“You’ll be with me always…”
Maggie flipped the sizzling pieces of meat in the pan, covered it with a lid, and heard the hum of an engine outside—the sound of tyres crunching over the gravel path. Victor was home, and she hadn’t finished dinner yet. She checked the apple pie in the oven, pulled the vegetables from the fridge, and began washing them.
“Mag, I’m back!” Victor called from the hallway. “Something smells good,” he said, stepping into the kitchen and inhaling deeply.
“Hungry?” Maggie turned off the tap and faced him. “You’re early. Dinner isn’t ready yet.”
“No matter, I’ll wait. And is there something sweet for tea?”
“Yes, I’ve baked an apple pie. Can you hold on a little?”
“Of course.” He left for the sitting room while Maggie chopped the salad. She hated juggling tasks—she’d lose focus, and something would burn. But today, everything turned out perfectly. She set the table and went to fetch Victor. He sat slumped on the sofa, eyes half-shut, watching the telly. The news was on. As she hesitated to wake him, he opened his eyes.
“Tired? You look…” She shook her head, searching for the right words.
“A bit. Supper?” He rose, and they walked to the kitchen together.
“Mmm. Lovely spread, and the scent!” Victor glanced approvingly at the table.
“Fancy some wine? There’s a little left,” Maggie offered.
“No. Not tonight.”
Maggie loved watching him eat—with appetite, but neat. She loved him, all of him. Loved cooking for him, ironing his shirts, falling asleep on his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she cherished him, flaws and all.
***
They’d met when both had already tasted marriage’s bitterness. In her first marriage, Maggie hadn’t conceived, though the doctors found nothing wrong. Such things happen, they said—just be patient.
But while Maggie waited, her husband didn’t. A friend spotted him in a shopping centre with a heavily pregnant woman, browsing baby clothes. Maggie refused to believe it at first. They’d been happy—how could he? Yet the pieces fell into place.
Make a scene? What good would it do? The child wasn’t to blame—it shouldn’t grow up fatherless. Heartbroken, she let him go. If it had come to a baby, his love for her was already gone.
That evening, he came home late as usual. Maggie hadn’t cooked, hadn’t watched telly. Her heart ached with betrayal.
“You ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa in the dark.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Your parents, then? Spit it out.” He stood before her, baffled.
“It’s you. You’ve another family. A baby on the way. When were you going to tell me?”
“So you know.” He exhaled sharply, avoiding her eyes. “Should I go now, or—”
“Now.” She turned away, fighting tears. Pain and fury clawed at her insides.
He packed without looking at her, wheels of his suitcase clicking over the laminate.
“I’ll fetch the rest tomorrow,” he said.
She only nodded.
The wheels faded down the hall. Minutes later, the door shut. The lock clicked. And just like that, it was over. Only then did it sink in—she was truly alone. She wept, certain love and happiness were lost forever.
She didn’t sleep that night. Pacing barefoot, sobbing into a pillow. Come morning, she forced herself to work—red-eyed, nose stuffed from crying. Sent home, she returned to find all traces of him gone. Even his toothbrush. As if eight years had never been.
She couldn’t decide if that was kindness or cruelty. In time, she chose kindness. No lingering reminders. His usual messiness—clothes strewn about, unwashed plates—would’ve been worse. Better rip the bandage off swiftly.
And yet, she grieved for years.
Then she met Victor. He came to the bank about a home loan, then asked her to celebrate the deal over coffee.
“Building a big house—for children?” she asked.
“For me, my wife, and our future,” he replied, looking at her as if she were the answer.
She longed to say she dreamed of the same—home, family—but held her tongue. Coffee was bold enough.
Victor confessed his first marriage shattered after their daughter’s birth. His wife grew bitter, snapped, demanded constant calls.
“I worked hard, tired too. She didn’t let me near the baby. I sent her to Cambridge to rest with a friend. When she returned, she’d met an old flame. She left, took our girl.”
His daughter now had a new father, his visits unwelcome.
Two lonely souls, yet their love ignited instantly. Within months, they married. But children never came.
“Don’t fret,” Victor soothed her. “I’ve done nappies and tantrums. A child didn’t save my marriage. You’d be exhausted, cross—we’d fight. Aren’t we happy as we are?”
Money poured into the house instead. Now it stood—beautiful, debt-free. Only a year of alimony left. Time to enjoy life…
***
“What’s on your mind?” Victor asked.
Maggie startled. Lost in memory.
“Nothing. Just thinking… You look pale.”
“Long day.” He stretched, yawned.
“Go rest.” She sighed. “I’ll wash up.”
When she tiptoed in later, he dozed before the softly murmuring telly.
“Vic, bed.” She nudged his shoulder.
He blinked. “Nodded off. Worn out.”
“Sleep proper. I’ll join you soon.”
He rubbed his eyes, kissed her cheek, and shuffled off.
She checked the locks, turned off lights, showered. In bed, Victor already slept deeply. She slipped under the covers. He turned without waking.
In the night, a ragged gasp woke her. Victor thrashed.
“Vic! What’s wrong? Vic!”
She flicked the lamp on. His face was crimson, eyes bulging. He tried rising, but collapsed. Silent.
She screamed, shook him—nothing.
Frantic, she hunted for the phone. Dialled 999. Engaged. Again. Again.
“For God’s sake!” Trembling, she called colleagues—someone must get through.
In slippers and robe (when had she put it on?), she dashed next door, hammered on the iron gate.
A dog barked. Lights flicked on. John appeared.
“Who’s there? What’s happened?”
“It’s Maggie, next door. It’s—Vic—”
His wife emerged. “Ambulance won’t answer!”
“Your door open?” John asked.
“Yes! Hurry!”
“Give her valerian,” he told his wife, then sprinted off.
“John, your coat!” she called uselessly.
Maggie babbled through tears—how she woke, how he fell—
“Mum?” Their teenage son peered down in his pyjamas.
“Back to bed,” his mother shooed him.
“Not dead. He’s forty-four. Never ill—just colds!”
At last, sirens. Someone had got through. Maggie raced home just as the stretcher descended—Victor beneath a sheet.
She screamed, lunged. John caught her.
“Easy now. He’s gone.”
“Can’t be!” She fought, howled. A needle pricked her arm. She sagged.
The ambulance left.
“Inside. Can’t help him now,” John steadied her.
She let him lead her in, legs failing. He settled her on the sofa where Victor had napped.
“Leave me,” she whispered.
“Sure?”
She covered her face, wept anew. By dawn, she called work. Stepped into the dreary autumn morning. The neighbour’s dog howled, chain clinking.
That bush—Victor trimmed it last weekend. The path he laid glistened with dew. His car by the garage. Everywhere, his touch. He was here—yet gone.
She raised her swollen face to the grey sky. Daylight crept in.
“You’re not there,” she shouted. “If you were, you wouldn’t have taken him.”
She phoned his family. His daughter and ex-wife would come for the funeral. Last, she called her mother.
“When’s the burial? Never mind—I’m coming.”
Maggie dressed, hailed a cab—no driving in this state. People came, spoke, offered help. The door stayed open. Her mother handled arrangements. Maggie couldn’t. To bury him was to admit he’d never return.
At the hospital, the doctor said even a swift ambulance wouldn’t have saved him. “Instant. Blame no one. Not yourself.”
At the graveside, she collapsed onto the coffin—cold, alien. Not her Victor. How could flesh change so fast? Darkness took her.
She whispered his name into the silence of their home, knowing he’d never answer—but in her heart, he always would.
