“Hello. I’m Yura’s wife. May I come in?”
The medical school had been buzzing for a week ahead of the upcoming volleyball tournament—med students versus the engineering faculty. That morning, her friend Lauren had pestered Emma to come watch the match.
“I don’t like volleyball. I don’t like sports at all. I don’t understand any of it,” Emma protested.
“You don’t need to understand! We’ll just cheer for our team. Come on, do it for me,” Lauren begged.
“It’s not the win you care about, it’s Simon,” Emma sighed, but she agreed.
The hall was packed, all the benches along one wall crammed with spectators. The game drew Emma in despite herself. Soon she was on her feet, shouting along with the crowd, waving a red flag—med students’ colour—while the engineers’ fans brandished blue. In the end, her team won. The girls celebrated as if they’d personally secured the victory.
Shutting the institute door behind them, Emma asked, “Home?”
Night had long since fallen, streetlamps casting pools of gold on the pavement.
“Wait for Simon? Just to congratulate him. He’ll change and come out soon,” Lauren rasped, her voice hoarse from yelling.
They didn’t wait long. Soon Simon emerged with another bloke, spotted the girls, and introduced them to his opponent—James. Turned out they’d been mates since school. The four walked together, dissecting the match before splitting off—Simon walking Lauren home, James escorting Emma. That was the night they started seeing each other.
A year later, after Emma graduated, she and James married. He’d finished his degree a year earlier, already working. Both sets of parents chipped in for a deposit, and the young couple took out a mortgage on a two-bedroom flat—room for future children.
Three years into marriage, Emma gave birth to their son. Six years later, a daughter.
Between maternity leaves, Emma worked at a dental clinic, treating relatives, friends, and their acquaintances without fail. James was an engineer at a major firm. These days, he only played volleyball occasionally, mostly on summer beaches, but he’d kept his form—lean, strong, handsome. Every time she admired him, Emma remembered their first meeting. Unthinkable now that she might never have gone to that match.
Of course, the fiery passion of newlywed years had cooled, but they lived in harmony. They hosted holiday gatherings, barbecued with friends at weekend cottages, took seaside holidays—even Turkey twice. Once alone, once with their son Harry; baby Lillian was still just an idea then. Among their circle, they were the golden couple—one of the few marriages still standing.
Lauren envied Emma, though without malice. She reckoned they owed their happiness to her—if she hadn’t dragged Emma to that match, they’d never have met. But Lauren’s own romance with Simon fizzled. She married, divorced within two years, and remained on what she called “the active hunt” for happiness.
One evening, Emma helped ten-year-old Harry with homework while Lillian doodled beside them, tongue poking out in concentration.
“Mum, your phone,” Harry said, glancing up from his workbook.
Emma listened. Sure enough, vibrations hummed from her silenced mobile—typical. Calls came often: someone’s toothache needing advice until morning, a pleading favour for a friend-of-a-friend’s dental emergency. She always answered. She was a doctor, after all.
This time, it was Lauren. Emma swiped to answer, immediately saying, “Helping Harry with schoolwork. Call back later?”
“Later might be too late,” Lauren said. “James isn’t home, is he?”
“Still at work. He warned me he’d be late. What’s wrong?”
“He’s not at work. Just saw him at The Rose & Crown with some stunning girl. I’m here on a date—stepped outside to call you. They left in his car, probably headed to hers. Hate to break it to you, love, but this isn’t a one-off. They’re serious. I’ve got an eye for these things. You hearing me?”
“I hear you,” Emma said.
She knew women fancied James. But he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Lauren had been drinking—might’ve imagined it all. Or maybe Emma had missed the warning signs.
“Hardly touched my wine,” Lauren said, as if reading her mind. Her voice was steady. “Don’t think I’m calling out of envy. I adore you both. Never tried to steal him—he’s mad about you. But I couldn’t stay quiet. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“My date’s a detective. Want me to have him dig up details? Reckon he’d do it. Personally, I’d love to yank that homewrecker’s hair out without anaesthetic. Your call, but I wouldn’t hand James over. Men like him don’t grow on trees. Remember—you’ve got two kids. So? Want the dirt?”
From anyone else, Emma might’ve doubted. But Lauren wouldn’t lie. Why would she?
“You there?” Lauren pressed.
“Find out,” Emma said, then flung the phone aside as if it were to blame.
“Mum!” Harry called.
“Coming.”
She walked to the kitchen, stood by the window. Tremors wracked her. James… with another woman. The title of an old film floated up: *It Can’t Be!* But Lauren had known him for years—she couldn’t be mistaken.
Emma locked her ice-cold fingers together. Her heart ached, her face burned, yet nausea spread through her like creeping frost. *What if she’s wrong? Could’ve been a work dinner. But Lauren said they’re involved. Men stray all the time. He’s always been handsome—of course women notice. And what now? Smash plates? Scare the kids? Shouting’ll only drive him to her. Mistresses play the opposite game—where a wife nags, they offer patience, tenderness… What happens next?*
“Mum, I can’t figure this problem,” Harry said from the doorway.
“Alright, I’ll come,” she replied hollowly, not turning.
Harry lingered, then left.
Emma returned, barely grasping the maths problem. When James came home, she’d steadied herself—met him with a smile.
“Shall I heat dinner?”
“No, had coffee at work. Exhausted. Shower, then bed.”
She put Lillian down, then sat at the kitchen table for hours, sipping tea, thinking, thinking…
James was asleep when she finally slipped into bed. Dawn neared before she drifted off. Who could sleep, knowing their husband had betrayed them?
Morning brought a throbbing head and gritty eyes. She made breakfast, roused Lillian. James rose fresh-faced, ate heartily.
“Could you drop Lillian at nursery? I’m not feeling great,” Emma asked.
“Course. Rest—you’re on lates, yeah?”
He always remembered birthdays, anniversaries, her rota. A normal morning. Yet everything had changed.
“Not working late today? You’ll collect her?” Emma reminded.
“Yeah. Didn’t need reminding,” James called from the hall.
Next day, Emma visited her mother after work. She needed advice.
“What should I do, Mum?”
“Don’t know, love. When your dad strayed, I screamed, smashed things… Didn’t need to follow him—everyone knew but me. Went to her flat, wrecked it. Nearly brained her with a stool. Your dad stopped me.”
Emma stared.
“Shocked? Later, I was ashamed. Anger makes monsters of us. He said he couldn’t live with me after that. Left. I sobbed for days, wanted to die. Then he came back. But I turned him away.”
“Regret not forgiving him?”
“At first, no—hard as it was. But I only had you; you’ve got two. Harry needs his dad. Later… yes. None of us were happy. He stayed with her till he died. Your choice—forgive or not. You have to live with it. Fight for James if you love him. Loneliness… it’s bitter.”
Two days later, Lauren visited the clinic. She’d gotten the mistress’s address.
“So he did cheat,” Emma said bitterly, taking the note.
“You doubted me? I’d never lie about this. What’ll you do?”
“What would *you* do?”
“Me? I’d make her wish she’d never been born. You’ve got arsenic here—slow poison. Acid to the face, maybe? Or a curse? Good idea, no?”
“Too much telly. No sane person does that.”
“Pity her? Fine. Beat James up, then. Patch him up after—he’ll owe you forever. My bloke knows blokes who’d arrange it properly.”
“Christ, Lauren—don’t you dare!” Emma was genuinely alarmed. Lauren was reckless enough to try. “I’ll handle it.”
“Suit yourself. Call if you change your mindShe held her breath until the next beach holiday, watching James spike the ball over the net with that same old grin, and finally decided some wounds heal best when left untouched.
