Ran into My Ex-Wife and Nearly Turned Green with Jealousy

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 6 minViews 1

I still remember the day I ran into my former wife and felt a fierce, almost green, surge of envy.

Oliver, irritated, slammed the freezer door so hard the contents rattled, and a magnet clanged to the floor. Emma stood opposite him, pale, her fingers clenched into tight fists.

Feeling better now? she asked, lifting her chin in a challenge.

Youve really got on my nerves, Oliver rasped, trying to keep his voice even. Is this what lifes reduced to? A dull, colourless blur with no spark?

So Im to blame again? Emma replied with a rueful smile. Of course, nothing ever goes the way you want it to.

Oliver bit his lip, ready to retort, but instead he cracked open a bottle of mineral water, gulped it straight from the neck, then slammed the empty bottle onto the table with a thud.

Oliver, stop hiding, Emmas voice trembled with a sharp edge of hurt. Tell me whats wrong.

Whats there to explain? he sneered bitterly. Youll never understand. How long must I endure this hopelessness? Ive had enough!

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Emma took a deep breath and drifted toward the bathroom. Oliver sank heavily onto the settee. Behind the closed door a loud splash echoedperhaps shed turned the tap on just to drown the sound of her own sighs.

He didnt care.

The years that had lost their shine

Three years earlier they had married and moved into a flat that Emmas parents had left her. Her parents, now retired, had moved to a cottage in the Cotswolds and transferred the tenancy to their daughter. The flat, though spacious, still tasted of the old days: faded furniture, peeling wallpaper, patches of cracked linoleum.

At first Oliver didnt mindprime location, a short walk to the office, a decent neighbourhood. But the novelty wore off quickly. Emma felt cosy in her family nest, while Oliver complained that the place was frozen in a bygone era, as if it were suffocating him.

Emma, admit it, he would prod. Doesnt this old décor bother you? Shouldnt we replace the wallpaper, lay down new flooring, bring in a few modern touches?

Of course I want that, Emma would answer calmly. But well have to wait for a raise or save up gradually.

Wait again?! Your whole strategy is to sit still and hope! Oliver snapped.

Once Oliver boasted to a mate that hed unearthed a bud that would one day blossom, impressing everyone. Now he was convinced that the bud had long wilted without ever opening.

Emma lived for simple pleasures: a steaming cup of tea, an evening with a good book, a fresh set of kitchen towels. To Oliver these were nothing but dull stagnation.

He never dared to leave herhe didnt want to return under his parents roof, a place fraught with past tensions. Moreover, his mother, Margaret, always stood by Emma.

Son, youre being unreasonable, she would chide. Emmas a wonderful, sensible woman. If youre living in her flat, why are you never satisfied?

Mother, you and Emma are like two drops of water stuck in a stone age, Oliver muttered.

His father, Ian, would simply wave his hands and say, Let them sort it out themselves, Margaret.

Looking at Emma, Oliver sometimes thought, Shes like a shadow that clings to me through this flat.

At last his patience snapped.

Emma, I cant take it any longer, he whispered, standing by the window.

From what exactly? she asked gently, tears glimmering.

From this monotony! You spend all your time with pots and cloths while Im wasting my life! he declared.

Without a word Emma snatched a bin bag, slammed the door, and walked out.

Oliver stayed, sure shed come back and beg him not to leave. But when she returned, she wore a calm that surprised him.

Perhaps it truly is better for you to live apart, she said coolly. Then gather your things.

Youre staying here alone while I go? Oliver protested. This is my home too!

Youre mistaken, Oliver, Emma replied with a frosty smile. This is still your parents house.

A few weeks later he moved back into his parents place. They finalized their divorce.

An unexpected encounter

Three more years passed. Oliver remained lodged with his parents, convincing himself that soon hed find his own place and everything would fall into place. Yet work offered no breakthroughs, new acquaintances never turned into lasting relationships, and his parents kept hinting that he was now a grownup uncle, not a lad any more.

One spring evening, on his way home, he passed a little café lit with soft amber light and a gentle melody drifting out. He paused at the doorway.

There, halfturned, stood Emma.

But this Emma was no longer the frail woman he recalled. She wore a sleek coat, her hair styled impeccably, a set of car keys jingling at her side, confidence in every glancean air of contentment shed never shown before.

Emma? Oliver blurted.

