Simon pulled up to the dreary postwar block of flats and parked discreetly, keeping his number plate out of view. He grimaced at the peeling paint, the unglazed balconies, the windows like blank stares. The few modern double-glazed units stood out like expensive patches on a tramp’s coat. The entire building looked like it had dressed itself from a skip.
Nestled among sickly trees and identical crumbling buildings, this five-storey monument to urban decay had outlasted governments and ideologies, now fading away alongside its elderly residents.
The place gave Simon a tooth-ache of boredom. He’d grown up in a flat just like this, dreaming of escape. And escape he had—top grades, the right university, a degree in economics (because no successful businessman skips that).
When he’d made it, he moved his parents to a nicer postcode—a modern semi with manicured hedges and floral frontage. Out back, his mum grew vegetables (naturally—she’d never sit idle).
Women didn’t just love Simon for his money. Handsome, generous, and old-school charming, he’d nearly married twice—both times to surgically perfected beauties. Then he imagined introducing some leggy socialite to his plain-spoken mother and watched the fantasy crumple.
Emma won him with her understated, natural beauty and a smile that felt like home. He was smitten. Within a month, she met his parents. His mum gave an approving nod—barely perceptible, but enough.
Who could resist that quiet grace? Raised with little, Emma was modest, undemanding. Her father had died young; her mother followed, taken by cancer. Simon lavished her with tenderness. Even a year into marriage, he still blushed like a schoolboy around her.
Then his business partner mentioned spotting Emma near that godforsaken estate—by that very block of flats. What business could she possibly have there?
“Wait—what were *you* doing there?” Simon countered.
“Got lost avoiding traffic. Drove past it by accident.”
*”Cheating? Emma? Impossible!”* Yet an icy dread slithered down his spine. His fists clenched.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” his friend backtracked, catching Simon’s expression. “She’s lovely, but hardly unique. Sorry.”
At home, Emma smiled warmly, affectionate as ever. Surely a guilty wife would avoid intimacy? Yet she nestled closer, soft and trusting.
Something wasn’t right. Either she was Oscar-worthy, his friend was lying… or this wasn’t an affair at all.
The mystery gnawed at him. Next lunchbreak—when she’d supposedly been seen—Simon staked out the flats. To distract himself, he cranked up the radio.
Just as he gave up, Emma appeared. Swiftly, she unlocked the graffiti-scarred entry door, glanced around, and slipped inside.
*”She has a key. Interesting.”* His pulse raced. He nearly chased her but stopped—no key, no way in without raising alarms.
Forty minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up. Emma emerged, climbed in, and left.
Simon drove to work, distracted. By afternoon, he abandoned the office, poured a stiff brandy (uncharacteristically early), and paced like a caged bear.
The front door clicked. Keys clattered onto the hall table. He downed another drink, bracing himself.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Emma’s voice startled him. She noticed the glass. “Drinking? Is everything alright?”
Her eyes widened—was that *fear*?
“Everything’s fine,” he rasped. “But is there something *you* want to tell me?”
She hesitated. “What do you mean?”
*”Such convincing confusion. Bravo.”*
“Where were you at lunch?” He eyed the brandy, considering a refill.
“Did you visit my office? No one told me.”
Simon studied her. Colour drained from her face. Shoulders slumped.
*”Lost for lies? Let’s hear it then. What’s your excuse for visiting that dump?”*
“Don’t lie to me,” he said coldly.
“I… I wanted to tell you sooner.” She sank onto the sofa.
*”Playing the victim now? Clever.”*
“How long have you been lying?” He poured more brandy.
“Please don’t drink. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”
“My head already hurts. Worry about *yours*,” he snapped, gulping it down.
Fear flickered in her eyes again. She looked away.
*”Oh no, love—I want to see your face when you spin this tale.”*
Simon swivelled the sofa towards him violently. Emma yelped, nearly toppling. He returned to the bar, heart hammering. *”No more drinks. Keep control.”*
“I was scared,” she whispered, gripping the sofa. “If you knew the truth… you might’ve left me.”
“So you *have* been cheating all this time?” He gave a drunken chuckle. “Still waters run deep, eh?”
“Please, put the glass down.”
“Start talking. Now.”
“I visit my father. He lives there. Not a lover.”
“Ah, *father*.” Simon swayed on his stool. “Funny—I thought he was dead. Or did I mishear?”
“I lied. I was ashamed.” Her hands clenched between her knees. “He drank. Mum suffered for years, then kicked him out. Later, she looked for him, but… she got sick. Died. I truly thought he had too—until an old neighbour called after our wedding.”
Emma explained: the neighbour, now a hospital cleaner, had recognised her homeless father after he was hit by a car. She’d paid for his care, using only her own salary.
Simon looked away sharply.
He remembered *that night*. Winter, blizzard. Cutting through backstreets to avoid traffic. A shadow lunged. The thud. The stench of unwashed skin and booze. The man had *chosen* those headlights.
He’d nearly driven off. Called an ambulance last second.
Now here they were.
Simon sat beside Emma, took her hands. “I’m sorry. What else does he need? Medical treatment?”
Her shocked stare cut deep. “Liver failure. Heart problems. Surgery would kill him. He has… however long’s left.”
“Our guest house is empty. Move him there. Hire a nurse. Bring your neighbour too, if it helps.” The words surprised even him.
“You’re… not angry?”
“No. He’s family.”
“Simon, you’re the best man alive!” She threw her arms around him.
*”If only you knew. I’m the one who left him bleeding. I’ll tell you someday. Not now.”*
“Just don’t make me meet him,” he added, wincing.
A month later, Emma was pregnant. At first, Simon feared the worst—until her joy registered.
“A *son*! I’m having a *son*!” He spun her giddily.
When her bump swelled, her father died. Simon exhaled. So, he thought, did Emma.
No man, no guilt.
Fate tangles lives long before people meet—knots too tight to undo. Everyone has skeletons. But secrets have expiry dates.
What happens when they’re exposed?
Perhaps the forgiving will be forgiven. In time.
