Tom pushed open the window and climbed onto the ledge. The black tarmac below called to him, equal parts tempting and terrifying.
Life’s a bit like a winding forest path—you never know where it’ll lead or what’s waiting just beyond the next bend. Tom Wilkinson never imagined he’d lose everything, only to find happiness again in the most unexpected way.
He’d never been in a rush to marry. He wanted someone who truly understood him. The moment he saw Emily in that café, his heart skipped—*she was the one*. Without hesitation, he sat down beside her, and they struck up a conversation. They loved the same books, the same films, shared a passion for ice skating, and both dreamed of a big, loving family with kids.
And for a while, it all unfolded just as they’d hoped—except for the children. Emily saw specialists, tried treatments, even visited holy sites, refusing to give up hope. Then, one day, she was sure she was pregnant. She waited, not wanting to rush to the doctor, to be certain. Only when her belly started growing did she finally go for a check-up.
It wasn’t a baby. It was a tumour. Every time Tom accompanied Emily to the oncology clinic, he saw the hollow stares of the patients there, as if they were listening to their own bodies whisper. Soon, he noticed that same look in Emily’s eyes.
Tom never left her side. First, he took holiday leave, then unpaid time off. Eventually, their GP took pity, signing him off work—but his boss called him in, demanding he either return or quit. Tom handed in his notice.
Day after day, he cared for Emily, holding her hand as she struggled to breathe, begging God not to take her—or if He must, to take him too.
Nothing helped. Three months later, Emily was gone.
After the funeral, Tom returned to their empty flat. Emily’s dressing gown still hung over the chair where she’d left it a month ago. Part of him expected her to walk in and slip it on. Her boots sat by the door, her sheepskin coat—the one they’d bought last spring, half-price—still on the hook. Every corner of the place screamed her name, the love of his life, gone too soon.
He buried his face in her pillow, still faintly scented with her perfume, and sobbed. Then he went to the shop and bought two bottles of whisky. The next morning, he barely dragged himself out of bed. The pain, dulled briefly the night before, crashed over him anew. He poured the leftover whisky down the sink, though part of him wondered—what did it matter? Without Emily, he didn’t want to live.
Days were manageable, but nights were unbearable. One evening, he stood by the window, staring at the city lights. What was keeping him here? The flat? Let it rot. No job, no wife, no children. He opened the window and climbed onto the ledge. The black tarmac below pulled at him. Fourth floor—not so high. But what if he didn’t die?
A knock at the door. For the briefest second, Tom’s gaze dropped to the ground—then he stepped back inside and answered. It was Mrs. Taylor from next door.
“Couldn’t sleep either, love? Just wanted to check you were still with us. Been awfully quiet. Why’s there a draught? You’ve got the window open—you’re not thinking of doing something daft, are you?” Her eyes searched his face, worried.
“Just airing the place,” he said evenly.
“Alright, but mind yourself. Jump out that window, and you’ll never see Emily again. It’s a sin, that—taking your own life. God won’t let you be with her after.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Taylor.”
He half-heartedly shooed her away, but the urge to jump had vanished. He’d heard the same—suicide was an unforgivable sin.
He didn’t sleep that night, just thought. By morning, he’d stuffed a bag with spare clothes and the last photo of him and Emily together. No savings left—everything had gone on her treatment. His gaze snagged on her dressing gown. He turned away and headed out, locking the door before knocking on Mrs. Taylor’s.
“Where’re you off to?” she asked, eyeing his bag.
“Mum’s. Can’t stay here. I’ll drink myself to death.”
“Sensible. How long for?” She squinted.
“Dunno. Mind the flat?” He handed her the keys. “You’ve got my number if needed. Best be off.” He gave a quick wave and hurried downstairs.
He sat in the car for a while, gathering himself, then turned the key and pulled away. On the motorway, he floored it, a reckless thought flashing—what if he just let go of the wheel? But then some innocent driver might pay the price.
Two hundred miles later, he was finally breathing easy for the first time in months. His hometown seemed smaller, grimier than he remembered—usually, he only visited in summer when the trees hid the mess. He’d forgotten the muddy chaos of spring in a provincial town.
There it was—home. He parked outside the picket fence, and the gate creaked open. His mum rushed onto the doorstep, squinting at the unexpected visitor before gasping and running to him.
“Tom, love! You didn’t say you were coming! You alone?”
He hugged her, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender, warmth flooding his chest. He’d thought he was all cried out after the funeral, but his eyes prickled anyway.
They talked for hours, catching up. His mum tsked over Emily’s passing, soothing his grief as best she could, fussing over him with tea and biscuits.
“Good you came. Home’s the best place to heal. What’s there for you in that empty flat? Remember when you’d bolt in from school and—”
Her voice was a lullaby, and for the first time, the ache for Emily softened. This house held no memories of her.
That evening, he noticed lights on next door.
“Mum, who lives there now? Thought old Mrs. Carter passed?”
“Oh, that’s Lucy. Moved back a year ago after her divorce. Bloke was a gambler—or worse. Ended up in jail. Came home with her little boy. And there’s another lad with her, ten or so. Ran off from some drunkards who called themselves parents. No papers, poor thing—can’t even go to school.”
“She told me the truth, scared social services’ll take him. Works as a cleaner now at the Tesco up the road. The boy minds her little one when she’s out. Sometimes I watch him too. What else am I to do? No grandkids of my own—” She caught herself, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. Rambling.”
“S’alright, Mum.”
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. His thoughts flickered between Emily and Lucy—his first proper crush back in sixth form. She’d chosen some bloke from the parallel class instead.
The next day, he spotted her through the window. She hadn’t changed much, but his heart stayed steady. Then, a few nights later, he woke to a flickering orange glow outside.
“Tom—the neighbours’ house is on fire!” his mum shouted, bursting in.
He bolted outside, barely stopping to shove on his boots. People were already running with buckets. Sirens wailed in the distance. By the fence, Lucy stood in a nightdress, clutching her toddler, the older boy pressed to her side.
“Lucy, come inside. You can’t do anything out here.” He led them back to his mum’s.
His mum fussed, draping Lucy in her dressing gown, putting the kettle on.
“What happened? How’d it start?”
“I—I don’t know. Woke up coughing, smoke everywhere. Grabbed the boys and ran. Didn’t take anything. All our papers—gone. What do we do now?” Lucy’s voice cracked, and her little one started wailing.
“Here, let me take him.” His mum scooped up the toddler. “You two stay with us. Crowded, but better than nothing.”
“Was the house insured?” Tom asked once they were alone.
Lucy shrugged.
“Right. We’ll sort it. Stay with us for now. My flat in the city’s empty. We’ll get your documents fixed. And the boy—if you want, we can register him as yours. Your surname, all official.”
“Will they check?”
“Dunno. Worth a try. He needs school, Lucy. Least you’re all alive—rest can be sorted.” He almost added *death’s the only thing you can’t fix*, but stopped himself.
They stayed at his mum’s a few days while the fire brigade investigated. Then Tom drove Lucy and the boys back to his flat, his mum loading them up with jars of jam and pickles.
The whole drive, he thought about work—he had to find a job, or get his old one back. He needed to provide now. For theLife wasn’t the same as before, but as he watched Lucy laugh in the kitchen, her boys racing underfoot, Tom realized—somehow, against all odds, he’d found his way back to happiness. .
