Emily stood by the window, watching the thick London snow blanket the city. Her phone call with her husband was winding downjust another routine chat among countless others in their fifteen years of marriage. James, as usual, was updating her about his “business trip” in Manchester: everything was fine, meetings were on schedule, hed be back in three days.
“Alright, love, talk soon,” Emily said, moving the phone away to tap the red end-call button. But something stopped her. On the other end, she distinctly heard a womans voicebright, youthful, melodic:
“Jamie, are you coming? Ive run the bath”
Emilys hand froze mid-air. Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered so hard it felt like it might burst from her chest. She pressed the phone back to her ear, but all she heard was the dull toneJames had already hung up.
She sank into the armchair, legs giving way beneath her. Her mind raced: “Jamie A bath What bath on a business trip?” Memories of the past few months flashedhis frequent trips, late-night calls taken on the balcony, the unfamiliar cologne lingering in his car.
With trembling hands, she opened her laptop. Logging into his email was easyshe still knew the password from the days when trust was unshakable. Tickets, hotel bookings A “honeymoon suite” in a five-star Manchester hotel. For two.
Scrolling further, she found the messages. Chloe. Twenty-six. Personal trainer. “Darling, I cant do this anymore. You promised to leave her three months ago. How much longer?”
Emily felt sick. She remembered their first dateJames, then just a junior manager; her, a junior accountant. Theyd saved for their wedding, renting a tiny flat, celebrating small victories, weathering setbacks together. Now he was a commercial director, she the head accountant at the same firm, and between them stretched a gap fifteen years wideand twenty-six years deep.
In the hotel room, James paced furiously.
“Why would you do that?” His voice shook with anger.
Chloe lounged on the bed, wrapped in a silk robe, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow.
“Whats the big deal?” She stretched like a satisfied cat. “You said you were leaving her anyway.”
“That wasnt your call! Do you realise what youve done? Emily isnt stupidshell figure it out!”
“Good!” Chloe sat up sharply. “Im tired of being your secret. I want dinners, meeting your friends, being your wife!”
“Youre acting like a child,” he hissed.
“And youre a coward!” She jumped up, glaring. “Look at me! Im young, beautifulI could give you children. What can she do? Just count your money?”
James grabbed her shoulders. “Dont you dare talk about Emily like that! You know nothing about herabout us!”
“I know enough,” she spat, wrenching free. “I know youre unhappy. That shes buried in work and chores. When did you last make love? Take a trip together?”
James turned to the window. Somewhere in snowy London, fifteen years of marriage were crumblingundone by one careless phrase.
Emily sat in the dark kitchen, cradling a cold cup of tea. Dozens of missed calls from James lit up her phone. She didnt answer. What could she say? “Darling, I heard your mistress calling you to her bath?”
Memories flickered: James proposing in a crowded restaurant; moving into their first tiny flat; him holding her when her mother died; celebrating his promotion Then the endless overtime, mortgages, renovations
When had they last talked properly? Watched a film curled up together? Made plans?
Her phone buzzeda text: “Em, we need to talk. I can explain.”
Explain what? That shed aged? That Chloe understood him better?
Emily studied herself in the mirror. Forty-two. Wrinkles, grey roots she dyed monthly. When had the tiredness crept in? The endless grind for stability?
“Where were you?” Chloe snapped as James returned after another failed call.
“Not now.” He loosened his tie, collapsing into a chair.
“Now!” She planted herself before him. “What happens next? You know this changes everything.”
James looked at herconfident, radiant, full of life. Emily had been like that, fifteen years ago. How had he done this to her?
“Chloe” He rubbed his face. “Youre right. This has to end.”
She beamed, flinging her arms around him. “I knew youd choose us!”
Gently, he pushed her away. “No. I love my wife. Weve drifted, but I wont throw away fifteen years.”
“You coward!” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“No. I was the coward when I started this. Lying to the woman whos shared everything with mejoy, grief, victories. Youre right, Im unhappy. But happiness is built, not stolen.”
The knock came near midnight. Emily knew it was himhed caught the first flight back.
“Em, please,” his muffled voice pleaded through the door.
She let him in. Dishevelled, unshaven, eyes heavy with guilt, he stood on the threshold.
“Can we talk?”
Silently, she led him to the kitchenwhere theyd once dreamed together.
“Em”
“Dont.” She held up a hand. “I know. Chloe. Twenty-six. Trainer. I read your emails.”
He nodded, mute.
“Why, James?”
He stared out at the city. “Because Im weak. Because I was afraid wed become strangers. Because she reminded me of youthe you full of fire and plans.”
“And now?”
“Now” He turned to her. “Now I want to fix this. If youll let me.”
“What about her?”
“Its over. I cant lose you, Em. I know I dont deserve forgiveness, but lets try? Counselling, more time togetherfind our way back.”
Emily studied himolder, greyer, achingly familiar. Fifteen years wasnt just a number. It was shared jokes, silent understanding, the choice to forgive.
“I dont know, James.” For the first time that night, she cried.
He pulled her close, and she didnt resist. Outside, snow softened Londons edges.
Somewhere in Manchester, a young woman wept, learning love isnt just passionits a daily choice.
And in that kitchen, two people began piecing together the fragments. Ahead lay resentment, therapy, painful conversations. But they both knew: sometimes, you must lose something to understand its worth.
