On a warm summer afternoon, Emily Whitmore and her husband, James, sent their children off to stay with her parents in the countryside just outside of London. They visited every weekend—sometimes Emily went alone. The village was only a few miles away, so if James was working, she could catch the bus straight after her Friday shift.
She might not have gone every weekend, but she missed the children terribly, and with her father recovering from a stroke, her mother needed help in the garden. This Friday, she packed her things straight after work.
“Jamie, I’m heading straight to the countryside. There’s food in the fridge—help yourself. And come fetch me on Sunday, won’t you? Odd that you’re working Saturday…”
“We’ve got a massive backlog,” James muttered. “The boss promised overtime pay.”
Emily worked as a senior accountant in the city. That Friday, she rushed through her report—so hastily that she made a glaring error and sent it off to regional management without noticing.
On Saturday afternoon, her manager, Mr. Thompson, called.
“Emily, what on earth happened with this report? Head office is furious—fix it now, or you’ll lose your bonus.”
“I’m in the countryside, Mr. Thompson. Maybe tomorrow? What could I possibly have—” He cut her off.
“I don’t care where you are. Sort it. Now.” His voice was so sharp her mother overheard from the next room.
“Who was that shouting?”
“My manager. I must’ve messed up the numbers. I’ll have to go back to the office.”
She hugged her thirteen-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter goodbye. “See you next weekend, loves.”
Back in London, she headed straight to work, disarmed the alarm, and opened the report. After scanning it carefully, she spotted two obvious mistakes.
“How did I miss these? Anyone would see them straight away.” She sighed. “Too much rushing—I was late for the bus.”
By evening, she’d resent the report, locked up, and started home.
“James should be back soon,” she mused, walking slowly. “Strange—he never used to work weekends. Lately, he’s glued to his phone, distracted, irritable. We should talk—without the kids.”
Approaching their flat, she fished for her keys. The kitchen light was on.
“He’s home already?”
Climbing the stairs, her pulse quickened. At their door, she heard slow, romantic music—the kind James always groaned at when she played it. Strange. She eased the door open and saw unfamiliar sandals in the hallway. She knew them—but whose?
Quietly setting her bag down, she peeked into the dim living room. No one. The music played softly. Then, through the balcony curtains, she saw two figures smoking.
“Charlotte,” realization burned through her. “Those are her sandals.” Her stomach twisted—Charlotte was her best friend.
She crept closer, just as Charlotte spoke.
“Jamie, when are you going to tell Emily about us?”
James sounded annoyed. “Char, not this again. I said I’d decide when I’m ready.”
Through the sheer curtain, she saw him in his boxers, Charlotte in his shirt.
“And when will that be?” Emily snapped, yanking the curtain aside.
James dropped his cigarette. Charlotte yelped—it must’ve singed her foot.
“What are you doing here?” Charlotte shrieked. “You weren’t supposed to come back till tomorrow!” She stormed inside. “Maybe it’s good you saw us. Jamie, now’s your chance—tell her!”
Emily stood frozen, heart hammering, but refused to cry.
“Em, you could’ve called,” James muttered.
“Since when do I need permission to come home?”
Charlotte glared, shameless. James finally snapped, “Get dressed. Leave.”
With a huff, she slammed the door behind her.
James exhaled. “Em, it’s not serious—just boredom. I’d never leave the family.”
“You think we still *have* a family?”
“Don’t start. Men do this sometimes. And honestly, look at you—when was the last time you dressed up? Got your hair done? We used to travel. Now it’s just bills and your dad.”
“And whose salary got cut? Now I see why—you’re funding *her*.” Emily’s voice shook. “You disgust me.”
Dizzy, she grabbed her bag and fled. Rain soaked her as she ran blindly, tears mixing with downpour.
The office was her only refuge. She disarmed the alarm, draped her wet clothes over the radiator, and wrapped herself in a spare robe. Tea and biscuits steadied her.
She woke to Mr. Thompson shaking her.
“Emily, have you lost your mind? Why are you here?”
Her story spilled out between sobs.
His stern face softened. “Come home with me. My wife will help.”
Margaret, his wife—who’d once forgiven his own affair—welcomed her warmly. Over breakfast, she asked, “Will you take him back?”
“No.”
Margaret sighed. “It won’t be that simple. You’ve got children. I stayed—and it worked.”
Emily said nothing.
By noon, she was back in the countryside. Her mother took one look and understood.
Mr. Thompson called later. “Take two weeks off. Sort yourself out.”
She told her mother everything. “I’m divorcing him. I can’t forgive this.”
The children, though upset, stood by her. James called daily, begging forgiveness. He visited, claiming he missed the kids. They hesitated—until Emily said, “He’s still your father.” Relieved, they hugged him.
He kept coming, helping her parents, pleading with her mother to intervene.
“She’s a grown woman,” her mother said. “She’ll decide.”
Emily had the divorce papers ready—but couldn’t bring herself to file them. Half a lifetime wasn’t easy to erase. She still loved him, despite everything. Some decisions couldn’t be made in haste.
The lesson? Betrayal cuts deep, but love and family are tangled roots—not easily uprooted. Time, not haste, reveals the right path.
