James pulled up beside the grimy five-storey block of flats and parked so the number plate wouldn’t attract attention. He scowled at the peeling, unglazed balconies and the blank, lifeless windows. The modern double-glazed panes stood out like fresh patches on worn-out clothes. The building looked like a tramp—dressed in whatever rags it had scavenged.
Tucked between sickly trees and other crumbling houses, the block had outlived multiple governments and regimes, now fading into old age alongside its residents.
To James, the place brought a dull ache of nostalgia—boring, tooth-grindingly familiar. He’d grown up in a flat just like this. And he’d been desperate to escape. Not just daydreaming, either—he’d worked for it. Top marks in school, the right university, the right degree, then an MBA. You couldn’t build a successful business without understanding finance.
Once he’d made it, he moved his parents to a nicer neighbourhood—a modest but modern house with a garden. Out front, neatly trimmed bushes and bright flowers; out back, his mum’s vegetable patch. She couldn’t sit still.
Women didn’t just love James for his money. Handsome, generous, charming—he could have married any of the polished beauties he dated, their looks meticulously sculpted by surgeons. But then he imagined introducing some leggy, silicone-enhanced fiancée to his down-to-earth mum and watching her shrink into the background.
Emily won him over with quiet, natural beauty and a warm smile. He fell hard. Within a month, he brought her home. His mum took one look and nodded, just slightly, a flicker of approval in her eyes.
Who could resist such effortless charm? Emily was humble, undemanding. Her father had passed; her mother soon followed, taken by cancer. James showered her with tenderness. Even a year into their marriage, he still blushed like a schoolboy around her.
Then his business partner claimed he’d spotted Emily in that godforsaken part of town, near that same peeling block of flats. What could she possibly be doing there?
*”And what were *you* doing there?”* James shot back.
*”Got stuck in traffic, took a shortcut, got lost.”*
*”Cheating? Emily? No way.”* But an icy shiver slithered down his spine. His fists clenched.
*”Maybe I was wrong,”* his partner backtracked, seeing his expression. *”She’s pretty, but not exactly one of a kind. Sorry.”*
At home, Emily was all smiles, affectionate, completely at ease. A cheating wife—he’d assumed—would avoid intimacy. But she leaned into him, pliant, trusting.
Something wasn’t right. Either she was a brilliant actress, or his mate had been mistaken. Or worse—was he being played?
The mystery gnawed at him. So he decided to follow her.
At lunch—the time his partner had seen her—James parked near the flats, cranked up the radio, and waited. Just as he was about to leave, she appeared, hurrying to one of the entrances. A key in the coded lock, a glance over her shoulder, then she vanished inside.
*”She has a key. Interesting.”* His heart hammered like a bloodhound on a scent. He nearly chased after her but stopped—no key. By the time he buzzed random flats, begging entry, she’d be long gone.
So he waited, drumming his fingers on the wheel to the tune of Il Divo. Forty minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up. Emily stepped out, climbed in, and left.
James didn’t follow.
Back at the office, he couldn’t focus. That shabby block—Emily’s secret—consumed him. He left early, poured himself a hefty brandy. Normally, he wouldn’t drink so early, but his brain needed the dulling effect.
*”Ah, Emily. What’s missing? You seemed so solid, so uncomplicated…”* He paced their spacious home like a caged bear.
The front door clicked; keys clattered onto the hall table. He downed another brandy just as she walked in.
*”Why are you sitting in the dark?”* Her voice startled him. *”You’re drinking? What’s wrong—work?”*
Her eyes widened—fear?
*”Fine. But don’t *you* have something to tell me?”* His voice was rough.
*”I don’t understand. About what?”*
*”That innocent look—impressive. Bravo.”*
*”Where were you at lunch?”* He eyed the bottle.
*”Did you drop by my office? Nobody told me—”* She faltered. Shoulders slumped, colour draining.
*”Don’t lie.”*
*”I… I wanted to tell you sooner,”* she whispered, sinking onto the sofa.
James watched her, cold. *”Playing the victim? Won’t work.”*
*”Then talk. I’m waiting.”*
*”I visit my father. Not a lover—my father.”*
*”Ah. Father. Well, that’s different.”* He swayed slightly. *”I thought he was dead. Or did I mishear?”*
*”I lied. I was ashamed.”* Her hands clenched between her knees. *”He drank—badly. Mum kicked him out. A year later, she got sick… died. I thought he’d died too—until an old neighbour called. She’s a nurse now, recognised him when he was brought in after an accident.”*
James’ stomach lurched.
He remembered that night. Winter, blizzard, a dark side street. A shadow darting under his wheels. The stench of booze and unwashed skin. He’d nearly driven off—but called an ambulance instead.
*”How could I tell you?”* Emily’s voice wavered. *”You’re successful—he’s a drunk. I paid the nurse to care for him. Never touched your money.”*
James couldn’t meet her eyes.
*”Move him here,”* he heard himself say. *”The guesthouse is empty. Hire a nurse—or bring yours.”*
*”You’re not angry?”*
*”No. He’s family.”*
*”James, you’re the best!”* She threw her arms around him.
*”Don’t make me meet him, though.”*
*”Of course. Thank you.”*
Weeks later, he’d see a heavyset woman wheel a frail man onto the veranda, tucking blankets around him. James never approached.
Then Emily announced she was pregnant. For a second, panic flared—*someone else’s child?*—but her radiant smile cleared the fog.
*”A son! I’m having a son!”* He spun her around, laughing.
When her bump swelled, her father died. James exhaled. Even Emily seemed relieved.
No man, no guilt.
Fate tangles lives long before people meet. Skeletons in the closet—common enough. But secrets have a way of surfacing. And then?
Perhaps forgiveness given is forgiveness earned. In time.