She turned, recognised him in an instant, and smiled.

Hello, Oliver, she said evenly.

Hi You look stunning, he managed.

Thank you, she replied, her smile widening. Im finally living the way I always wanted.

Are you still at your old job? he asked.

No, Ive opened my own floral studio, she said proudly. It took a while, but someone finally believed in me.

And who might that be? Oliver blurted, though he didnt quite know why he asked.

From the cafés doorway emerged a man, warmhearted, who wrapped his arm around Emmas shoulders.

My love, a tables free. Shall we? he said softly.

Emma turned back to Oliver.

This is Vadim, and this is Oliver, she introduced.

Its lovely to see you, Oliver, she added. I hope youre faring well.

Oliver gave a silent nod. His mouth opened to speak, but the words froze. He watched as Emma, hand in hand with Vadim, slipped through the café doors, their laughter trailing behind. A bitter pang of envy rose in his chest.

He had once muttered, Im living with a bud that never blossoms Yet now that bud had indeed blossomedjust not beside him.

Dandelion Jam Winter’s snowy blanket finally melted away—no hard frosts this year, just a gentle, white season. Yet as the last traces faded, the longing for lush green leaves, vivid blossoms, and the chance to shed bulky coats grew stronger. Spring arrived in the small English town, and Tessa, who adored the season’s awakening, watched from her third-floor window: — With the first warm days, the whole town seems to stir after a long hibernation. Even the rumble of lorries sounds livelier, and the market buzzes with fresh energy. People stride about in colourful jackets and coats, birds are our morning alarm clocks now—spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better… Tessa had lived in her five-story block for years, now sharing it with her granddaughter, Violet, a year-four student. Violet’s parents—both doctors—had moved to Africa on a work contract, leaving their daughter in Grandma’s care. — Mum, we’re entrusting Violet to you. We know you’ll mind her well, pulling her all the way to Africa doesn’t make sense, said Tessa’s daughter. — Of course I’ll look after her—I’ll enjoy her company in retirement. Off you go, Violet and I will be just fine here, replied Tessa. — Hooray, Grandma! We’ll have so much fun together, walking in the park and spending time—Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time for me, cheered Violet. After sending Violet off to school with breakfast, Tessa busied herself with chores, the hours slipping by unnoticed. — I’ll pop to the shop before Violet comes flying home from school—promised her something sweet for her good marks, Tessa thought, grabbing her bag and heading out. Outside on the chilly bench—cushioned for warmth—sat two neighbours. Mrs Simmons, whose real age was anyone’s guess (she kept that secret), lived on the ground floor, and Mrs Valery, seventy-five, well-read, boisterous, the cheerful opposite of Simmons, who found fault with everything. As soon as the snow melted and the sun returned, this bench was never empty, especially with Simmons and Valery as regulars—chatting all day long, knowing everyone’s business. Tessa sometimes joined in, swapping news and TV stories, Simmons always keen to discuss her blood pressure. — Morning, ladies, smiled Tessa. On duty, are we? — Morning, Tess. Of course, duty calls! Off to the shop, I see? Simmons asked, spying her bag. — That’s right, I promised Violet a treat for her top marks. Off I go, said Tessa, not lingering. The day passed in its usual way—school run, lunch, homework, chores, TV. — Grandma, I’m off to dance club! called Violet, rucksack and mobile in hand. She’d danced for six years, performing at every event, and Tessa was ever proud. — All right, darling, go and have fun, Tessa said, seeing her off. That evening, Tessa sat alone on the bench, waiting for Violet. — Lonely out here? asked