
Sophie froze. *This* was *their* story. But she played coy, ranting about feckless men instead.
Two months in, she demanded a real photo. He agreed—if she’d update hers. *Cheeky git.* She teased but snapped a fresh selfie (hair like her old pic, practiced smile). Didn’t send it.
He replied with verse:
*”Snows blur the tracks, freeze the veins’ last heat.
Too soon, the rooks return; too late, love wakes.”*
Panic. *Nope.* She ghosted him. Next day—a dozen messages. More poetry. Then:
*”Speak, though the years bolt like spooked steeds.
Soon, I may slip past the dusk’s last light…”*
Was this… goodbye? Before she could reply, their daughter called.
“Mum. I know about Dad. He’s miserable. Living in Alex’s *freezing* shed. Sort it out—you’re both acting daft.”
“How’d you—?”
“Please. You’re both stubborn as mules.”
Then EmilyShe rushed to the hospital, where Dave lay pale and broken, and as their hands found each other’s, Sophie realized some love stories aren’t finished until the last page is turned—or perhaps, rewritten.
