Emily tossed aside the duvet, flipped her damp pillow to the cooler side, and settled back down. The air felt slightly fresher, but sleep still wouldn’t come. The occasional swish of tyres from the street below didn’t help. Nor did her thoughts. They were the worst intruders. “Where’s that late-night driver rushing to? Home? Or is he fleeing something—or someone—into the dark? Who’s waiting for him? Blasted heat…”
With a sigh, Emily got up. The flat was as familiar as the back of her hand, so she didn’t bother with the light. In the kitchen, she peered out the window. Two windows glowed in the house across the road. “Someone waiting—or mourning their absence?”
Young spring leaves obscured the view. She flicked on the nightlight and poured water from the kettle into a glass. Darkness returned, and she looked again. One window had gone dark. Sipping slowly, she felt the cool water seep through her, her bare feet chilling pleasantly against the lino.
She left the empty glass on the sill and returned to the bedroom but couldn’t face the crumpled sheets. Instead, she went to the spare room and lay on the stiff, narrow sofa, resting her head on a lumpy cushion filled with heaven-knows-what.
Then, quite suddenly, sleep pulled her under…
***
“Kiss! Kiss!” the guests chanted, champagne flutes aloft.
Daniel stood, guiding Emily up by the hand. In her wedding heels, she was nearly his height, meeting his eyes instead of gazing up as usual. His expression brimmed with admiration, love, and unmistakable hunger. She leaned in, tilting her head so her veil shielded them from the crowd.
“One, two, three!” slurred the merry guests.
Her mother had taught her: a woman makes the home, holds it together. So Emily dove headfirst into building her happily-ever-after.
At first, she and Daniel did everything together—groceries, cooking, laughing between kisses. Once, they nearly burnt the potatoes, too wrapped up in each other. Love like that, she’d thought, would last forever.
Two years later, Emily gave birth to little Sophie. Her mother helped at first.
“I’m exhausted,” Emily complained about Daniel’s lack of help.
“A man works, love. It’s a woman’s lot to keep house and raise children,” her mother said. “Nap when Sophie does. If he’s tired, how’s he meant to provide?”
Emily learned to snatch sleep where she could—even dozing on park benches during pram walks. When Sophie turned two, Emily returned to work.
“Once I retire in five years, we’ll take Sophie weekends, and you’ll have another,” her mother mused.
But re-entering the workforce killed any desire for more children. Daniel didn’t press it. So it stayed just the three of them.
“Why do men stray? Because mistresses are always dolled up, while wives shuffle about in stained dressing gowns,” her mother warned.
So Emily made sure Daniel only saw her polished—waking early to apply makeup before he stirred.
Still, it wasn’t enough. Sophie grew up, left home, and Emily realised Daniel had swapped suits for joggers. He took up running, though he’d always been fit.
“It’s trendy,” he said. “Gotta keep up.”
When she found lipstick on his collar, she confronted him. Caught off guard, he mumbled, then confessed. He asked her to let him go.
“Am I stopping you? Go on, then. But don’t expect to come back.”
She packed his things dry-eyed. He lingered in the hallway, stealing glances, waiting for her to beg.
Emily stood arms crossed. *Not a chance.*
He left. She collapsed onto the sofa, howling into that wretched cushion. Life felt meaningless. By dawn, she’d decided on pills—even fetched the bottle. But she rang her friend first.
Her friend rushed over.
“Don’t you dare. Imagine the ego boost he’d get—women dying over him? Spare him the glory.”
So Emily didn’t take them. Slowly, she relearned solitude. Turns out, there were perks: sleeping in, padding about nude, skipping makeup, cooking less. She slimmed down, looked younger. Saved grocery money for new clothes. Retail therapy, as they say.
Then Sophie had a baby boy, giving Emily fresh purpose. She adored being a gran—singing lullabies, reading stories, building sandcastles.
Part of her wished Daniel would see her now, realise what he’d lost. Did his new wife make porridge or just toast? Maybe *he* brought *her* coffee in bed. Her mind tormented her with images: him in a floral apron, grocery bags in hand…
The pain was unbearable. He was happy without her.
One afternoon at the playground, a silver-haired man sat beside her.
“Glorious weather, eh? Summer in April! Your grandson’s a spitting image. Mine’s that little lass—Katie. Proper angel, isn’t she?”
He didn’t need replies; he just craved a listener.
“When my wife had ours, she barely let me near ’em. Too scared I’d muck it up. I didn’t mind. Missed their first steps, first words—whole childhoods passed me by.” He sighed. “But with Katie? I’m making up for lost time. Know more about her than her parents do.” A pause. “If I could go back… My Lizzie never complained. Gone now. Widower.”
Emily thought of Daniel. *What if he’s got a new kid too? Pushing prams, changing nappies?* Bitter tears threatened. She stood abruptly, dragging a wailing Tommy home.
Next day, the man reappeared. This time, Emily boasted about Tommy’s milestones.
Eventually, he admitted loneliness. “Wife’s gone, kids are busy. Once Katie’s grown… I’m not old. Could start fresh.” His gaze lingered.
Emily considered it. He seemed decent—no vices. She wasn’t ancient either. But—”A stranger’s habits, memories… No.” After that, she avoided that bench.
***
Morning brought a throbbing head. As Emily brewed tea, the doorbell rang.
“Early for Sophie to drop Tommy off,” she murmured.
But on the doorstep stood Daniel. She barely recognised him. Where was the dapper, youthful man? Deep wrinkles, thinning hair, a hollowed-out frame drowning in his jacket. His eyes were a beaten dog’s.
“Em… Thought I’d pop by,” he rasped, shrinking under her stare.
No luggage. *Scouting the terrain*, she thought smugly. “What’s wrong?”
As he removed his coat, she spotted a grubby collar. Pity stirred. *Look at him. New wife’s run him ragged. Half the man he was. No—he’s still Sophie’s dad.*
Daniel caught her softening. “Em, I’m not well.”
“Clearly.”
“She’s lovely, but young—wants parties, nights out. Can’t keep up. Stomach’s shot.” He inhaled wetly, like a sob. “Can I stay? Just a while?”
“Fine. My rules.” She couldn’t turn him away like a stray.
“Anything, Em. I can cook now—lumpy-free porridge and all,” he babbled.
Pitying abandoned cats was one thing. This was the man she’d shared decades with. Tommy was joy, but who’d discuss rising bills or the news with her?
“Hungry?” She reheated shepherd’s pie without waiting for an answer.
She made up the sofa in Sophie’s old room. All night, she heard him toss and sigh. At dawn, she boiled the kettle and stirred porridge. He didn’t emerge. *Still breathing?*
She found him cold. Clamped a hand over her mouth. *He came home to die.*
The medics said it was quick—a blood clot. No pain. She buried him properly.
A week later, heading out with Tommy, she spotted a young woman by the bins, clutching a tartan shopping bag. *Her.*
“You’re Emily?”
Emily studied Daniel’s widow. Pretty, but not stunning.
“Brought his things.” She offered the bag. Emily recoiled.
“Don’t want them. He’s at Greenfield Cemetery.”
“I sent him to you. Saw how he missed you…”
“Why take him then? Didn’t you know his age?”
“I just wanted to be happy.” The woman looked down. “Sorry—my daughter’s due from school.”
She hurried off, bag in tow. Emily watched, anger dissolving like rain on embers.
*But I am happy. I have Sophie. Tommy. My life. We all got what we deserved.*
She took Tommy’s hand, chattering about sandcastles as they walked.
