**You’ll Always Be with Me…**
Emily turned the sizzling pieces of meat in the pan, covered it with a lid, and heard the growl of an engine and the crunch of tyres on the gravel outside the open window. Victor was home, and she hadn’t finished dinner. She checked the apple pie in the oven, pulled vegetables from the fridge, and started washing them.
“Em, I’m back!” Victor called from the hall. “Smells amazing!” He inhaled deeply as he stepped into the kitchen, the savoury aroma filling the air.
“Hungry?” Emily turned off the tap and faced him. “You’re early. Dinner isn’t ready yet.”
“No matter, I’ll wait. And pudding for tea?”
“Yes, apple pie. Can you hold on a bit longer?”
“Course.” He wandered into the living room while Emily chopped vegetables for the salad. She hated multitasking, especially cooking several dishes at once—one distraction, and something always burned. But today, everything was perfect. She set the table and went to fetch Victor. He was sprawled on the sofa in front of the telly, eyes half-closed, the evening news murmuring in the background. Before she could decide whether to wake him, he blinked awake.
“Tired? You look…” She shook her head, searching for the right word.
“A bit. Supper ready?” He hauled himself up, and they walked to the kitchen together.
“Mmm. Lovely spread, and that smell!” Victor surveyed the table.
“Fancy some wine? We’ve a bit left,” Emily offered.
“Not tonight.”
She loved watching him eat—hungry but neat. Truth be told, she loved everything about him. Loved cooking for him, ironing his shirts, falling asleep against his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she loved him as he was, quirks and all.
***
They’d met when both already carried the scars of past marriages. Emily hadn’t conceived in her first marriage, though doctors found nothing wrong. “These things happen,” they’d said. “Be patient.”
While Emily waited, her husband hadn’t. A friend spotted him in a shopping centre with a heavily pregnant woman—buying baby clothes. Emily refused to believe it at first. Their marriage was good; he wouldn’t… But the pieces fell into place.
A scene? What good would it do? The baby was innocent—it deserved a father. Heartbroken, she let him go. If he’d stayed, she couldn’t bear the lies, the sneaking around. This wasn’t a fling. It was love, if it led to a child. And that meant his love for her was gone.
He came home late, as usual. Emily couldn’t cook, couldn’t focus on the telly. Her chest ached with betrayal.
“You ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa in the dark.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Your parents, then? Out with it.” He stood baffled, concerned.
“It’s you. You’ve 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 go now, or—”
“Now.” Emily turned away, clinging to composure while fury and despair clawed at her insides.
He packed silently, never looking at her. Part of her longed for him to beg, to promise change. Another part just wanted him gone.
The suitcase wheels rattled to a halt beside the sofa.
“Mind if I get the rest tomorrow?”
She nodded, eyes averted.
The wheels clicked over laminate, fading down the hall. The front door shut. The lock clicked. And just like that, it was real—she was alone. Then the tears came. She sobbed until she choked, convinced life held nothing left: no family, no love, no joy. It was over.
She paced the flat barefoot all night, wept into pillows, but dragged herself to work the next morning, eyes swollen, nose blocked. Colleagues sent her home, assuming she was ill. Returning, she noticed—everything of his was gone. Even the toothbrush. Even the shirt in the wash. As if eight years had vanished.
Was that good or bad? Eventually, she decided good. No reminders to salt the wound. His fastidiousness now a blessing, when she’d once cursed his mess. Like ripping off a plaster—better quick than slow. No excuses to return for “forgotten” things. No stumbling over relics of their life. Still, she grieved long and hard.
A year later, she met Victor at the bank, inquiring about a mortgage. Over coffee, he admitted his ex-wife had changed after their daughter’s birth—constant criticism, outbursts if he forgot to call. He’d suggested a break, sent her to visit a friend in Edinburgh. She returned happy, announcing she’d rekindled things with an old flame. She left, took their daughter.
“At first, I visited, brought gifts,” Victor said. “But my girl grew distant. Her mother said she had a new dad now…”
Two lonely souls. Their fire blazed instantly. With Victor, Emily felt centuries of familiarity. She invited him for coffee. Six months later, they married.
But no children came.
“Don’t fret,” Victor would say. “Nappies, late feeds—I’ve done it. And still lost everything. You’d be exhausted, cross. We’d argue… Aren’t we happy as we are?”
Their money went into their home. Finally, the house was perfect. Mortgages cleared, debts paid, one year left of child support. Time to enjoy life…
***
“Penny for your thoughts?” Victor asked.
Emily startled. She’d drifted deep into memory.
“Nothing. Just remembering… You’re pale.”
“Tired. Long day.” He stretched, yawned.
“Go rest,” she sighed. “I’ll wash up.”
By the time she finished and entered the living room, Victor was dozing before the muted telly.
“Vic, bed.” She shook his shoulder.
He blinked awake. “Nodded off. Knackered today.”
“You did. Go on up. I’ll follow.”
He rubbed his eyes, kissed her cheek, and trudged upstairs.
Emily locked up, showered. Victor was already asleep when she slid under the duvet. He rolled over but didn’t stir. Soon, she slept too.
A rasping woke her—Victor gasping, thrashing.
“Vic?! Vic!” She flicked on the lamp. His face was crimson, eyes bulging. He tried to rise but collapsed, silent.
She shook him, screamed. No response.
Frantically, she dialled 999. Busy. Again. Again. Same infuriating tone. She rang colleagues, begged them to try.
In slippers and a dressing gown (when had she put it on?), she sprinted to the neighbours, hammered on the wrought-iron gate. A dog barked. Lights blazed. James appeared.
“Emily? What’s wrong?”
“I—I—” Words failed. “Vic’s… help—”
His wife hurried out. “Ambulance won’t connect!”
“Your door open?” James asked.
“Yes! Hurry!”
“Get her inside, give her valerian!” James bolted next door.
Emily babbled through tears—waking, his fall…
“Mum?” Their teenage son peered down the stairs.
“Bed. Now,” his mother ordered.
“He can’t be… He’s forty-four. Never ill, never complained…”
Sirens wailed at last. Emily dashed back as paramedics descended the stairs with a sheet-covered stretcher. She screamed, lunged. Someone held her fast.
“Easy, love. You’ll need your strength,” James murmured, crushing her to his chest as she writhed, howled. “Gone straightaway…”
“No! It’s not true!” She broke free, flung herself at the stretcher. A jab in her arm—sudden limpness.
The ambulance left.
“Inside, you’ll freeze. Can’t help him now,” James said, steadying her faltering steps.
She let him guide her inside, legs buckling. He seated her on the sofa—Victor’s sofa.
“Leave me,” she whispered.
“Sure?”
Face in hands, she wept anew. Dawn found her still awake. She called in sick, trudged into the grey morning. A neighbour’s dog howled, chain clinking.
That bush—Victor trimmed it last weekend. The patio glistened with dew—his handiwork. His car sat by the garage. Everywhere, traces of him. He was here. And yet not.
She lifted her tear-swollen face to the leaden sky. Daylight crept in.
“You’re not there,” she said aloud. “If you were, you wouldn’t have taken him.”
Back inside, she rang Victor’s family, his daughter. They’d come for the funeral. Last, she called her mum.
“When’s the—? Never mind. I’m coming.”
Mechanically, Emily dressed, hailed a taxi—noShe whispered to the empty room, “You’ll always be with me,” and folded his favourite jumper into the chest of memories, sealing away the ache with the scent of him still lingering in the threads.
