“Like a Suitcase with a Broken Handle…”
“Toby, don’t come round anymore. Alright?” I said calmly.
“What do you mean? Not today?” Toby frowned, confused.
…It was early morning, and Toby was already standing in the hallway, rushing off to work.
“No, don’t come at all,” I clarified.
“Huh… What’s happened, Diane? Right, I’ll ring you later,” Toby planted a quick kiss on my cheek and hurried off. I shut the door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief.
…I’d hesitated for ages before saying those words. They hadn’t come easily. Toby had been like family.
Last night, I’d been passionate, insatiable—my way of saying goodbye. Toby hadn’t suspected a thing.
He’d just grinned and said,
“Diane! You’re brilliant today. Absolute goddess! Stay like this forever. Love you, sweetheart.”
…We’d been family friends once—me, my husband Rob, Toby, and his wife Bella (he always called her “Squirrel,” his pet name for her).
Our youth had been loud, reckless, and wild. Truth be told, I’d always fancied Toby. Whenever I bought a dress, shoes, or a handbag, I’d wonder if he’d like it. Bella was my best friend.
We’d been through so much together—too much to tell. I knew Toby fancied me too, but we’d always kept our distance.
At gatherings, he’d hug me gently and whisper,
“Di, I’ve missed you so much.”
Honestly, I think when families are close like that, there’s always some attraction—men to women, or vice versa. People are weak when tempted. Someone always fancies someone else’s spouse. That’s why they stay friends—until the moment comes. I don’t believe men and women can just be friends. Sooner or later, there’s a slip-up. It’s like lighting a fire next to a haystack—sooner or later, it all goes up in flames.
…My Rob would lick his lips and sneak glances at Bella. I’d caught him at it more than once, giving him a playful smack.
He’d just laugh it off.
“Don’t be daft, Di! We’re just mates!”
Then, grinning, he’d add,
“Only the dead are sinless.”
I never doubted Bella—she’d never cross the line. But my Rob? He loved picking fruit from other people’s orchards. That’s why, after twenty years, we divorced. He married one of those “fruits” when she started babbling about a baby. By then, our own kids had grown and left. I packed Rob’s suitcase and wished him luck in his new life.
At first, I wallowed. “So this is what lonely feels like,” I’d sigh.
Bella and Toby would pop round, full of pity. Truth is, I wasn’t suffering—though I did start hating holidays. They made the emptiness worse—no one to bicker with, laugh with, or cry with.
…Three years later, Toby was widowed. Death spares no one. Bella had suffered for a year before passing, and her last wish was for me to look after Toby.
“Keep an eye on him, Di. I don’t want some other woman getting her hands on him. He’s always liked you—I could tell. Stay together.”
Toby grieved properly—a granite headstone, fresh flowers on her grave. Then, slowly, he started coming round. I welcomed him openly, helping him through his loss with warmth and care. We had memories to share, tears to shed, laughter to spare.
…We’d walked a long road together, splitting joys and sorrows down the middle. Toby and I grew closer than ever.
But over time, I started feeling smothered. Everything about him grated—his fussiness, his endless chatter about nothing, his picky eating. The spark had gone. Maybe Bella had truly loved him, putting up with his quirks.
I began questioning myself. Maybe I’d grown too used to solitude. My fondness for Toby evaporated, and when he started driving me mad, I decided to cut ties. I’d give him one unforgettable night—something to remember me by—then walk away for good.
Toby, though, adored me blindly, convinced we were perfect. He’d smile sweetly at my jabs, kiss my hands, never argue.
“Don’t be cross, Di,” he’d say. “I’ll fix everything. You won’t get rid of me that easily. Who’ll love you like I do?”
And he was right—who would? His words always melted me like a candle.
…Toby rang me on his lunch break.
“Diane! What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he fretted.
“I’m fine. Come home early. I’ve missed you,” I mumbled, feeling guilty.
I sighed. He was like a suitcase with a broken handle—too much hassle to carry, too sentimental to toss. Our paths were tangled now.
What else could I do? Abandon a widower entrusted to me? Let him fade away alone?
Sometimes, love isn’t about passion—it’s about loyalty, even when the fire’s gone out.
