It’s All Because of You…
The July heat is unbearable. The air hangs thick, heavy with humidity and dust. Emily takes shallow breaths, her nostrils flaring. Her heart pounds violently in her chest, begging for rest, for cool relief.
Her mother-in-law’s birthday is on Saturday, and she and her husband will drive to the countryside. Emily misses her son terribly, but he’s happier there than in the city. She imagines sitting in the shade of sprawling apple trees, sipping cool spring water, breathing clean air… But Saturday feels miles away. The heat mocks her, refusing to relent. You waited for summer? Dreamed of sunshine? Well, here it is—now stop complaining.
Rush-hour buses are crammed with sweaty, sticky bodies, the cramped space overhead like a ticking bomb—one spark, and the tension will explode. Walking is no better, but at least she can duck into shops, cooling off under the air conditioning before braving the next stretch home.
The shopping centre looms ahead, and Emily quickens her pace, desperate for the chill of conditioned air. Finally inside, she inhales deeply. Her heart steadies in gratitude.
She strolls past boutique windows, pausing occasionally to browse for a gift. Her mother-in-law always says she has everything, that presence matters more than presents—but Emily sees the pleased glint in her eyes whenever she receives something unique.
Finding nothing, she turns toward the exit. A small kiosk catches her attention, peddling everything from pens and hair clips to gold jewellery. Emily lingers, delaying her return to the scorching street. Her gaze skims over trinkets, then halts on an unusual vase—long, narrow-necked, its surface inlaid with what looks like coloured mosaic. She’s never seen anything like it.
“May I see that?” she asks the young salesgirl.
The vase is heavy, made of metal. A thick thread of silver divides it into irregular cells filled with muted enamel, as if dusted with age. Among the gaudy trinkets, it stands out, elegant and striking.
“How much?” Emily asks.
The price makes her eyes widen.
“Handmade. There’s no other like it,” the girl says proudly.
“Is it part of a collection? Who made it?”
“A disabled man. Beautiful work, but too pricey to sell often.”
“I’ll take it,” Emily blurts, seized by impulse. She pictures a long-stemmed rose in it—a stunning centrepiece. Her mother-in-law will adore it.
“Could you wrap it nicely?”
The girl rummages under the counter. While waiting, Emily studies the kiosk’s wares. A gaunt, pale woman approaches—no surprise in this heat.
“Hello, Sophie. Sold the vase, then?”
“Yes,” the girl says, glancing at Emily. The woman doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll transfer the money when I’m free.”
“Good. I’ll bring more tomorrow.” The woman leaves.
Emily frowns. She knows her—not just in passing, but *knows* her. Memory tugs, then snaps. “Claire?”
“Will this do?” The salesgirl presents a pretty parcel with a red bow. “That’s an extra twenty quid.”
Emily taps her card, grabs the gift, and races after the woman without waiting for the receipt.
Claire walks slowly, head down, lost in thought.
“Claire!”
She turns. For a second, they just stare.
“Don’t you recognise me? It’s Emily.”
“Of course I do,” Claire says flatly. “You haven’t changed. Unlike me.” She smirks. “You bought the vase?”
“Yes. It’s stunning. My mother-in-law’s birthday is Saturday. The girl said a disabled man makes them.”
“My husband,” Claire replies.
They walk side by side, Emily matching Claire’s slow pace.
“I thought it was an antique. Is your husband an artist?”
“Among other things. Don’t pretend you don’t know. Did you live under a rock? Though I shouldn’t be surprised—you always were in your own world. It’s Alex’s work.”
“Alex? But the girl said—”
“He *is* disabled. After the accident, he couldn’t walk. Never will. At least this puts food on the table.” She sighs. “Let’s get a coffee. I’m not ready to face the heat.”
They slip into a café by the exit, grabbing the last free table. A waitress hands them menus.
“Green tea and vanilla ice cream to share,” Claire orders.
Once alone, Claire speaks, eyes distant. “Funny. I’ve been thinking about you lately. And then you walk in, buying Alex’s vase.”
“You *did* recognise me. Why not say so?”
Claire shrugs. “I don’t see people much. Nothing to boast about. But you—look at you, spending on luxuries. Husband doing well?”
“It’s not a luxury. It’s art.”
“I’m sick of ‘art.’ Our flat’s a workshop. He’s always sculpting, painting. I can’t breathe. But it’s better than drinking. After the accident, someone taught him. Started rough, but he improved. At least it pays.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“You’ve no idea about anything. I’m his maid, nurse, cook—everything. I’m exhausted. And it’s all because of *you*.” Claire glares.
“Me?”
“Still playing naïve. I used to think you pretended. Then I realised you’re just one of those rare, *good* people. Girls threw themselves at Alex. But he chose *you*.”
Claire’s voice drops. “I hated you. Thought you were nothing special, yet you got *him*. So I made sure he’d never be yours.”
Emily’s breath catches.
“Remember when you visited your parents? He came to the dorm. I got him drunk, took him to bed. Then I got pregnant. But the baby was stillborn.”
She laughs bitterly. “I stole him from you, but got no happiness. No love, no children. Poetic justice, isn’t it?”
Emily sits frozen. The tea cools, the ice cream melts—untouched.
“I wonder—if he’d married you, the accident never would’ve happened. I’d have found someone ordinary, had kids, been happy. But no. And now he’s mine. Useless, dependent—at least he’ll never cheat.”
Emily reaches for Claire’s hand. Claire jerks away.
“Spare me your pity. He’s *mine*.”
“Claire, let me help. My husband’s a doctor—”
Claire stands abruptly, chair screeching. Heads turn.
“Live your perfect life. Stay out of ours. Or better yet—come see what’s left of the man who ‘made your heart race.’ Bring your nursing skills.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Just *leave*,” Claire snaps, storming out.
Emily stares after her, pays for the untouched order, and leaves—almost forgetting the vase.
The walk home blurs. Memories flood back—university days, sharing a dorm room…
***
“Still studying? Come on! Sarah and Mia invited us. Alex is there with his guitar. His voice is heaven. He should be on stage, not studying chemistry,” Claire says, swapping her robe for a dress.
“Why not both?”
Claire rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t know talent if it hit you. Just don’t fall for him. Everyone does.”
Emily follows, dressed simply—jeans, black jumper, hair in a ponytail. No makeup. Raised strictly, she’d stuck to books, avoiding parties.
In the next room, Alex sits on a bed, guitar in hand. The hosts gaze adoringly. Claire and Emily linger by the door.
As the song ends, Alex sets the guitar aside.
“Alex, another!” Sarah pleads.
“My throat’s dry. Tea?” He winks.
Sarah and Mia scramble to the kitchen.
“Like it?” Alex asks, eyes on Emily.
“It’s beautiful. Did you write it?”
Claire snorts. Alex smirks.
“Where’ve you been, under a rock? Never heard of Dylan or Cohen?”
“I have. But that wasn’t theirs. You’re shy to admit it?”
Alex flushes, then grins. “Sharp. Know this one?” He plays again, singing only to her.
Her heart syncs with the melody, soaring, then stilling. She’s in love.
And him? No man looks at a woman like that without feeling *something*.
Later, over tea, Claire flirts, begging for a song dedicated to her.
Alex shakes his head. “Music doesn’t work like that. It needs a spark.”
The next day, he waits outside her lecture hall, inviting her for coffee. Girls gape.
He talks; she’s too nervous to eat her cake.
Once, he visits her room. Claire’And as Emily watches her son laugh in the golden sunlight of the countryside, she finally understands that some paths, no matter how tangled, lead exactly where they’re meant to.