Mr Edgar from the second floor, joining her. — Who could be lonely in weather like this? Spring’s here, birds singing, the world’s turning green—those buttercups look just like tiny suns, smiled Edgar, and Tessa agreed. Just then Violet dashed up with a surprise shout: — Woof woof! — You little rascal, gave me a fright! laughed Tessa. — Don’t start talking about old age, smiled Edgar, gently clapping her shoulder. — Come on in, rascal. I grated carrot with sugar for you, after all that dancing, and made your favourite cottage pie, Tessa said affectionately. Edgar got up too. — All this talk of cottage pie’s made me hungry! I’ll nip in for a bite. Maybe we’ll catch up later on the bench, or perhaps a stroll? said Edgar. — I can’t promise—much to do, but we’ll see… Still, Tessa came out later to the bench—and found Edgar waiting. The regulars were gone. — Simmons and Valery just left to eat, Edgar announced cheerily. From then on, Tessa and Edgar often met—sometimes strolling to the park across the road, reading the newspaper together, swopping stories and recipes. Edgar had his own trials—widowed young, he’d raised his daughter alone, working two jobs so Vera wanted for nothing, but he was rarely home. Vera grew up, married, moved cities, had a son—came to visit a few times and nothing more, her visits were never joyful. After fifteen years, she divorced and raised her son alone. — Tess, my daughter’s coming in two days, rang this morning. Odd… We haven’t spoken in years, said Edgar—they’d long been on first-name terms, talking freely. — Maybe she’s missing you—at a certain age, people need family close, suggested Tessa. — I doubt it… Vera arrived, brusque and serious. Edgar braced for a tough conversation. — Dad, I’m here on business. Let’s sell your flat, you move in with us, live with your grandson—it’ll be better, Vera said, her tone firm, plans made. But Edgar shrank from it—he didn’t want to uproot to a strange city under brooding supervision. He refused, citing habits and independence. Vera wasn’t deterred. Discovering his friendship with Tessa, she paid a visit. After tea and treats (including golden jam), Vera got down to business. — I see you and my father are close. Could you persuade him in an important matter? — What might that be? — Help me convince him to sell—why does he need so much space alone? Can’t he think of others? she snapped. Tessa was surprised by Vera’s coldness and refused. Furious, Vera lost composure: — Well, I see… Maybe you want the flat for yourself! Found a lonely old man, lining up an inheritance for your granddaughter… Romance on benches, chatting about dandelions! Two sweet old dandelions—you’ve probably filed for marriage already! But let me warn you—nothing will come of it, she threatened, switching to “you” as she shrieked, slamming the door. Embarrassed, Tessa worried the neighbours had overheard. Vera soon left, and Tessa started avoiding Edgar—ducking home whenever she saw him. And Yet, Tea With Dandelion Jam But life has its own plans. One day, heading home from the shop, Tessa found Edgar by the entrance, weaving a garland of yellow dandelions. — Tessa, don’t run—please, stay a moment. I’m sorry for my daughter; I know what she said—she’s gone now and claims she has no father left. But… Anyway, here—take this half-made dandelion crown. And I’ve made dandelion jam! Very healthy and delicious—you simply must try it. They’re great in salad too, Edgar said with a warm smile. After chatting about the wonders of dandelions, they made a salad together. Tessa tasted the jam with tea that evening—and loved it. Later, they walked to the park. — I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine—shall we read on our bench under the old lime tree? Tessa sat next to Edgar, and laughter flowed. Conversation sparkled on, the rest of the world forgotten. Together, everything felt right. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!

