It’s All Because of You…
The July heat was unbearable. The air was thick, heavy with humidity and dust. Emma struggled to breathe, her nostrils flaring. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, begging for rest and cool relief.
Her mother-in-law’s birthday was on Saturday, and she and her husband would drive to the countryside. Emma missed her son terribly, but he was better off there than in the city. She imagined herself sitting under the shade of sprawling apple trees, sipping cool spring water, breathing in fresh air… But she still had to survive until Saturday. The heat mocked her, refusing to relent. *You waited for summer? Dreamed of sunshine? Well, here it is—now stop complaining.*
Rush-hour buses were packed with sweaty, sticky bodies, the cramped space above them like an unexploded bomb—just waiting for a spark to ignite the tension. Walking was just as sweltering, but at least she could duck into shops along the way, cooling off under the air conditioning before mustering the energy for the next stretch home.
Up ahead, the shopping centre came into view, and Emma quickened her pace, desperate to reach the refrigerated air. Finally inside, she inhaled deeply, her heart settling into a steadier rhythm.
She wandered slowly through the aisles between shops, occasionally stepping inside to browse, searching for the perfect gift for her mother-in-law. The woman always insisted she had everything she needed, that presents weren’t necessary—just her family’s presence was enough. But Emma had seen the pleased gleam in her eyes whenever she received something unusual.
Finding nothing, Emma turned toward the exit. On the way, she passed a small open stall selling trinkets—everything from pens and hair clips to gold jewellery. She paused, lingering in the cool air a little longer before braving the scorching street outside. Her gaze skimmed over trays of costume jewellery before catching on an odd-looking vase with a long, slender neck, its surface patterned like a mosaic. She’d never seen anything like it.
“Could I see that?” she asked the young woman behind the counter.
The vase was surprisingly heavy, made of metal. Thick silver wire divided its surface into uneven cells, filled with muted enamel colours—not bright, but as if dusted with age. Among the garish knick-knacks, it looked out of place, elegant and expensive.
“How much is it?” Emma asked.
The price made her eyes widen.
“It’s handcrafted. There aren’t any others like it,” the girl said proudly.
“Part of a collection?”
“Made by a disabled man. Beautiful work, but people don’t buy often—too pricey.”
“I’ll take it,” Emma said on impulse. She imagined a long-stemmed rose inside, how it would brighten any room. Her mother-in-law would appreciate it—she loved unique things.
“Can you wrap it nicely?” she asked.
The girl rummaged under the counter. “I’ll find something.”
Waiting, Emma idly examined the stall’s trinkets. A woman approached, her face pale and weary—though in this heat, most people looked drained.
“Hello, Sophie. Someone bought the vase, I see?”
The shop assistant glanced at Emma. The woman either didn’t notice or ignored it. “I’ll transfer the money when I’m free,” the girl said.
“Fine. I’ll bring more in tomorrow.” The woman walked away.
Emma frowned, trying to place her. Not just familiar—she *knew* her. Something tugged at her memory. *Claire… That’s Claire!*
“Will this do?” The assistant slid a neatly wrapped parcel with a red bow across the counter. “Extra two hundred quid for the packaging.”
Emma tapped her card, grabbed the gift, and without waiting for the receipt, hurried after the woman.
Claire walked slowly, head down, as if working through a problem.
“Claire!” Emma called.
The woman stopped and turned. For a moment, they just stared.
“Don’t you recognise me? It’s Emma.”
“Of course I do,” Claire said flatly. “You haven’t changed. Unlike me.” She smirked. “You bought the vase?” She nodded at the parcel in Emma’s hands.
“Yes. It’s lovely. My mother-in-law’s birthday is Saturday—thought I’d give it to her. The girl said a disabled man makes them.”
“My husband,” Claire said.
They walked side by side, Emma matching Claire’s sluggish pace.
“I thought it was antique. Is he an artist?”
“Among other things.” Claire snorted. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Have you been living under a rock? But then, you always were in your own world. *Alex* makes them.”
“Alex? But the girl said—”
“He *is* disabled. After the accident, he couldn’t walk—never will. At least this pays for bread. We have to live somehow.” She sighed. “Let’s grab a coffee. I don’t fancy stepping back outside just yet.”
They slipped into a café near the exit, taking the only free table by the door. The place was crowded with people stealing a moment’s relief before rushing back into the heat. A waitress handed them menus.
“Green tea and two scoops of vanilla ice cream, please,” Claire ordered before Emma could speak.
The waitress nodded and left.
“Funny—I’ve been thinking about you lately. Then out of nowhere, here you are, buying Alex’s vase,” Claire said, her gaze drifting past Emma.
“You recognised me. Why not say something?”
Claire shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it. I don’t socialise much. Nothing to brag about. You, though—look at you, splashing cash on frivolities. Husband doing well?” Her tone was sharp.
“It’s not frivolous. It’s beautiful.”
“Oh, spare me. The flat’s a workshop now. He tinkers all day—carving, sanding, painting. Can’t breathe in there. I’ve given up cleaning. But better that than the bottle. After the accident, a man at the hospital taught him. Started rough, but he got the hang of it. At least it’s something.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea…”
“Don’t pity me. Maid, nurse, cook, masseuse—all rolled into one. Some life, eh? And it’s all because of you.” Claire’s glare hardened.
“What do you mean?”
“Still playing innocent? I used to think you were faking it. Then I realised—you’re just one of those rare idiots who only see the good in everything. Girls threw themselves at Alex. But he picked *you*.”
She exhaled sharply. “I envy you. Used to think, *Who is she? Nothing special, yet she bagged him.* So I made sure he wouldn’t be yours.”
Emma stared.
“Remember that weekend you went home? He came to the dorm. I got him drunk, took him to bed. Then I got pregnant. Lost the baby, though. Serves me right.”
Her voice was bitter. “Stole him from you, but it didn’t make me happy. No love, no children. Punishment, I suppose.”
Emma sat frozen. The tea cooled, the ice cream melted. Claire needed to confess; Emma could only listen, stunned.
“I used to think—if he’d married you, the accident wouldn’t have happened. I’d have found some ordinary bloke, had kids, been happy. But no. And for a while, I even gloated. *He’s mine now. Needs me. Wouldn’t dare cheat.*”
Emma reached for Claire’s hand. Claire jerked away.
“Don’t. I don’t want your pity. He’s *mine*.”
“Claire, if you need help—my husband’s a doctor—”
Claire stood abruptly, the chair screeching. Heads turned.
“Live your perfect life. Stay out of mine. Or—better yet—come see what became of the man whose voice used to *make your knees weak*. That’s what you said, wasn’t it? Maybe I’ll even let you have him back. You’d make a good nurse.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Piss off, you pathetic saint.” Claire stormed out.
Emma sat until the waitress brought the bill. She paid for the untouched tea and puddle of ice cream, then left—nearly forgetting the vase on the chair.
The walk home passed in a haze, the heat unnoticed. Memories surfaced—university days, sharing a dorm room…
*
“Studying again? Come on—Liz and Sarah have Alex over. He’s brought his guitar. Sings like an angel. Should be on stage, not wasting time on chemistry,” Claire said, shrugging off her dressing gown.
“He can do both,” Emma replied.
“What do you know? Ever even heard him?”
“No.”
“Well then, come on. But fair warning—every girl’s in love with him. Don’t get ideas.”
Emma set her textbook aside.
“Wait—you’re going like *that*? Change!”
Emma pulled on jeans andAs she stepped into her quiet, sunlit kitchen, Emma realized that some wounds never truly heal—they simply become a part of who you are.
