Emma didn’t hear the squeak of the hospital trolley’s wheels on the linoleum or the hurried footsteps around her. Her head swayed slightly with the motion, unaware of the fluorescent lights flickering above or the distant shouts of Oliver: “Emma! Emma!” She didn’t see the doctor step in front of him, blocking his path.
“You can’t go in. Wait here.”
Oliver slumped onto the chairs by the intensive care unit door, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. Emma saw none of it. She was lost in a rushing stream of light, wanting nothing more than for it all to stop.
***
Years ago, she’d been on stage at a university comedy night, playing a student who hadn’t studied for an exam. The audience had roared with laughter. Later, while dancing, Oliver had pulled her close.
“You were brilliant up there—like a proper actress,” he said, eyes shining.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be in it. Sophie backed out last minute. I was so nervous I forgot my lines and had to improvise.” Her pulse still raced from the thrill.
“Couldn’t tell. You were smooth. Maybe you chose the wrong career.”
Afterwards, he walked her to her dorm, kissing her awkwardly on the cheek. They started dating and soon rented a tiny room from an elderly widow near campus. Oliver’s parents had protested, but eventually relented, offering support.
The widow was nearly deaf, but they still turned the music up—just in case. Emma remembered those days as the happiest of her life.
“I love you,” Oliver would whisper afterward, breathless beside her.
“No, I love *you* more,” Emma would murmur, pressing her cheek to his damp skin.
“Impossible. I love you even more than that…”
They played the game endlessly, dreaming of the life ahead—graduation, careers, a proper house, children.
“A girl first, then a boy,” Emma insisted.
“And then another boy,” Oliver teased, kissing her.
It felt like no one had ever loved as deeply as they did.
Their classmates envied them; their professors smiled wistfully, remembering their own youth. After graduation, Oliver and Emma worked at a local dental clinic before moving to a private practice run by Oliver’s father’s friend. Two years later, the owner launched a second clinic, putting Oliver in charge.
They earned well. Oliver’s parents covered most of the mortgage. True to plan, Emma had a daughter first, then a son three years later. Weekends were theirs alone—grandparents took the children, giving them time to rest and reconnect. A perfect, happy family. What more could they want?
When their son started school, Emma wanted to return to work. She was tired of being home, afraid of losing her skills.
“Why? We don’t need the money,” Oliver argued. “Stay with the kids. Let’s have another.”
But this time, Emma couldn’t conceive. She blamed herself, consulting doctor after doctor, who found nothing wrong.
“Stop worrying. We already have two amazing kids!” Oliver reassured her.
She relented, but the urge to work lingered.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t hire you,” Oliver said one evening. “Couples shouldn’t work together. Besides, it’s been years—your skills are rusty.”
The fights began. With the children often away, Emma drowned in boredom. One night, she drank a glass of wine to numb the loneliness, passing out on the sofa. She woke the next morning to an empty bed. Oliver answered on her third call.
“You didn’t come home…”
“I did. You were too drunk to notice.” His disapproval stung.
“A single glass? What else am I supposed to do? You won’t let me work—”
“I’ll call my parents. They’ll bring the kids back.” He hung up before she could reply.
Emma hurled her phone against the wall, watching it shatter.
When had it all gone wrong?
She paced the house, restless. She craved another drink but resisted—Oliver’s parents would arrive soon with Lily and James. But as hours passed, the wine won. She drank again, collapsing onto the sofa.
The sound of the front door woke her. Oliver stood there, crisp and polished, while she felt like a rumpled mess.
“You look well. Not like someone who’s been working all night,” she said, studying him.
He ignored her. Then, as if pushed, she blurted:
“Are you cheating on me? Is that why you wouldn’t let me work? So I wouldn’t find out?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been drinking again.”
“One glass! You’re treating me like an alcoholic—”
The fight exploded. Oliver admitted it—there was another woman. He didn’t want to come home. Didn’t want *her*.
Emma slapped him—hard. He raised his hand.
“Go on, hit me! Your mates in the legal world will cover for you. Marry her, then!”
She never saw the strike coming. Pain exploded through her jaw. But the deeper wound was her pride, her heart.
*He hit her.* The man who once whispered sweet nothings in a tiny rented room. The man who’d dreamed with her of a future that now lay in ruins.
Emma tore off her wedding ring, flung open the window, and hurled it into the night. She waited for Oliver to do the same—then froze. His finger was bare.
“You…” Her voice choked. How long had he been lying?
“I’m done with you,” he said coldly. “Look at yourself. Would *you* trust you with our kids?”
The cruelty stole her breath. The room tilted. Darkness swallowed her.
***
Emma woke in a sterile bed, machines beeping around her. Oliver’s voice reached her through the haze: “Emma? Can you hear me?”
She tried to speak but couldn’t. His face hovered above her—relieved, frightened.
“You’re in hospital. Your heart stopped.”
She glimpsed the white ceiling. *Not dead. Not yet.*
“You’re safe now,” he murmured, squeezing her hand—and she slipped back into blackness.
When she woke again, breathing was agony.
“Oliver,” she rasped.
“I’m here.”
The memories rushed back: the shattered phone, the fight, the ring flying into darkness—his fist.
“The ring…” she whispered.
“What ring?”
“My wedding ring.”
“You threw it away. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“*Your* ring.”
“Mine?” He blinked, then raised his hand—the gold band glinted.
“That’s enough,” a nurse cut in. “She needs rest.”
A needle pierced her arm.
***
A week later, Oliver took her home, frail and gaunt, to their spacious house.
“Mummy!” Lily and James barrelled into her, clinging tight. She held them, grateful they still knew her.
At the kitchen table, she picked at her food, watching Oliver.
“Who cooked this?”
“My mum. She brought the kids and made lunch.” He shooed the children away. “You should rest.”
Silence settled between them. The truth loomed: the house was in his name. She had no income, no career. If she left, she’d lose everything—including the children.
Was it worth staying? Could they fix this? Did she even *want* to?
Oliver broke the quiet. “I was terrified. I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “When you’re better… I’ll bring you into the clinic. One of our dentists is leaving. You can start as an assistant—ease back in.”
They sat, both wondering: *Can love survive this?*
Neither moved first.
