Emma flipped the sizzling pieces of meat in the pan, covered it with a lid, and heard the sound of an engine pulling up the driveway through the open window. Oliver was home, and she hadn’t finished dinner yet. She checked the apple pie in the oven, grabbed fresh vegetables from the fridge, and began washing them.
“Emma, I’m back!” Oliver called from the hallway. “Smells amazing!” he said as he stepped into the kitchen, inhaling the delicious aroma.
“Hungry?” Emma turned off the tap and faced him. “You’re early. I haven’t had time to finish.”
“It’s fine, I can wait. And there’s dessert?”
“Yes, an apple pie. Can you hold on a little longer?”
“Of course.” He headed to the living room while Emma started chopping vegetables for the salad. She hated multitasking—especially cooking several dishes at once. Distract herself, and something would surely burn. But tonight, everything turned out just right. She set the table and went to fetch Oliver. He was sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed, the evening news murmuring from the telly. Just as she debated whether to wake him, he opened his eyes.
“You look exhausted,” she said, searching for the right words.
“A bit. Dinner ready?” He pushed himself up.
They walked to the kitchen together.
“Wow, this looks—and smells—incredible,” Oliver said, eyeing the spread.
“Fancy some wine? We’ve got a bit left,” Emma offered.
“Not tonight.”
Emma loved watching him eat—heartily but neatly. She loved him, full stop. Loved cooking for him, ironing his shirts, falling asleep against his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she loved him exactly as he was—quirks and all.
***
They had met when both had already tasted marriage. Emma hadn’t conceived in her first marriage, though tests showed no medical issues. “It happens,” doctors said. “Just be patient.”
While Emma waited, her husband wasted no time and found himself a mistress. A friend spotted them in a shopping centre, picking out baby clothes—the other woman heavily pregnant. Emma refused to believe it at first. They’d been happy. He wouldn’t… But the pieces fell into place.
A scene? What good would it do? The child was blameless—it deserved a father. Emma’s heart shattered, but she wouldn’t cling to a man who’d already left. If it had gone this far, his love for her was gone.
He came home late, as usual. Emma hadn’t cooked, couldn’t bear the telly. The injustice tore at her.
“You ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa in the dark.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Your parents, then? Spit it out.” He stood over her, baffled.
“It’s you. You’ve got another family. A baby on the way. When were you going to tell me?”
“So you know.” He exhaled sharply, avoiding her gaze. “Should I leave now or—”
“Now.” Her voice was steel. She refused to cry, though agony and fury clawed at her insides.
He packed without looking at her. Part of her wanted him to beg, to kneel and plead. Another part just wanted him gone.
The wheels of his suitcase stopped beside the sofa.
“I’ll get the rest tomorrow, if that’s alright?”
She nodded, still not looking.
The wheels rolled to the hall. The door clicked shut. That was it. Only then did it hit her—she was utterly alone. And then, she wept. It felt like life was over. No family, no love, no joy.
She didn’t sleep. Paced barefoot, sobbed into pillows. Come morning, she dragged herself to work, eyes swollen, nose blocked. Concerned colleagues sent her home. There, she saw his things were all gone—even his toothbrush, even the shirt left in the wash. As if eight years of marriage had never happened.
Was that good or bad? Good, she decided. No painful reminders. At least he’d been thorough. Usually, he left mess everywhere—clothes strewn, dishes piled.
Better to rip the bandage off fast than peel it slowly. No excuses to return for forgotten items. No stumbling upon relics of their life. Still, Emma grieved long and hard.
Then, a year later, she met Oliver. He’d come into the bank to inquire about a mortgage. Later, he suggested celebrating the deal over coffee.
“Who’s the big house for? Your kids?” Emma asked.
“Me, my future wife, future children.” His gaze held hers as if he already saw their life together.
Emma nearly confessed she dreamed of exactly that—a home, a family. But she held back. Agreeing to coffee was bold enough.
