Emma didn’t hear the squeak of hospital trolley wheels on the linoleum or the hurried footsteps. Her head swayed slightly with the motion. She didn’t see the fluorescent lights flashing above her, didn’t hear James shouting, “Emma! Emma!” She didn’t see the doctor step in his way.
“You can’t go in there. Wait here.”
James collapsed onto the plastic chairs outside the intensive care unit, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. She didn’t see any of it. She was tumbling through a blinding tunnel of light, praying only for the fall to stop—for peace.
***
She had performed in a short comedic sketch at the university’s spring social, playing a hopeless student who’d come unprepared for an exam. The audience roared with laughter, clapping wildly. Afterwards, there was dancing, and James asked her to join him.
“You were brilliant up there—like a proper actress,” he said, utterly sincere, his eyes alight with admiration.
“I wasn’t even supposed to do it. Sophie chickened out last minute. I was so nervous, I forgot half my lines. I was making it up as I went—shaking the whole time.” Emma’s eyes still glittered with nervous energy.
“Could’ve fooled me. You looked confident. Natural. You’re in the wrong profession.”
After the dance, he walked her back to halls and clumsily kissed her cheek. James still lived with his parents. They started dating, and within a month, they’d rented a tiny bedsit from an elderly widow near campus. James fought his parents tooth and nail. Eventually, they relented—agreed to help the young couple.
The old woman next door was half-deaf, but they still played music loud, just in case. Emma would remember those days as the happiest of her life.
“I love you,” James would whisper, breathless and warm beside her.
“No, I love you more,” Emma would murmur, pressing her cheek to his damp chest.
“Impossible. I love you even more than that…”
They adored this game. Later, they’d dream aloud—finishing university, landing jobs, buying a proper house, having children. A boy and a girl.
“No, a girl first, then a boy,” Emma insisted.
“And then another boy,” James would add, kissing her.
They were certain—no one had ever loved the way they did.
Their happiness made their classmates envious. Professors smiled indulgently, wistful for their own lost youth. How many couples like them had they seen? They’d been young once too—before time turned them grey, drilling medical basics into careless students’ heads.
After graduation, James and Emma worked at an NHS dental clinic for two years before moving to a private practice run by James’s father’s old friend. Two years later, the man opened a second clinic and made James its manager.
The money was good. Their parents helped with the bulk of the mortgage. Just as planned, Emma had a daughter first, then—never leaving maternity leave—a son three years later.
Weekends, the grandparents took the children, giving Emma and James time to rest, to be alone. A perfect, charming, happy family. What more could anyone want?
When their son started school, Emma decided to return to work. She was tired of being home, terrified of losing her professional edge.
“Why? I earn enough. Stay home with the kids,” James argued, suddenly resistant. “Let’s have another. We can manage. My parents adore the grandkids—they’ll help.”
But this time, Emma couldn’t conceive. She blamed herself, spiralled into worry, visiting doctors who found nothing wrong.
“Stop tormenting yourself. If we had no children, I’d understand. But we have two—perfect ones. There’s no reason to panic. Just relax,” James assured her.
She tried. But the longing for work returned.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t hire you at my clinic,” James said bluntly. “First, it’s unprofessional—husband and wife working together. Second, you’ve been out seven years. Your skills are rusty. No practice would take you.”
And so, the fights began. Emma managed the house, the children. But when James’s parents took them, the emptiness gnawed at her. One evening, she drank wine to numb the ache. It worked—the anxiety melted away. She passed out on the sofa, never hearing James come home. When she woke at dawn, his side of the bed was untouched. He answered on the third call.
“You didn’t come home…”
“I did. You were too drunk to notice.” His voice carried disgust.
“I had one glass! What else am I supposed to do? You won’t let me work, your parents took the kids—”
“I’ll call them now. Bring them back. I’ve got to go.” He hung up.
Emma hurled her phone against the wall, watching it shatter.
When had it all gone wrong? Life had been perfect. When had the cracks appeared? When had everything shattered like that phone? She paced the house, rearranging things pointlessly. She craved another drink, but no—James’s parents would bring Sophie and Oliver soon. No one could see her like this. But hours passed. The phone was broken. No way to call. She drank again, collapsing on the sofa.
She heard James return. Stepping into the hall, she froze. He looked immaculate—well-rested, crisp. Beside him, she felt dishevelled, crumpled.
“You look fresh. Doesn’t seem like you’ve worked two straight days or slept in the office. That shirt’s new. I don’t recognise it.” She watched his face.
He ignored her. Then, as if pushed, she asked:
“Are you cheating on me? It makes sense now. That’s why you wouldn’t let me work? So I wouldn’t notice?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Are you drunk again?”
“One glass, and suddenly I’m an alcoholic?” Her voice rose.
The fight erupted. When James admitted there was another woman, that he dreaded coming home, dreaded seeing her—Emma slapped him. Hard. He raised his hand.
“Go on. Hit me. Kill me. Half the council’s on your patient list. They’d let you off. Marry her then.”
She didn’t see it coming. His blow sent her crashing into the wall. Her jaw burned, but her pride—her heart—hurt worse.
He’d hit her. The man who’d once been so gentle. She remembered their tiny bedsit, the music turned up, their playful battles over who loved the other more, their dreams of a home, of children. They had it all now. But the love had vanished—as if material comfort had been enough.
Emma tore off her wedding ring, flung open the window, and hurled it into the night. She waited for James to do the same. Then she saw his hand. His finger was bare.
“You…” She choked, realisation dawning—he’d been lying for years.
“You…” No words came.
“I’m done with you. Look at yourself. What are you now? Can’t even trust you with the kids. You’re just a drunken, hysterical—”
The cruelty stole her breath. She gasped, soundless. The room tilted. Then—darkness.
***
Emma woke. Eyes still closed, she knew—this wasn’t home. The smells were all wrong yet familiar. Machines beeped nearby. Something pressed against her ribs, forcing her chest to rise. She tried opening her eyes. The beeping quickened. *Did I leave the fridge open?* The thought flickered. *The food’ll spoil. The kids…* She blinked—light seared her skull.
“Finally awake. Emma? Can you hear me?” James’s voice, distant.
She tried to speak, but her lips were sealed, her throat raw.
His face loomed—frightened, relieved.
“You’re in hospital. You collapsed. Your heart stopped,” he said, answering her silent question.
Eyes lifting, she saw a sterile white ceiling. *Did I expect heaven? I’m not dead.*
“You’re safe now.” He squeezed her hand. Then—black.
When she woke again, breathing was agony, as if a weight crushed her chest.
“James,” she rasped, barely recognising her own voice. Something scratched her throat.
“Right here.” He gripped her hand.
Memories flooded back—the shattered phone, the fight, the ring flying into darkness, his fist—
“Ring…” she whispered.
“What ring?” He leaned closer.
“My wedding ring.”
“You threw it out. Doubt we’ll find it now. Don’t worry—I’ll buy you another.”
“*Your* ring.”
“Mine?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “This one?” He lifted his hand. Gold glinted on his finger.
“Enough. She needs rest. Leave.” A stranger’s voice. A needle stung her arm.
Each day, she grew stronger, replaying her life like a broken film. A week later, James took her home—thinner, weaker—to their lovely house.
But as she stood in the doorway of their once-perfect home, she knew—some fractures never truly heal.
