The dew still clung to the grass, the mist slowly retreating to the far bank of the river as the sun rose above the jagged edge of the forest.
Edward stood on the porch, breathing in the crisp morning air, admiring the quiet beauty of dawn. Behind him, the soft slap of bare feet echoed on the wooden planks. A woman in a nightgown, a shawl draped over her shoulders, stepped up beside him.
“Gorgeous morning,” Edward sighed deeply. “You’ll catch a chill out here,” he murmured affectionately, adjusting the shawl that had slipped from her pale, rounded shoulder.
She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Edward whispered, his voice thick with tenderness.
“Then don’t,” she murmured, her voice like a siren’s call.
*”Stay, and then what?”* The thought sobered him.
If it were that simple, he would’ve stayed long ago. But twenty-three years with his wife couldn’t be erased—and the children… Sarah was practically gone already, spending more nights with her fiancé than at home, wedding bells soon to ring. And little Tommy, only fourteen, right in the thick of adolescence.
A lorry driver could find work anywhere, but the pay here wouldn’t be half what he earned now. Right now, he could afford lavish gifts for Lydia. But if his wages dropped, would she still love him?
“Don’t start this, Lydia,” Edward waved her off.
“Why not? The kids are grown—time to think of ourselves. You’ve said it yourself, you and your wife are just roommates now.” Lydia pulled away, hurt flashing in her eyes.
“Ah, if only I’d met you sooner,” Edward exhaled sharply. “Don’t be angry. I’ve stayed too long already—need to get back if I want to make it home by evening. Got a load, a contract.”
“You always promise. You come, stir my heart, then rush back to her. I’m tired of waiting. Michael’s been asking me to marry him for months.”
“Then go,” Edward shrugged.
He meant to say more but stopped himself. Slowly, he descended the porch steps, rounded the corner of the house, and trudged through the garden toward the motorway where his lorry waited. He always parked there, unwilling to disturb the village with the engine’s roar at dawn.
Climbing into the cab, he noticed Lydia hadn’t followed. Usually, she’d kiss him goodbye. Today, she must truly be upset. Edward settled in, slammed the door, and hesitated before starting the engine. He pulled out his phone and dialed his wife. He never called in front of Lydia, too ashamed. A robotic voice answered—*”The number you have dialed is currently switched off.”* No missed calls either.
Edward shoved the phone away, twisted the key, and the lorry growled to life. It shuddered awake, rolling forward with a slow lurch, tires bumping over the uneven road. A quick honk, a press of the accelerator, and he was gone.
Lydia shivered on the porch, listening to the engine fade, then turned and went inside.
The radio crooned a velvet ballad: *”Darling, darling, my sweet earthly angel…”* Edward hummed along, thoughts lingering on the woman he’d left behind. But soon, his mind shifted to home. *”Why can’t I reach her? When I get back, we’ll talk.”*
Meanwhile, Edward’s wife, Margaret, woke from anesthesia in a hospital bed—and remembered everything.
***
They’d been married over twenty years—twenty-four, to be exact. He was a long-haul driver, good money, stable family, a spacious house. Sarah, nearly grown, about to marry, already working as a hairdresser. Tommy, fourteen, dreaming of the navy.
Then, the call.
At first, Margaret thought it was a prank.
“Hello, Margaret. Waiting for your husband? He’s… *delayed*,” the woman purred, her voice sticky as syrup.
“Is he hurt?” Margaret cut in, her mind leaping to accidents—long roads, heavy cargo, responsibility.
“Oh, he’s hurt all right. With his mistress,” the voice smirked.
“Who is this?” Margaret nearly shouted.
“Wait and see,” the woman laughed before the line went dead.
Panic swallowed her. Images of wreckage, another woman in his arms—who else had her number? Who knew he was on the road? Only *her*. How dare she call? How dare she laugh?
Margaret dialed Edward’s number, then canceled. What if he was driving? What would she even say? She busied herself with chores, but everything slipped through her fingers. That mocking laugh echoed in her skull.
Of course, neither Sarah nor Tommy was home. Sarah was out with her boyfriend, Tommy at a mate’s birthday party.
Needing air, Margaret grabbed her purse and left. She’d pick up mayo, onions, beer—Edward liked a pint or two on weekends. He’d promised to be back by supper. *”What if he doesn’t come?”* The thought gnawed, but she shoved it down.
She took a shortcut—a narrow alley, garages on one side, a concrete wall on the other. Darkening, deserted, but faster. She quickened her pace.
Then—her bag was ripped from her grip. She stumbled, nearly fell, spun around to see a man sprinting away. She chased, shouting, but he vanished. Then—her heel caught, her ankle twisted, and she crashed onto the asphalt. Pain shot through her leg. She sat up, saw the swelling already purpling.
No phone. No way to call for help.
Panic strangled her. No one would hear her shouts. She pictured crawling, bloody-kneed, looking like a drunk. She sobbed.
All because of that cursed call.
Headlights cut through the dark. A man stepped out, opened a garage. Margaret screamed, *”Help!”*
He approached cautiously, eyed her ankle.
“The ambulance will take too long. I’ll carry you,” he said, lifting her.
In the car, he handed her his phone. “Call your family.”
She tried Sarah first—music blared. “Mum, what?”
“I’m hurt! Going to the hospital!”
“Can’t hear you—call later!”
Tommy didn’t answer.
Margaret broke down.
“I’m John,” the man said gently. “You?”
“Margaret.” And suddenly, she told him everything.
***
She woke to sunlight. Her leg throbbed. A nurse leaned in. “Your husband’s here.”
“Edward?”
John stepped in. “Sorry—I said I was him so they’d let me in.”
He’d brought cherries. “Washed them. Wasn’t sure if you’re allergic to strawberries.”
Later, Edward stormed in. “Sarah told me you were hurt. I called every hospital.”
“My phone was stolen.”
“Who was that man? They wouldn’t let me in till I showed ID.”
“The one who brought me here. He lied so they’d let him see me.”
Edward stiffened. “I’ve got another run tonight.”
*”Liar. You’re going to her.”*
“Sarah didn’t visit?”
“Probably with that fiancé.”
“And Tommy?”
“Asleep. Look, I’ve got to get ready.”
“Edward—buy me a phone. A cheap one.”
“Fine.”
He left. Margaret cried.
Sarah finally came, ate the cherries without asking. “Dad brought these?”
Margaret didn’t correct her.
“Tommy’s fine. Drunk at that party—don’t tell Dad.”
*”No one cares,”* Margaret thought.
Three days later, she convinced them to discharge her. John drove her home. The fridge was empty—he offered to shop. She refused.
Edward returned a week later, well-rested.
“Got any food?”
“Edward, you weren’t on a run. You were with *her*.”
His face twisted. “How—?”
*”She called me.”*
His pause was all the answer she needed.
“Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll send money.”
As he packed, she thought, *”Happiness is fleeting. Misery is endless.”*
“Taking Tommy fishing,” Edward muttered at the door.
She waited until he left before collapsing into sobs. Then—a knock.
John stood there. “Thought you might need help.”
She let him in. At least someone had come.