No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say there’s no one to talk to? I ring you twice a day,” her daughter asked, tiredly. “Oh no, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina sighed sadly. “It’s just… I haven’t any friends or acquaintances my own age left—no one from my time.” “Mum, don’t be silly. You’ve still got your school friend Irene. Honestly, you’re so modern and look much younger than you are. Really, Mum, what’s got into you?” her daughter replied, upset. “You know Irene’s got asthma—she gets fits of coughing on the phone. And she lives all the way the other side of town. There were three of us, remember? I told you – Marinka’s been gone for years. Yesterday, Tanya from next door popped round. She’s a good woman, often visits. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her own family. Told me about her children and grandkids. She’s got grandchildren too, although she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her memories of childhood and school are completely different from mine. I do so wish I had someone my own age to talk to,” Nina said to her daughter, fully aware that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time hadn’t passed, it was still out there beyond the window. She didn’t feel this pull to reminisce. Svetlana was a good, caring girl—it wasn’t her fault. “Mum, I’ve got tickets for Tuesday night—remember how you wanted to go? Stop being down, come on and wear that burgundy dress—you look amazing in it!” “All right, darling, it’s fine, I don’t know what’s come over me—goodnight, we’ll talk tomorrow. Get an early night for once, you never sleep enough,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight,” Svetlana said and hung up. Nina gazed silently at the twinkling lights in the evening darkness…. Year 11—it was spring then too. So many plans. How recent it all seemed. Her friend Irene liked Serge Malory from their form. And Serge had liked her, Nina. He would call her evenings on the home phone, ask her out to walk. But Nina had only thought of him as a friend—why give him false hope? Later Serge joined the army. Came back and married. He lived in Irene’s old building. And his phone back then—it was a landline. The number… Nina dialled the old, half-remembered sequence. The ring didn’t come at once, then someone picked up, rustling could be heard, and then a quiet male voice answered: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it was too late—why had she called him? Maybe Serge didn’t even remember her, or maybe it wasn’t him at all. “Good evening,” Nina’s voice croaked slightly with nerves. There was more static and suddenly she heard an astonished: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d never forget your voice. How on earth did you find me? I was just here by chance…” “Serge! You recognised me!” A flood of joyful memories overwhelmed her. No one had called her by her first name in years—only “Mum,” “Granny,” or “Mrs Antrobus.” Well, except maybe Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, like spring, as if those years had never passed at all. “Nina, how are you these days? I’m so glad to hear you,” he said, and she felt an unexpected warmth. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t recognise her—or that she’d be bothering him. “Do you remember Year 11? When Vicky Vasutin and I took you and Irene out on that rowboat? He blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. And then we all ate ice cream on the promenade while the music played,” Serge’s voice was dreamy and far away. “I remember, of course I do,” Nina laughed happily, “and that time the whole form went camping in the woods—you remember how we couldn’t get the tins open, and we were all starving!” “Oh, yes,” Serge replied, joining in her laughter. “And Vicky finally opened them, and then we sang songs round the campfire with the guitar—you remember? That’s when I decided I’d learn guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice sparkled with youth as forgotten memories returned. Serge seemed to revive their shared past, more and more details tumbling out. “And how about now?” Serge asked, then answered himself, “But why am I asking—your voice says it all, you must be happy. Children, grandchildren? Still writing poetry? I remember! ‘Fade into night and return with the dawn’—so full of life! You always were a ray of sunshine! Just being around you could warm the coldest soul. Your family’s lucky—having a mum and gran like you is a treasure.” “Oh, Serge, don’t flatter me! My time’s past… I—” He interrupted: “Don’t say that! Your energy just about melted my phone! I’m joking, of course. I can’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—it doesn’t suit you. So, Nina, your time isn’t up yet. Live, and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Serge, such a romantic—you always were. But what about you? I’ve only talked of myself…,” but suddenly the phone crackled, popped and went dead. Nina sat holding the receiver. She thought about calling back, but decided it was too late, too much. Another time, perhaps. They’d talked so well, remembered so much… A sharp ring startled her. Granddaughter. “Hi, Dasha, yes, still awake. What did your mum say? No, I’m in a wonderful mood. Your mum and I are going to a concert. Will you drop by tomorrow? Lovely, see you then.” In high spirits, Nina went to bed. In her head were so many plans! As she drifted off, she formed lines for a new poem. In the morning, she decided to visit Irene. Only a few tram stops—she certainly wasn’t an old crock yet. Irene was delighted: “Finally! You’ve been promising for ages. Is that an apricot cake? My favourite! So, tell me all—” Irene coughed, holding her chest, but waved it aside. “It’s fine, new inhaler—it’s helping. Let’s get the tea on. Nina, you look years younger. What’s your secret?” “I don’t know—a fifth youth! Imagine, I phoned Serge Malory by accident last night. Do you remember—your crush in Year 11? He began reminiscing, I’d forgotten most of it. Why are you quiet, Irene, another attack coming on?” Irene sat pale, silent, and stared at her friend, then whispered: “Nina—you didn’t know? Serge died—it’s been a year now. He’d moved ages ago, lived in another part of town.” “Really? How can that be? But who did I talk to? He remembered every detail of our youth. I was so low before—and after our chat, I felt alive again, full of life and hope… How can that be?” Nina couldn’t believe Serge was gone: “It was his voice, I know it. He said such wonderful things: ‘The sun shines for you. The breeze chases clouds for you. The birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, as if unsure about Nina’s story. Then she said, “Nina, I don’t know how, but it seems it really was him. Those were his words, his way. Serge loved you. I think he wanted to lift you up—from wherever he is now. Looks like he succeeded. I haven’t seen you so lively in years. One day, someone will gather together all the tattered pieces of your heart. And you’ll finally remember what it is to be—simply happy.”