The music stopped, and the hall fell silent. Grace could only hear her own breath. Suddenly, a lone clap broke the quiet, and within moments, a thunderous applause deafened her. The audience rose to their feet, many with tears in their eyes.
Grace glanced at Thomas. He leaned down and kissed her. The salty taste of her tears lingered on his lips. The applause began to fade as the crowd exited. Thomas wheeled Grace’s chair toward the door.
“Tired?”
“No. I’m happy! Thank you!” She laughed through her tears.
***
Grace was cooking dinner, glancing at the clock. Daniel would be home soon. She put the kettle on the stove, chopping vegetables for the salad in a hurry. Another look at the clock. “He’s late. Should I call? No. He’ll just say I’m imagining things again, that I’m paranoid. I want to believe him. But I can’t. Not anymore.” Her fingers itched to grab the phone. “Is it happening again?”
Grace gripped the knife handle so tightly her knuckles turned white. Then she loosened her grip, letting the metal clatter onto the table. The clock’s hands crawled, testing her patience. Finally, she dialled Daniel’s number. “Come on, pick up. Tell me you’re almost home,” she pleaded as the ringing mocked her, drumming against her eardrums.
She tossed the phone. It slid across the table, stopping just short of the edge. “Calm down. Don’t lose it. He’ll be home soon,” she told herself.
Daniel walked in past midnight. Exhausted from crying, Grace had fallen asleep, but the rasp of the key in the lock jolted her awake. A sliver of light cut through the dark under the front door. She threw it open. Daniel, slipping off his shoes, flinched.
“You scared me. Why are you up?”
“I want to see your face. You promised you wouldn’t see her again.”
“Not this again. I was just watching the match with the lads, had a couple of pints—”
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t,” Grace interrupted, her voice breaking. “I won’t sit here waiting, listening for footsteps. Enough.” She clutched her stomach, hunched as if the weight of her words bent her in half, and turned toward the bedroom.
Grace curled up on the bed, sobbing.
“Grace, I’m sick of your jealousy. Honestly. You never let me breathe. I told you, we lost track of time—” Daniel stood by the bed but made no move to comfort her.
“Couldn’t you call? Oh, right, your phone ‘died’ again, didn’t it? I smell perfume, not beer,” Grace choked out, then flung herself toward the hallway.
By the time Daniel realised what she was doing, it was too late. Grace pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, the screen lighting up.
“Give it back!” He lunged, but Grace held it away.
“‘Darling, are you home yet? Has your wife started the interrogation, or is she saving it for morning?’” Grace read the message in a sickly-sweet voice. “Which one of the lads calls you ‘darling’?”
Daniel tried snatching it back, but Grace handed it over. Pushing past him, she stormed into the bedroom and started dressing.
“Tell her you’re free. I’m going to Mum’s. Be gone by morning.”
“Stop it, Grace. It’s late. Fine, I wasn’t with the lads—” He froze.
Grace’s face twisted as if she’d seen something vile.
“What more do you want?” she whispered, doubling over again. “I can’t do this. Not for another second.”
She grabbed her purse and left. Daniel didn’t stop her. Outside, Grace called a cab, then her mum.
“Fighting again? I warned you not to trust his promises. You should’ve left the first time,” her mother scolded.
“Not now, Mum.” Grace hung up.
But she never made it to her mother’s. The cab sped through the quiet city streets when, from a side road, a drunk driver in an SUV ploughed into them. The impact struck Grace’s side.
Daniel visited every day after she was moved from intensive care. Guilt gnawed at him. If he hadn’t stayed longer at Sophie’s, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
The doctors said they’d done all they could—that in a few months, Grace might walk again. But six months passed, then a year. The hope faded. She’d spend her life in a wheelchair.
Daniel stayed. Grace’s mother helped with the housework. But how long could a young man care for a disabled wife? Some men wouldn’t leave. He wanted to believe he was one of them. But between the guilt, Grace’s despair-turned-loathing, and the temptation of Sophie—healthy, free—he couldn’t bear it. He left Grace with her mother and walked away.
Despair followed. Grace thought of ending it—pills or the balcony. But the balcony door was narrow. Could she even haul herself over the railing? Pills were simpler. But her mother never left her alone, hiding the medicine.
One day, they walked in the park. Her mother pushed the wheelchair. Daniel had arranged for ramps in their building. On uneven ground, the wheels hit a pothole. The chair lurched, teetering dangerously before a man steadied it.
“Thank God you were here,” her mother gasped.
“Let me help. Where to?” He guided the chair expertly around the bumps.
“You’re good at this. Done it before?”
“A bit. After my injury, I wheeled lads in hospital who couldn’t walk.”
“You were in the army?”
“Afghanistan. Medically discharged. They told my mum I was dead—some mistake. Her heart gave out. My wife remarried. One night, I climbed onto a roof…”
Grace listened. Her life wasn’t so bad compared to his.
“Grace was in a crash. The driver walked away; she didn’t,” her mother said.
Thomas—that was his name—helped them home. He stayed for dinner, eating hungrily.
“Do you go out every day? What time?” he asked. “I could help.”
“You’ve done enough.”
“After losing everything, I felt like a ghost. Helping makes me feel alive. Let me.”
He started visiting, taking Grace on walks. Once, she admitted, “I always wanted to dance. Kept putting it off. Now it’s just a dream.”
Thomas said nothing. But two weeks later, he brought her to a ballroom competition. He’d arranged it—a dancer even spun her wheelchair on stage.
The music ended. The hall erupted. People stood, crying.
We tell ourselves it won’t happen to us—the fall, the drunk driver, the stolen time. We save dreams for “later.” But “later” may never come. And then, by chance, someone might help you dance after all.
