Emily woke up moments before her alarm chimed. She lay still, steeling herself for another day, identical to the ones before—weeks, months, years slipping by like pages in a book she’d read too many times. Her life unfolded with clockwork precision, predictable, untouched by surprises.
Except one. Years ago, her son had thrown a wrench into their orderly world. He’d enrolled at university and announced he wanted to live on his own. She’d fretted, pleaded—but he’d threatened to drop out and join the army instead. What choice did she have? They’d relented, even paid his rent. After graduation, he’d cut the cord entirely, refusing their help.
Careful not to wake her husband, Emily slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen. Soon, the flat filled with the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee, proper stuff, not the instant swill.
When her husband emerged, smelling of shower gel, a steaming cup and a plate of toast awaited him. No fuss, no eggs or porridge—he’d never been one for breakfast theatrics. He ate in silence, then vanished without a word.
“Running late today—faculty meeting,” he called from the hall.
Emily followed, straightening his tie, smoothing his collar, brushing an invisible speck from his shoulder—a ritual, her final brushstroke on the portrait of their marriage. In winter, it was his scarf; in summer, his tie. The same motion, season after season.
Alone, she tidied up, sipped lemon tea, and settled at her laptop. Freelance translation—French and English novels, academic papers—kept her busy. The work flowed easily today, the book absorbing her. She paused only to flick through dictionaries, hunting exact meanings. Then the phone rang.
“Emily? It’s Margaret from the department.”
The bland voice conjured an image: a tall, flat-chested woman in her fifties, all sharp edges and no charm.
“Hello. Is something wrong? Is it Charles?” Emily’s pulse quickened.
“No, no, he’s fine.” A pause. “I need to speak with you. I’m nearby—could pop round in five. If that’s alright?”
“Of course,” Emily said, though it made no sense. Why would Margaret be near their home during lectures?
Five minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Emily ushered her in.
“Tea? Coffee?”
“No, I won’t stay. Free period, you see—”
They sat on the sofa.
“What is it?” Emily asked.
“Awkward, really. But I can’t stay quiet. Your husband’s seeing a student. Sweet girl, barely twenty. Lives with her disabled mother.”
“Spare me the details.”
“Fair enough. I overheard him on the phone. The girl’s pregnant. He promised he’d stand by her, help raise the child.”
Emily said nothing.
“She’s not the first, you know. There was Vera from linguistics, Nina from sociology… Three months ago, that conference in Vienna? He never went. Rented a cottage outside Oxford instead. Spent three days with her.”
“How do you know that?” Emily refused to believe it. A bitter spinster’s revenge.
“You think I’m jealous. That I want to ruin your life.” Margaret smiled sourly. “Ask yourself—how would it look if this got out? Him, thirty years her senior. Grandfather material. It’s ludicrous.”
Emily snapped back to reality.
“Thank you. If that’s all—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll go.” Margaret stood abruptly.
After she left, Emily stared blankly at the wall. The work in front of her blurred. The dam had broken. She’d expected something like this—but not with a student. How could he?
Years ago, her father had brought home a gawky, bespectacled undergrad—his thesis student. They’d locked themselves in the study, emerged for supper.
“Brilliant lad. Going places,” her father had said.
The boy hunched over his plate, stealing glances at Emily. She’d been at university then, studying languages. His name was Charles. A scholarship boy from some northern backwater. Her father took him under his wing—grad school, dissertation, even helped land him a teaching post. Soon, he was practically family.
Years later, after she’d started translating, he’d shown up unannounced.
“Dad’s at a symposium in Edinburgh. Didn’t he tell you?” she’d asked.
“I came to see you.” He adjusted his glasses, blushing.
“Oh? Need something translated?” She’d smirked.
“I’d like to take you to an exhibition. Turner, Constable—”
She’d wanted to go anyway. None of her friends cared for art. So she went.
To her surprise, he was captivating—erudite, animated, weaving stories about the paintings, then the city itself as they walked home. She barely noticed the thick glasses anymore. Not love, not yet, but interest.
“Give him a chance,” her father had urged. “He’ll go far. I’ll see to that. A solid man. He’ll give you the life you deserve.”
When Charles proposed, she accepted. The wedding was delayed—her father died suddenly. Charles took over his department, finished his thesis. They married a year later.
Her mother grew frail, passed away while Emily was pregnant. Life reshaped itself. She worked from home, raised their son, kept house. She’d adapted. And—until today—she’d believed Charles loved her.
“You were wrong about him, Dad,” she said aloud. “He used us. Took your name, your flat, your job. And all the while, he was cheating.”
Charles’s lectures were legendary. Students flocked to them. He performed, really—more actor than academic. She’d loved listening to him too. The glasses were long gone, replaced by contacts.
Emily warmed her tea, added two sugars—a rare indulgence these days. Even fetched a slice of cake. Lately, she’d been watching her weight. But today called for sugar.
Then she fetched a suitcase, packed Charles’s things, and left it by the door.
“Going somewhere?” he asked when he returned. “Why sit in the dark?” The light flicked on. She blinked.
“No. You are. The flat’s mine—my parents’. You’re moving in with… Sarah, was it? The pregnant student. You promised to take care of her. So do it.”
“What nonsense is this? What student?”
“Don’t. We’re not in a soap opera. Just go.”
“You believe gossip?”
When the door slammed, she cried—for herself, for lost years. She’d given him everything. And he—
Days later, their son came, urging forgiveness.
“You should see how they’re living. A tiny flat with her disabled mother. A baby coming—”
“He should’ve thought of that. He had everything—even a wife he didn’t love. Now he’s got nothing but a pregnant girl. His choice.”
“What’ll you do alone?”
“I’ll manage. Stay with me if you’re worried. Plenty of space.”
He did—first to support her, then for good. Four months later, Charles collapsed mid-lecture. A heart attack.
At the funeral, they praised him, tactfully omitting the affairs. Emily felt no guilt. Though—being cast out had killed him. He wasn’t built for hardship.
A month later, their son brought Sarah home. She peered nervously from behind him.
“Mum, she’s staying. The baby’s due soon. Their place isn’t fit. If you kick her out, I’ll go too.”
Emily said nothing. What could she say? She’d lost Charles. She couldn’t lose her son.
“Fine.” She retreated to her room.
The next morning, she packed a bag.
“I’ll stay at the cottage till autumn. I can’t look at her. Need time to think. Spent my life waiting on your father—not doing it for her.”
“Mum, I feel awful. Like I’m kicking you out.”
“My decision. No one’s kicking me.”
At the cottage, she finally slept. Woke late, worked in the quiet.
“Hello!” A man’s voice called over the fence as she wandered the overgrown garden. “Neighbour. Staying long?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Got a proposal. Your plot’s big—barely used. Mine’s tiny. Mind if I plant potatoes behind your house? I’ll share the harvest.”
She agreed. The rows wouldn’t bother her. She wasn’t staying past September anyway.
Next morning, tea in hand, she watched him through the window—shirtless, digging, sun glinting off sweat-slicked skin. He straightened suddenly, caught her staring, waved. She flinched but didn’t look away.
Days passed. She’d watch him work. Once, she asked how he got in—the gate was locked. He showed her the loose fence panel. Told her about his divorce, leaving the flat to his ex andShe waved back, knowing in that moment that life, however unexpected, still held quiet promises of happiness. .
