Polly simply wanted to be happy. She tossed aside the duvet, flipped over the damp pillow, and settled back down. It was slightly cooler now, but sleep still wouldn’t come. The distant hum of tyres from the odd passing car rustled outside her window. And her thoughts—they were the worst intruders of all. “Where’s that late-night driver rushing off to? Home? Or is he fleeing from something, vanishing into the dark? Who’s waiting for him?… Bloody heat…”
With a sigh, Polly got up. She knew the flat like the back of her hand, so she didn’t bother with the light. In the kitchen, she stood by the window. Two lights glowed in the house across the street. “Someone waiting for their wanderer, or mourning their departure?”
The young leaves on the trees made it hard to see if anyone stood by those distant windows. Polly flicked on the nightlight and poured herself a glass of water from the kettle. She turned the light off again and studied the opposite house. One window had gone dark. She sipped slowly, feeling the cool water calm her overheated body. The lino under her bare feet was pleasantly cool.
She left the empty glass on the windowsill and returned to the bedroom, but the crumpled, damp sheets held no appeal. Instead, she went to the other room and lay on the narrow, stiff sofa, resting her head on a hard little pillow stuffed with God knows what.
And then, unexpectedly, sleep pulled her under…
***
“Speech! Speech!” the guests cheered, their champagne flutes raised.
Edward stood, taking Polly’s hand and pulling her up with him. In her high wedding heels, she was nearly his height, able to look him in the eye instead of tilting her head up as she usually did. He gazed at her with admiration, love, and undisguised desire. Polly leaned in, tilting her head just enough for the lace of her veil to shield her profile from the guests.
“One, two, three…” the tipsy crowd chanted.
Her mother had taught her that a woman shapes the household, that she must keep the home running and be her husband’s support. So Polly threw herself into building her marital happiness with heroic resolve.
At first, she and Edward did everything together: grocery shopping, cooking dinner while laughing and stealing kisses. Until one night, lost in each other, they nearly burned the potatoes on the stove. They were in love. It felt like it would last forever—like they’d always be young, always happy.
Two years later, Polly gave birth to their daughter, Emily. Her mother helped at first.
“I’m exhausted,” Polly complained to Edward, who barely lifted a finger.
“Your husband works, he’s tired. That’s a woman’s lot—keeping the home and raising the children,” her mother said. “You can nap when Emily does. But if he doesn’t sleep, how’s he supposed to work?”
Polly grew used to snatched sleep, even dozing off for minutes at a time on park benches while pushing the pram. When Emily turned two, Polly enrolled her in nursery and went back to work.
“Once I retire in five years, your father and I will take Emily, and you two can have another baby,” her mother said dreamily.
But returning to her career, Polly couldn’t bear the thought of another child. Edward didn’t push it. So she never had one.
“Why do men cheat? Because mistresses always look polished, while wives let themselves go—worn-out dressing gowns, unkempt hair,” her mother lectured.
Polly made sure Edward always saw her dressed nicely, makeup done. She rose early to look presentable before he woke.
But none of it saved their marriage. Their daughter grew up and left the nest, and Polly noticed Edward trading his suits for jeans and hoodies. He took up morning runs, though he was already fit.
“It’s the trend,” he said. “Gotta keep up with the times.”
When she found lipstick on his collar, she confronted him outright. Caught off guard, he stammered before confessing and asking Polly to let him go.
“Am I stopping you? Go. Just know there’s no coming back.”
She packed his things herself, didn’t shed a tear. Edward lingered in the hallway, pretending to check for forgotten items but really stealing glances, waiting for her to beg him to stay.
Polly stood in the doorway, arms crossed. *Not a chance.*
He left. She returned to the living room, lay on the sofa, buried her face in that same hard little pillow, and howled like a wounded animal. Life lost all meaning. She sobbed all night. By morning, she decided to swallow a handful of pills. She even unscrewed the cap. But first, she rang her best friend, Sarah, to say goodbye.
Sarah sensed trouble and rushed over.
“Don’t you dare. Imagine the ego boost he’ll get if you die over him. People will think he’s some prize, driving women to madness. Don’t give him that satisfaction.”
So Polly didn’t take the pills. Slowly, she picked up the pieces, learned to live alone. Surprisingly, solitude had its perks. She could sleep in, wander the flat in her nightdress, skip makeup on weekends, cook less. She ate lighter, lost weight, looked younger. She spent the savings on new clothes—retail therapy, the best cure.
Then Emily had a baby, giving Polly a new purpose. She adored being a grandmother—singing lullabies, reading stories, building sandcastles with little Daniel.
She fantasised about Edward seeing her now, realising what he’d lost. Did his new wife make him breakfast? Or did he bring *her* coffee in bed? Her imagination taunted her with images of him in a flowery apron, cooking supper, grocery shopping…
The pain was unbearable. He was happy without her.
One afternoon, as Polly sat on a park bench with Daniel, a man her age joined her.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it? Feels like summer, and it’s only April. The kids play so nicely. Is he your grandson? Takes after you. That little girl next to him—my Katie. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
He didn’t wait for answers, just enjoyed being listened to.
“When my wife and I had kids, she never let me near them—thought I’d do it all wrong. I didn’t mind. Missed them growing up. Don’t even remember their first steps or words. But when my son gave us Katie… I finally realised what I’d missed. There’s nothing more fascinating than watching her grow. I know her better than her parents do.” He sighed.
“If I could go back… I’d do it all differently. Never lifted a finger back then. My Elizabeth never complained. She’s gone now. Just a widower, me.” He fell silent, and Polly thought of Edward.
*Maybe he’s got a new baby too. Maybe he’s making up for lost time—pushing prams, stirring lump-free porridge, changing nappies.* The bitterness choked her.
She felt a stab of anger for Emily—ignored by her father, while some other woman’s child got his love. *My fault. Shouldn’t have listened to Mum.* Suddenly furious, she whisked Daniel home despite his protests.
The next day, the man was there again. This time, Polly matched his chatter, boasting about three-year-old Daniel’s latest feats.
One evening, he sighed. “Tired of being alone. Wife’s gone, kids are busy, Katie’ll grow up… I’m not old yet. Could start over.” His gaze lingered on Polly.
She considered it. He was pleasant enough—no bad habits, clearly. She wasn’t ancient either. Daniel would grow up, and she’d have no one to care for again. Then she scolded herself. *What am I thinking? A stranger, with his own ways, his memories… No. Couldn’t do it.* After that, she took Daniel to the next park over.
***
Polly woke with a headache. As she washed up, the doorbell rang.
“Emily’s early today,” she murmured, heading to the door.
But it was Edward. She barely recognised him. Where was the polished, youthful man? He’d aged—deep wrinkles, thinning hair, a jacket hanging off his gaunt frame. His eyes were sad as a beaten dog’s.
“Polly… Thought I’d stop by,” he said, shrinking under her gaze.
No bag, no suitcase. *Just testing the waters*, she thought smugly. Aloud, she asked, “What’s happened?”
As he took off his coat, she spotted the grubby collar of his shirt. Pity stirred. *His young wife wore him out. Look how thin he’s got. A shadow of himself. But why gloat?* She checked herself. *Not a stranger—Emily’s father, Daniel’s grandad. Shared memories.*
Edward caught her softened expression and seized it. “Polly, I’m not well.”
“I see.”
“She’s lovely, just… young. Wants fun. Can’t keep up at my age. Exhausted. Stomach’s”And as she looked into his tired eyes, Polly realized that forgiveness, not resentment, was the only way to truly set herself free.”
