**Well-Earned Happiness**
Emily returned from work, changed into something comfortable, and sipped her tea. Dinner could wait—James wouldn’t be home for another two hours. She picked up a book, stretched out on the sofa with a sigh, and wiggled her toes. A long day in heels had taken its toll.
Emily was a primary school teacher—trim, polished, always dressed in smart skirts and blouses appropriate for the classroom. Every day meant meetings with parents, some wealthy, some not. She had learned to hold her own, speaking clearly and calmly, never raising her voice. The children respected her. The parents did too.
A few pages in, her eyelids grew heavy. She closed them, drifting off—until the sound of the book hitting the floor startled her awake. Rubbing her eyes, she bent to retrieve it just as the doorbell rang. James had his keys, and he wasn’t due back yet. The bell chimed again—hesitant, short.
Emily checked herself in the hallway mirror, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
There stood Daniel, James’ friend and colleague.
“Hello, Emily.”
“Dan. James isn’t home yet,” she said.
“I know. I came to see you.” He shifted awkwardly.
“Come in.” She stepped aside, letting him pass.
He shrugged off his coat, hung it on the rack, tucked his scarf into the sleeve, then toed off his shoes. Emily watched, uneasy. Why was he here? Had something happened to James?
Daniel straightened his jacket, waiting for an invitation further in.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen,” Emily said.
The heart of every home, where conversations mattered.
Dan led the way, sitting at the table while Emily flicked on the kettle. It hummed to life.
“Tea or coffee?” she asked.
“Tea’s fine.”
She pulled a mug from the cupboard. The biscuit tin was already on the table. The kettle whistled sharply—ready too soon.
Emily poured his tea, nudged the biscuits toward him, then sat opposite.
“You’re not having any?” he asked, clearly uncomfortable.
“You didn’t come for small talk. What’s wrong? Is it James?”
“James is fine,” Dan muttered, pretending to study a biscuit wrapper.
“Well?” Impatience sharpened her tone.
“I’ve wanted to tell you for a while…” He unwrapped the biscuit slowly. “You’re a fantastic woman, Emily. Smart, capable, the perfect wife. I never wanted to interfere, but—I have to open your eyes.” He took a bite, chewing deliberately.
“Spit it out,” she snapped.
“It’s not easy to say…” He sipped his tea loudly.
“Say it.”
“James is having an affair,” he blurted, then coughed, the biscuit catching in his throat.
Emily half-rose, thumped his back, then sat again—and laughed.
“Did you hear me? Don’t you believe me? Or did you already know?” Dan looked wounded.
“Oh, God, I thought it was something serious.” She wiped her eyes, still chuckling.
Now it was Dan’s turn to stare.
“So what? James is handsome, in his prime,” she said coolly. “What’s it to you? Thought you were friends—friends don’t stab each other in the back. How many women have you cheated with, Dan?”
Her words were ice.
“Ruined your own marriage, now here to wreck mine?” She stood, furious.
“I just thought you should know. You do everything for him—cook, clean, bake. And he doesn’t appreciate you.” Dan flushed, whether from shame or the hot tea.
“Had your fun? Now leave. James will be home soon.”
“I’m going. But think about what I said. Really think.”
“Go on, then. Off you pop.” She herded him out.
Dan fumbled in the hallway, searching for a shoehorn before giving up and yanking his shoes on. Emily leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching with cold disdain.
Finally, he wrestled into his coat, grabbed the door handle—then turned back, but Emily shut it firmly behind him.
Back in the kitchen, she dumped his unfinished tea in the sink and sank into a chair.
She and James had met at the theatre. During intermission, the bar queue snaked endlessly.
“I’m parched. We’ll never get served,” her friend fretted.
“Wait here,” Emily had said, weaving to the front.
Two men stood near the counter. She approached quietly. “Could you buy me a water?”
One nodded, handed her a bottle, refusing her money. She thanked him, rejoined her friend, and they drank straight from the bottle like students.
When the lights dimmed, Emily caught James glancing back at her, grinning. After the show, he and his mate waited by the exit.
“Enjoy the play?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m James. This is Mark.”
They introduced themselves, strolling through the cooling evening streets, chatting about the performance before naturally splitting into pairs.
James had been working two years after uni; Emily had just graduated as a teacher. She couldn’t remember their exact words that night—only the giddy thrill of walking beside him.
Mark and her friend fizzled out. But James and Emily never parted. They married in spring, moved into a tiny flat from his company’s housing scheme. A son came within a year, a daughter two years later. When the housing waitlists vanished, they sold their flat, pooled savings with their parents, and bought a proper home. They were young, weathering storms, making up, happy. It felt eternal.
Their son moved to London after uni, chasing his career. Their daughter married young, renting her own place, no rush for children.
Now, Emily stared blankly. They’d settled into each other—a unit. The kids were grown. Life stretched ahead. They weren’t even fifty.
But Dan had shattered that. Jealousy, she decided. He’d split from his wife a decade ago. Used to be couple friends—his wife, Zoe, had been lively, fun. After the divorce, Emily refused to host Dan’s string of flings. He’d made a pass at her once. She shut him down hard.
*Maybe he’s bitter. Or lying. Even if it’s true—does it matter? Men flirt. So do I. That dad from school confessed his crush last month. But it’s nothing. I won’t throw decades away over gossip.*
She decided: silence. No accusations.
Dinner was ready when James arrived. She pushed food around her plate, appetite gone.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Just tired.”
He thanked her, retreated to the living room. The telly droned.
Washing up, she studied the kitchen—walls that had witnessed laughter, tears, secrets. Could she really walk away?
Days passed. James acted normal. If late, he called.
Then she snapped. Cancelled her last class, drove to his office.
“Emily? What’s wrong?” James startled at her sudden appearance.
“Class cancelled. Had lunch?”
“Yeah, just did.” Still shocked.
“Thought we’d eat together. I was nearby, shopping for a birthday dress.” A flicker in his eyes—guilt? *He forgot.*
Before he answered, a petite woman peered in.
“Sorry, James. I’ll come back.”
Their eyes met. *Her.*
“I’ll go. Don’t want to interrupt.” Emily turned.
“Wait!” James called, but she waved him off.
In the corridor, footsteps hurried after her.
“Emily?” The woman. “I’m Natalie. Could we talk?”
A quiet café, mostly empty. Natalie wore a fitted red top, dark eyeliner, lips bold.
“Thought you’d be… stricter. You’re lovely,” she said.
Emily kept silent.
Natalie leaned in. “I love James. I know about your kids, your years together. But feelings fade. Let him go.”
Emily exhaled. “I don’t *hold* him. If he wants to leave, he can. But he won’t.” She pulled photos from her bag—James beaming on holiday, kids hugging him.
“You think he’ll trade this for you? Happiness isn’t stolen. It’s grown. Like a stubborn plant. You can’t snatch mine and call it yours.” She stood. “He won’t choose you.”
She walked out, head high, though every step screamed *run*.
*I can’t live without him. Wake alone, eat alone—why?*
At home, she rifled through drawers, found lipstick, eyeliner. Smeared them on clumsily, horrified by the reflection. *Not me.*
She collapsed on the sofa.
“Emily? Why are you still in your coat?” James frowned at her smudged face. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He returned with a damp cloth, scrubbing the makeup away as she swatted at him, landing a slap.
Then he held her tight. She crumpled, sobbing into his chest.After the tears, the silence, and the unspoken words that hung between them, Emily realized that love wasn’t about grand gestures or fleeting passions—it was about waking up each morning and choosing each other, again and again, until the end. **.**
