The Fate
“Today I spoke to Lydia. Can you believe it? Alex has gone off the rails again,” said Emma as an advert cut into the latest drama on BBC Two.
She glanced at her husband. He was half-reclining against the raised pillows, staring absentmindedly at the screen.
“Vic, are you even listening? Alex is being ridiculous,” she repeated when he didn’t respond.
“I heard you. What’s it to you?” he muttered.
“What do you mean? Lydia’s my friend. I worry for her. Has Alex said anything to you?” Emma studied his profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages. And honestly, your friend’s a drama queen. I’d steer clear too. Enough about this—the show’s back on.”
“Oh, is that so? Did he tell you that? So Lydia’s to blame, is she? That’s how it always is—women are the problem, never you lot. And who made her like this? He’s been carrying on for years!” Emma pursed her lips as Vic stared stubbornly at the screen.
“You know what? I nag you too. How many times have I told you to wipe your feet before coming inside? You drag in mud, leave toothpaste smeared in the sink… So I’m a drama queen too, am I? Maybe you’re the one messing about—keeping Alex company?” She fixed him with a hard glare.
“Here we go,” Vic sighed, throwing the duvet aside. “I’ll watch the rest in the kitchen.”
“I’m just worried about my friend,” Emma called after him.
“They were so in love once. He used to climb through her window with flowers. What is it with you men? Never enough?” Her voice rose, carrying through the open door.
“First it’s ‘darling,’ ‘sweetheart,’ till you find someone else. Then suddenly we’re just hysterical, annoying women,” she muttered to herself, as if he could still hear. “Lydia forgave him so many times. First time, he was on his knees, swearing it’d never happen again, crying real tears. She took him back for the kids’ sake. Good man, Alex, isn’t he? Drained the life out of her. Probably won’t stop till he’s wrecked himself completely.” She fell silent. Not a sound came from the kitchen.
“Or maybe Vic’s cheating too. Why else storm off? Hit a nerve, did I? No, he’s too lazy. Alex at least hits the gym. Mine’s got a gut, a receding hairline…”
But the doubt took root, gnawing at her. Emma stopped watching, the drama forgotten. She slipped on her slippers and walked to the kitchen. Vic sat on a stool, legs crossed, blowing smoke through the cracked window. A draft curled in, making her shiver.
“Since when do you smoke?”
He startled, ash scattering across the table.
“Damn it, you scared me.” He brushed the ash onto the floor. “Maybe I’m worried too. Alex is my mate.”
“Then talk to him. Isn’t he ashamed? What kind of example is he setting?” She grabbed the ashtray from the sill and set it firmly in front of him.
“Like he’d listen. Not my place to meddle. His life, his mistakes.” He took one last drag and stubbed it out, then shut the window.
“Let’s sleep.” He brushed past her.
Emma shook her head, turned off the light, and followed. Vic lay on his side, back turned. Piers Morgan droned on the telly. She switched it off, darkness swallowing the room. Months now, they’d slept like this—backs to each other.
They’d met at uni, hearts full, breathless with young love. Married two years later. Life was normal—fights, make-ups, the usual. Their daughter grew up, graduated, moved to London. Emma never thought much about happiness. But she had been happy. Friends divorced, remarried, each with their reasons. They’d lasted twenty-seven years. Twenty-five married. A quarter of a century.
Her thoughts circled back to Lydia. Her voice still echoed: “Why does he do this? I gave him everything. Raised his kids. Now no youth left, no husband, just… alone.”
On the other side of the bed, Vic lay wide-eyed, staring into the dark, stifling sighs, perfectly still.
Two days later, Vic came home late. Emma didn’t fret. Happened before. Traffic, pints with mates, overtime. She could always tell. Cheery and tipsy? Boys’ night. Grim and tense? Work trouble.
Finally, the lock turned. She heard him undress—no usual grumbling. Then, footsteps to the kitchen.
When she entered, Vic sat stiffly at the table, spine pressed to the wall. He didn’t look relaxed—more like a coiled spring. She sensed his unease. Her stomach dropped. That same dread from before stirred inside. Vic stared ahead, as if steeling himself.
“Something wrong?” she asked softly, anxiety swelling, leaking into her voice. “Should I heat dinner?”
“No, I’m fine.” He stood, avoiding her gaze, and left.
Emma caught it—a faint trace of perfume. Not hers. Familiar, though. She’d smelled it before.
She waited in the living room, but he never came. Sick? Gone straight to bed? She pushed open the bedroom door. Vic still sat on the edge in his work suit, hands clasped, head bowed.
“Vic?”
“Sit,” he said.
She obeyed, keeping distance, catching that scent again. Her silence stretched. She already knew.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else,” he finally said.
“You’re leaving?”
A pointless question. Men only say this when it’s decided.
“Yes. I can’t fight it. She’s all I think about.”
“Always. So it’s been a while. And here I thought you were out with mates.” Emma smirked bitterly.
“If you leave, I won’t take you back—not like Lydia.”
“I know. It’s decided. I can’t keep lying. I’ll pack and go.”
She wanted to ask—what about her? Their daughter? Twenty-five years? But suddenly, none of it mattered. She’d always thought they were different. Knew she’d never tolerate another woman. Never cling like Lydia.
She stood and left, shutting the door behind her. Listened as he moved about, hangers clacking, zippers closing. Then footsteps. He paused beside her.
“Sorry.”
Emma bit back tears. No scene. The other woman wouldn’t hear how she begged.
The door clicked shut. Then—the flood. Sobs of hurt, self-pity. Once the shock passed, she called Lydia. Only she’d understand. They wept for lost youth, shared fate.
When their daughter rang, Emma said nothing. She told herself solitude was nice. No cooking, no scrubbing footprints, no snoring. She tackled chores she’d put off. Keep busy. Don’t wallow.
She waited for Vic’s return. Knew she wouldn’t forgive, but waited anyway. He never came. Not after a month. Not after two.
One evening, she opened her laptop. Logged into Facebook—ages since she’d messaged anyone.
Two unread messages. A stranger, wanting to chat. If she was free, he’d wait.
Her profile picture was a decade old. Smiling, happy. Back then, updating it always drew men—mostly foreigners. She never replied.
She zoomed in on his picture. A stock photo. ‘Edward.’ No other details. A new account. No posts.
Strange. She almost ignored him. Then—why not? Vent. Spite Vic. Let him see she moved on.
She wrote back: Married. Open to chat—but nothing inappropriate. She and Vic weren’t divorced.
The messages began. Edward rambled, sometimes incoherent, sometimes profound. Quoted Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Wilde.
Emma waited for them. If days passed, she worried. Was he ill? Then—relief at his next words.
“Know what fate means? It comes from Latin—’fatum.’ A decree. Destiny. But also ‘to speak.’ So fate is the story we’re given, the one we tell ourselves. That’s why people say ‘not meant to be’—it’s the story they choose. We shape it.”
He confessed. He’d hurt his wife. Betrayed her. Was soulless. Didn’t deserve love. Missed his old life. His wife.
Emma froze. His words mirrored her own. But she didn’t share. Just mocked male cowardice.
Two months like this. Then she asked for a real photo. Didn’t care how he looked—just wanted to see him. Or was he hiding something?
Edward updated his picture. Emma studied it. “You lied,” she typed. “This face doesn’t match your words.”
He replied he’d send a real one—if she updated hers first. She looked ten years younger in hers.
“Clever,” she thoughtShe closed the laptop, finally understanding that forgiveness, not pride, was the fate she had always been meant to choose.
