The woman came to visit her friend. They’d known each other since university. It was a birthday celebration, and everything was wonderful, splendid, absolutely magical. A spacious flat, four large rooms.
In the living room, the table was laid—what a feast! Cheese oozed golden tears, a proper fine cheddar with holes. Sausage, rich and grainy, flecked with little white marbling. Roasted fish. Skewered meat, charred to perfection—a new oven tested to glory! Pickled tomatoes, crunchy cabbage with a hint of garlic. Sweets, pastries… A table fit for a still life.
And the guests were lovely—family, colleagues, all offering heartfelt toasts. Soft music played in the background. Porcelain figurines lined the shelves, elegant curtains framed the windows, a flowered rug lay soft underfoot, muffling footsteps… Everyone ate with relish.
The friend’s husband had gifted his wife a delicate ring with a diamond. A milestone—fifty years! Their children embraced their mother warmly. A little grandson kissed his gran… There was room for everyone, joy in every face.
Later, they even danced. The hosts had cleared a room for it. Slightly flushed from food and wine, the guests swayed to the slow tunes of their youth. Dasha—no, *Emily*—was asked to dance by a handsome man, her friend’s husband’s colleague.
Emily danced. Her cheeks glowed, her hair tousled—she moved gracefully, as if years had slipped away. The man smiled, paid her compliments. Nothing untoward. Just kindness, warm words.
Then Emily glanced at the clock and snapped awake. She had to go. Not walk—*run*. Time had slipped by. Her mother-in-law needed medicine, a wash—her husband couldn’t manage alone. Tomorrow’s meals had to be prepped; Emily worked the afternoon shift but mornings were packed. Then her husband would return, buried under his own burdens. A sick woman at home meant endless tasks.
And money was tight. Her husband had lost his job—the publishing house shut down. Now he scraped by on odd jobs. Loans loomed over them, their son’s business had failed. Her daughter-in-law was in hospital with the baby, two weeks now.
The mother-in-law would stay with the carer. And how much did carers charge per hour? Exactly. Money, always money. Later, Emily would hunch over the laptop, working late to afford those precious hours of help…
The thoughts crashed over her. She dressed quickly—no one stopped her. The party rolled on. Her friend hugged her goodbye. Always so kind! But she had her own life, her own joys. A husband. Children. Emily had to go home. To *her* life.
She trudged to the bus under a cold, sobering rain. For a second, she thought of turning back—back to warmth, to the laden table, the music, the kindness. Where conversations weren’t about illness or bills, but films, old jokes, youth remembered. Where you could dance slowly with a pleasant man to a tender song…
But Emily rode the chilly bus home. Then stepped into her cramped flat—the smell of sickness met her. No matter how much she scrubbed, it lingered. The stench of misfortune, hard to describe but always there. And burnt porridge—he’d let it stick again. The pan would take forever to clean…
Her weary husband launched into updates the moment she entered: the doctor’s orders, his own test results. Another appointment tomorrow, another round of worries.
The flat felt dark, claustrophobic, steeped in struggle. Her husband stood there, grey-haired, aged. A bulb had blown in the ceiling light—shadows stretched. Boxes of pills, stacks of fresh bedsheets and nappies, a bin bag of used ones waiting to be tossed…
The contrast with that other, happy home was so sharp Emily nearly choked on the lump in her throat.
She swallowed it. Smiled. Hugged her husband. *”Thanks for letting me go to Lucy’s. It was lovely. Run a bath—we’ll get Mum washed. Did you feed her? Her meds? Yours?”*
And she set to work. This was life. To be lived, fought, scrubbed, endured. To care, to love, to mend what you had without measuring it against others. Duty. Love. Saving your own—that was all.
That’s what Emily told herself. Then her husband changed the bulb. Light flooded the room. The flat seemed to expand, just a little. Her mother-in-law slept—maybe tonight would be calm. She could work a bit longer. She still had strength. For them, she did.
Later, when Lucy texted—*”Can I give your number to that nice man?”*—Emily sent back a smiling emoji and a firm *”No.”* She thanked Lucy for the party, the warmth, the respite. Lucy understood. She’d only asked.
Life sometimes whispers temptations, offering ease instead of weight. But we turn back to our own. To our lives. We do what we must, even when exhaustion gnaws. Even when we ache to stay where light and joy spill freely. Love tethers us. Won’t let us drift.
No matter the whispers.
