**A Well-Earned Happiness**
Emily came home from work, changed into something comfy, and sipped her tea. Too early for dinner yet—plenty of time. James wouldn’t be back for another couple of hours. She grabbed a book, flopped onto the sofa, and blissfully stretched out her legs. A day in heels had taken its toll.
Emily was a primary school teacher—trim, with a neat bob, always dressed in sensible suits and understated dresses. School dress code and all that. Every day meant meetings with parents from all walks of life, and she’d learned the fine art of blending in—never standing out among the less well-off, never fading beside the more successful. Over the years, she’d mastered speaking clearly and calmly, without raising her voice. Kids and parents respected her.
A few pages in, her eyelids grew heavy. She let them flutter shut and drifted off, only to wake when the book slid off her lap and thumped onto the floor. Rubbing her eyes, Emily bent to pick it up—just as the doorbell rang. James had his own key, and it was too early for him anyway. The bell rang again, short and hesitant.
She checked the hallway mirror, smoothed her mussed hair, and opened the door.
On the step stood Oliver, James’s friend and colleague.
“Hello, Emily.”
“Hi, Ollie. James isn’t home yet,” she said.
“I know. Actually, I came to see you.” He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Come in.” She stepped aside, letting him shuffle in.
Oliver shrugged off his coat, hung it on the hook, and stuffed his scarf into the sleeve. Then he toed off his shoes. Emily watched, wondering what on earth had brought him here. Had something happened to James?
Oliver straightened his jacket and glanced at her, clearly waiting for an invitation further in.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Emily said.
Everyone knew the best conversations happened in the kitchen.
Oliver went ahead and sat at the table. Emily flicked the kettle on. It hissed to life instantly.
“Tea or coffee?” she asked, glancing back at him.
“Wouldn’t say no to tea,” he muttered.
She pulled out a mug. The biscuit tin was already on the table. The kettle, barely cooled from earlier, shrilled almost immediately.
Emily poured his tea and nudged the biscuits toward him before sitting opposite.
“Aren’t you having one?” Oliver asked, clearly uncomfortable.
“You didn’t come here for a cuppa. What’s going on? Is it James?” she countered.
“James is fine,” Oliver said, staring at the biscuit selection like it held life’s answers.
“Spit it out,” Emily pressed.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He plucked a biscuit and studied the wrapper. “You’re a smart woman, great homemaker…” he began, unwrapping it. “Didn’t want to interfere. But you ought to know—James is cheating on you.” He popped the biscuit in his mouth and chewed.
“Well? Do I need to shake it out of you?” Emily’s patience was thinning.
“Look, it’s not easy to say…” Oliver slurped his tea noisily.
“Say it.”
“James is having an affair,” Oliver blurted, then promptly choked on his biscuit.
Emily half-rose, thumped him on the back, then sat again—and laughed.
“Did you hear me? Don’t you believe me? Or did you already know?” Oliver looked crestfallen.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake—I thought something *terrible* had happened,” she said, wiping her eyes.
Now it was Oliver’s turn to gape.
“So what? James is fit, in his prime,” Emily said. “And since when is it your business? Thought you were mates. Mates don’t rat each other out. How many flings have *you* had?” She eyed him coldly.
“Wrecked your own marriage, now here to wreck mine?” She even stood, arms crossed.
“I’m just trying to help. You do everything for him—cook, clean, bake. You’re perfect. And he doesn’t appreciate you,” Oliver mumbled, flushing—whether from shame or hot tea was unclear.
“Had your fun? Now leave. James’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll go. But think about what I said. Really think.”
“Off you pop, *saviour*,” Emily said, shooing him.
Oliver scrambled to the hall, craning his neck for the shoehorn. Finding none, he groaned as he bent to yank his shoes on. Emily leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching with icy impatience.
Finally, he wrestled into his coat, fumbled with the lock, and stepped onto the landing—his scarf trailing like a defeated banner. He turned, mouth open, but Emily shut the door in his face.
Back in the kitchen, she dumped his half-finished tea in the sink and slumped into a chair.
She and James had met at the theatre. During intermission, the bar queue was endless. Emily and her friend joined the back.
“I’m *dying* of thirst. Think we’ll make it?” her friend fretted.
“Stay here,” Emily said, then marched to the front.
Near the counter, she spotted two blokes. She approached and quietly asked if they’d buy her a water.
One nodded, got the bottle, and handed it over—refusing her money. Emily thanked him and rejoined her friend. They took turns sipping straight from the bottle.
On the way back to their seats, James kept glancing around, searching for her. Their eyes met; Emily looked away, flustered. He spent the second act stealing glances.
After the show, the girls found the boys waiting outside.
“Enjoy the play?” asked the one who’d bought her water.
“Very much,” Emily said.
“I’m James, this is Simon, my mate.”
Introductions made, they wandered the emptying streets, the day’s heat fading into cool evening. At first, they walked as a group, dissecting the play. Then they paired off.
James had been working post-uni for two years; Emily had just finished teacher training.
She couldn’t recall their first conversation, but she remembered the giddy joy of walking beside him under the streetlights.
Her friend and Simon fizzled out. Emily and James never parted. They married that spring, got a tiny flat through James’s job, had a son a year later, then a daughter two years after. The company upgraded them to a two-bed. It was bliss.
Council waiting lists were scrapped, but they privatised their flat, sold it, and—with some parental help—bought a proper house. Young, resilient, they weathered storms, made up, and were happy. It felt endless.
Their son moved to London after uni, focused on his career. Their daughter married young, a student still, renting with her husband, no rush for kids.
Now, Emily stared blankly at the wall. She and James had grown into each other, two halves of one whole. The kids were independent. Life stretched ahead—they weren’t even fifty yet.
Then Oliver showed up, poisoning it all. Jealous, probably. Others were, too. Friends divorced, remarried; she and James stayed solid.
Oliver’s divorce was a decade back. They’d been couple-friends. His ex, Sophie, had been lively and fun—Emily liked her. After the split, she didn’t want Oliver parading new women around. He’d even tried it on with Emily once. She’d shut him down.
*Maybe he’s nursing a grudge. Or maybe it’s nothing. How would Oliver even know? Was he holding the candle? Flirting isn’t cheating. And even if it happened—so what? Men stray sometimes. Doesn’t mean it’s serious. No, don’t overreact. I like male attention too. That dad from school recently confessed he fancied me. It’s just banter, not betrayal. I won’t let this wreck us. The kids adore their dad. I can’t imagine life without him. So many years…*
She decided: say nothing for now. Business as usual.
Dinner was ready when James got home—quick, simple. She wasn’t hungry, just poked at her potatoes.
“You alright?” James asked.
“Just tired.”
He thanked her for dinner, disappeared into the living room. The telly hummed to life.
Washing up, Emily scanned the cosy kitchen—walls that had witnessed joy, tears, rows, and make-ups. Countless childhood secrets. Could all that really be erased? Replaced?
For days, she wrestled with herself, insisting everything was normal. James acted the same. If he was late, he always called.
Then she cracked. She went to his office—why? She didn’t know. Kids behave differently at school, at home, out and about. Maybe men do too. Maybe she’d understand. She cancelled her last lesson (to her pupils’ delight) and went.
“Emily? What’s wrong?” James looked startled when she appeared in his officeShe smiled, took his hand, and knew—no matter what storms came, their love was worth every battle.
