Back to Her Again — Are you going back to her, again? Helen asked the question, already knowing the answer. David nodded, avoiding her gaze. He tugged on his coat and checked his pockets — keys, phone, wallet. Everything was there. He could leave. Helen waited. For a word. Even just “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But David simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked quietly, almost apologetically, as if excusing its owner. Helen moved to the window. The street below was lit by dull street lamps, and she easily spotted the familiar figure. David walked quickly, determinedly, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old Sophie. Helen pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She knew. She’d known from the start what she was signing up for. When she met David, he was still married. Technically. A stamp in the passport, a shared flat, a child. But he no longer lived with Anna — he rented a room, only visiting for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” David had said back then. “I couldn’t forgive. I filed for divorce.” And Helen believed him. Oh, how easily she believed him. Because she wanted to. Because she had fallen — foolishly, desperately, as if she were seventeen. Café dates, long phone calls, the first kiss in the rain by her flat. David looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, joint plans, talks about the future. Then it began. First — the calls. “David, bring medicine for Sophie, it’s urgent, she’s ill.” “David, our tap’s leaking, I don’t know what to do.” “David, Sophie’s crying, she wants to see you, come right now.” David would rush over every time. Helen tried to understand. A child — that’s sacred. The daughter wasn’t at fault for the split. Of course, he should help, be present. Sometimes David listened, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna simply changed tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, it upsets her.” “She asked why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And David broke down. Every time. When he tried to refuse yet another “urgent” request — Anna hit where it hurt. Within a week, Sophie would repeat her mum’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t invent that herself. David returned from these talks broken, guilty, eyes dull. And again dashed to his ex’s at the first call — just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, just so she wouldn’t look at him with cold, distant eyes. Helen understood. She truly did. But she was tired. David’s figure disappeared round the corner. Helen peeled herself from the window, absently rubbing her forehead — a red mark remained from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. The clock read nearly midnight when the key turned in the lock. Helen sat in the kitchen, an untouched cup of cold tea before her. She hadn’t taken a sip — just watched a dark film spread over the surface. Three hours. Three hours she waited, listening for every sound on the landing. David entered quietly, peeled off his coat, hung it up. Moved with caution, like a man hoping to sneak by unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Helen was surprised how calm her voice was. Three hours she’d rehearsed that phrase, and by midnight all emotion had burnt out inside her. David hesitated. “The boiler broke. I had to fix it.” Helen slowly looked up. He stood in the kitchen doorway, unsure whether to come in. He looked somewhere past her, into the dark window. “You can’t fix boilers.” “I called a plumber.” “And you had to wait there?” Helen pushed the cup away. “You couldn’t call from here? From your phone?” David frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened: heavy and unpleasant. “Do you still love her?” Now he looked. Sharply, angrily, hurt. “What nonsense is this? I do everything for Sophie! For my daughter! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen, and Helen involuntarily edged back with her chair. “You knew, when you got involved with me, that I’d have to go round. You knew I have a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I go to my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Helen wanted to reply sharply, proudly, but instead her eyes stung, and the first tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought…” she choked, fighting a lump. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. Make an effort.” “Helen, come on…” “I’m tired!” her voice broke into a shout, and she startled herself with the sound. “Tired of being not even in second place! Third! After your ex, after her whims, after midnight boilers!” David struck his palm on the door frame. “What do you want from me?! To abandon my daughter? Not go see her?!” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Helen jumped up, the cup wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me — to her! To Anna!” “I’m sick of your drama!” David spun round, grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?” The only answer was the door slamming shut. Helen stood in the kitchen, tea dripping onto the linoleum, ringing in her ears. She grabbed her phone, dialled his number. Ring, ring, ring. “The subscriber cannot answer.” Again. And again. Silence. Helen slowly sank onto a chair, clutching her phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Back to her again? Or was he roaming the night streets, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Not knowing made it worse. The night dragged endlessly. Helen sat on the bed, clutching her phone — the screen would blink, then go dark. Dial the number, hear the rings, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Then another: “Please reply.” And another: “I’m scared.” Send — and watch each one get a single lonely grey tick. Not delivered. Or delivered, but unread. What difference does it make? By four a.m., Helen stopped crying. The tears simply ran out, drying up somewhere inside, leaving only a hollow ring. She got up, switched the bedroom light on, and opened her wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. The suitcase was on top of the closet, dusty, with a torn tag from some old trip. Helen dropped it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. Not sorting, not thinking — just stuffing it all in, whatever she could reach. If he didn’t care — neither did she. Let him come home to an empty flat. Let him search, call, send messages she’d never read. Let him know how it feels. By six, Helen stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, a shoulder bag, coat fastened crookedly — one side hanging longer than the other. She looked at the bunch of keys in her hand. Time to remove hers, leave it on the table. Her fingers fumbled. Helen jiggled the ring, tried to prise her key off with a nail, but it wouldn’t come, her hands were trembling, and her eyes stung again, who knew from where, more tears— “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The keys clattered onto the tile. Helen stared at them for a second, then just collapsed onto a suitcase, hugged her arms round herself, and sobbed hard. Loud, ugly, choked, like a child who’d broken mum’s favourite vase and thought the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Helen…” David knelt before her, right on the cold hall floor. He smelt of smoke and the night city. “Helen, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up. Her face was wet, swollen, mascara streaked black. David gently took her hands in his. “I was at Mum’s. All night. She gave me a real earful… knocked some sense into me.” Helen was silent. She stared at him — uncertain whether to believe or not. “I’m going to take Anna to court. Ask for a proper schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, set by the courts, like it should be. She won’t be able to manipulate things, use Sophie against me.” His fingers squeezed Helen’s hands tighter. “I choose you, Helen. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something trembled inside her. A little shoot of hope, silly and stubborn, the one she’d tried all night to tear out. “Really?” “Really.” Helen closed her eyes. She would trust David. One last time. After that… whatever happens, happens.