Oliver spoke of his ex-wife, how motherhood had changed her. She grew irritable, snapped if he didn’t call often enough. Resentment snowballed.
“I worked hard, came home exhausted. She barely let me near the baby. I suggested she visit a friend in Brighton—called my mum to help with our daughter.”
His wife returned transformed—happy, relaxed. She confessed she’d rekindled things with an old flame. Packed up their daughter and left.
Oliver didn’t stop her, though it gutted him. At first, he visited Brighton with gifts. But his daughter grew distant. His ex said the girl had a new dad now—better he stay away.
Two lonely souls found each other. Their flame burned instantly. Being with Oliver felt natural, as if they’d known each other forever. Within six months, they married.
But again, no children came.
“Don’t fret,” Oliver would say. “I’ve done the nappies, the midnight feeds. Still lost my family. You’d be worn out, snapping at me. We’d fight… We’re happy as we are, yeah? Plenty live child-free.”
Money went into the house instead. Now, they had a beautiful home. Mortgages paid, debts cleared, alimony nearly done. Time to enjoy life…
***
“Penny for your thoughts?” Oliver asked.
Emma startled. She’d lost herself in memories.
“Nothing. Just thinking… You look pale.”
“Long day.” He stretched, yawning.
“Go rest.” She sighed. “I’ll clean up.”
By the time she joined him, he was dozing on the sofa, the telly murmuring.
“Ollie, bed,” she urged, shaking his shoulder.
He blinked awake. “Must’ve nodded off.”
“You did. Come on.”
Rubbing his eyes, he kissed her cheek and shuffled off.
Emma locked up, showered. When she slid into bed, Oliver was already asleep. She nestled close. He turned but didn’t wake. Soon, she drifted off too.
Then—a ragged gasp. Oliver thrashed beside her.
“Ollie? Oliver!”
She flicked the lamp on. His face was red, eyes bulging. He tried to rise but collapsed. Emma scrambled to him, shook him, screamed—nothing.
Frantically, she dialled 999. Busy. Again. Again. No answer.
“What is this?!” She trembled, helpless. She called colleagues—someone had to get through.
Barefoot in her dressing gown, she ran next door, hammered on the gate. A dog barked, lights flickered on.
“Who’s there?” called Henry, their neighbour.
“It’s Emma! Please—Oliver—”
Henry’s wife appeared. “I can’t get through to the ambulance—”
“Your door open?” Henry cut in.
“Yes! Hurry!”
“Give her valerian!” he shouted to his wife, then bolted next door for help.
Emma sobbed, explaining how Oliver had collapsed. Their teenage son peered down the stairs.
“Go back to bed,” his mother ordered.
“He’s not—he can’t be—only forty-four,” Emma choked.
Finally, sirens wailed. Emma raced out—just in time to see Oliver carried out, a sheet over him. She screamed, lunged. Someone held her back.
“Easy now,” Henry murmured as she fought. “He was gone instantly.”
“That can’t be!” She thrashed, howled. A needle pricked her arm. Numbness spread.
Inside, Henry guided her to the sofa where Oliver had napped hours ago.
“Leave me,” she whispered.
When he left, she wept until dawn. She called work, stepped outside into the grey morning. The neighbour’s dog howled, its chain clinking.
Oliver had trimmed that bush last weekend. Laid the gleaming garden path. His car sat by the garage. Everywhere—his touch, his things. Gone.
She glared at the leaden sky. “”You’re not there,” she spat. “If You were, You wouldn’t have taken him.””
Inside, she called his family, his estranged daughter. They’d come for the funeral. Last, she rang her mum.
“I’ll be there,” her mother said.
Emma booked a taxi to the hospital—no way she could driveAs the months passed, Emma found solace in the home they’d built together, where every room whispered memories of Oliver, and though her heart never fully healed, she learned to carry his love with her like a quiet warmth in the bones of the house.
