Just wanted to be happy.
Emily tossed the duvet aside, flipped her damp pillow, and lay back down. The room felt slightly cooler, but sleep still wouldn’t come. Outside, the occasional car hissed past, tyres whispering on wet tarmac. But it wasn’t the noise that kept her awake—it was her thoughts. *Where’s that late-night driver rushing to? Home? Or is he running away from something, vanishing into the dark? Who’s waiting for him? Bloody heat…*
She sighed and got up. She knew every inch of her flat, so she didn’t bother turning on the light. In the kitchen, she stood by the window. Across the street, two windows glowed. *Someone waiting… or mourning?*
Young leaves rustled, blocking her view. Emily flicked on the nightlight and poured herself water from the kettle. Switching it off, she glanced back—one window had gone dark. She sipped slowly, the cool water calming her body. The lino chilled her bare feet.
Setting the empty glass on the sill, she wandered back. But she couldn’t face the damp, crumpled sheets. Instead, she curled up on the stiff single bed in the spare room, resting her head on a lumpy pillow stuffed with god-knows-what.
And then, unexpectedly… she fell asleep.
—
*”Kiss! Kiss!”* The wedding guests clinked champagne glasses, cheering.
William stood, taking Emily’s hand. In her heels, she was nearly his height, eye-to-eye for once instead of looking up. He gazed at her—admiration, love, desire plain on his face. She leaned in, tilting her head so her veil shielded them from the guests.
*”One, two, three…”* The tipsy crowd counted.
Mum had always said a woman makes the home, supports her husband. So Emily threw herself into building her happiness.
At first, she and William did everything together—shopping, cooking, laughing between kisses. Until one day, distracted, they nearly burned the roast. They were in love. It felt like forever.
Two years later, Emily gave birth to little Sophie. Mum helped at first.
*”I’m exhausted,”* Emily complained about William never lifting a finger.
*”He works hard, love. That’s a woman’s lot—home and child,”* Mum said. *”Nap when Sophie does. If he’s tired, how’s he meant to work?”*
Emily grew used to snatched sleep, even dozing on park benches during pram walks. When Sophie turned two, Emily went back to work.
*”Once I retire in five years, we’ll take Sophie, and you can have another,”* Mum mused.
But returning to her career, Emily couldn’t face a second child. William didn’t push. It never happened.
*”Men stray because mistresses stay pretty. Wives get sloppy,”* Mum chided.
So Emily made sure William always saw her polished. She woke early to fix her hair, her makeup.
Still, it wasn’t enough. Sophie grew up, left home, and Emily noticed William swapping suits for joggers. He took up running—already fit, but suddenly *”it’s the trend.”*
Then, lipstick on his collar. She confronted him. Caught off guard, he stammered, then confessed. Asked her to let him go.
*”Am I stopping you? Go. But don’t come back.”*
She packed his bags dry-eyed. He lingered in the hallway, glancing back, expecting tears, pleading.
Emily stood arms crossed. *Not a chance.*
He left. She collapsed on the sofa, buried her face in that same lumpy pillow, and howled. Life had no meaning. By dawn, she decided to swallow a fistful of pills—even fetched the bottle. But first, she called her best friend.
Her friend sensed trouble, rushed over.
*”Don’t you dare. Imagine him bragging—’Women die for me.’ Don’t give him that.”*
She didn’t take the pills. Slowly, she rebuilt. Found freedom in solitude—sleeping in, no makeup, cooking less. She slimmed down, blossomed. Savings on groceries became new clothes. Retail therapy, the best cure.
Then Sophie had a baby, and Emily rediscovered purpose. She adored being Grandma—lullabies, storybooks, sandcastles at the park.
She fantasised about William seeing her now, realising what he’d lost. Did his new wife make porridge? Or just toast? Maybe *he* brought *her* coffee in bed. The image stung—him at the stove, grocery bags in hand.
*Was he happy without her?*
One afternoon at the playground, a man her age sat beside her.
*”Blimey, this weather! April, feels like July. Your grandson? Spitting image. That little lass there’s my Katie. Proper little beauty, eh?”*
He didn’t need replies, just an ear.
*”When my kids were small, the wife kept me away—worried I’d muck it up. Missed it all. First steps, first words… Gone. But with Katie? I’m making up for lost time. Know more about her than her parents do.”* He sighed. *”If I could go back… My Lizzie never complained. Gone now. Widower.”*
Emily thought of William. *Did he have a new child? Changing nappies, making lump-free porridge?*
She resented him for Sophie’s sake. Then resented the man beside her, cutting their visit short despite little Danny’s protests.
Next day, they met again. This time, Emily bragged about Danny’s milestones.
Later, the man sighed. *”Lonely, this. Wife’s gone, kids are busy, Katie’ll grow up… I’m not old. Could find someone.”* His gaze lingered.
Emily considered it—decent bloke, no vices. She wasn’t old either. But… *Strange man, his habits, his past. No.* After that, she took Danny to the next playground over.
—
Morning. Emily woke headachey. She was fixing breakfast when the buzzer rang.
*”Sophie’s early today,”* she muttered, heading to the door.
But it was William. She barely recognised him. Where was the polished, youthful man? Gone. Deep wrinkles, thinning hair. His jacket hung loose on gaunt shoulders. His eyes—haunted, like a kicked dog.
*”Em… Thought I’d stop by.”* He shrank under her stare.
No bag. *Scouting the land,* she thought smugly. *”What’s wrong?”*
As he took off his shoes, she spotted his grubby collar. Pity flickered. *His new wife wore him out. Look at him—half the man. No point gloating. We shared a life, a child, memories.*
He caught her softening, seized it. *”Em, I’m not well.”*
*”I see.”*
*”She’s lovely, but young. Wants fun. Can’t keep up. Stomach’s ruined.”* He sucked in a shaky breath. *”Can I stay? Just for a bit?”*
*”Fine. My rules.”* She couldn’t turf him out like a stray.
*”Anything, love. I can cook now—porridge without lumps!”*
Pity won. He was family, in the end.
She reheated soup, made up the narrow spare bed. That night, she heard him toss, sigh. At dawn, she put the kettle on, made porridge. He didn’t emerge. *Sleeping like the dead. Or—?*
She found him cold. Clapped a hand over her mouth. *He came home to die.*
The paramedics said it was a clot. Quick, painless. She buried him properly.
A week later, leaving with Danny, she spotted a young woman at the gate—checked tote bag, market-style. She knew.
*”Emily?”*
Emily studied her—William’s new wife. Pretty, but not stunning.
*”I brought his things.”* She held out the bag.
Emily stepped back. *”What for?”*
*”Where’s his grave? I… didn’t dare come to the funeral.”*
*”Keep the stuff. He’s at Greenfields.”*
*”I sent him back. Saw how he missed you…”*
*”Why take him then? Didn’t you know his age? What did you want?”*
The woman looked down. *”Just wanted to be happy.”*
She hurried off, bag in hand. Emily watched, pity swelling. William was gone. No point in anger.
*But I’m happy. I’ve got Sophie. Danny. And I’m alive.*
She took Danny’s hand, chattering about sandcastles as they walked to the park.
