Emma didn’t hear the squeak of the hospital trolley wheels rolling over the linoleum or the hurried footsteps rushing toward her. Her head swayed slightly with the motion, oblivious to the fluorescent lights flickering above or the desperate shouts of James: “Emma! Emma!” She didn’t see the doctor block his path, firm but calm.
“You can’t go in there. You’ll need to wait here.”
James slumped onto the hard plastic chairs outside the intensive care unit, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. None of this registered with Emma. She was flying through a blinding rush of light, wishing only for it to stop, for stillness to finally claim her.
***
She had been on stage just weeks earlier, performing in a silly skit for a university event—a student unprepared for an exam, scrambling to bluff her way through. The audience roared with laughter, applauding wildly. Afterward, there’d been dancing, and James had asked her for a spin.
“You were brilliant up there—proper actress material,” he’d said, admiration clear in his voice as he looked at her.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be in it! Sophie chickened out last minute, and I panicked—forgot half the lines, just made stuff up. I was shaking the whole time.” Emma’s eyes still sparkled from the adrenaline.
“Could’ve fooled me. You looked like a natural. Honestly, you picked the wrong career.”
After the dance, he’d walked her back to her dorm and awkwardly kissed her cheek. James still lived with his parents then. They started dating, and within a month, they’d rented a tiny room from an elderly widow near campus. His parents had put up a fight, but eventually, they relented, even helped them out financially.
The old woman next door was hard of hearing, but they still played music loud, just in case. Looking back, Emma remembered that time as the happiest of her life.
“I love you,” James would whisper, breathless beside her.
“No, I love you more,” she’d murmur, pressing her cheek to his damp chest.
“Impossible! I love you even more than that…”
They played this game endlessly. Then they’d dream aloud—finishing uni, landing good jobs, buying a proper house, filling it with kids. A boy and a girl.
“No, a girl first, then a boy,” Emma insisted.
“Then another boy,” James teased, kissing her.
They were certain no one had ever loved the way they did.
Friends envied them; professors smiled indulgently, remembering their own youth. They’d seen plenty of couples like this—young, hopeful, convinced their love was unshakable.
After graduating, James and Emma worked at a local dental practice for two years before joining a private clinic run by James’s father’s friend. Two years later, the owner opened a second branch and made James the manager.
They earned well. His parents helped with the mortgage, and like they’d planned, Emma had their daughter first, then—still on maternity leave—a son three years later.
Weekends, the kids often stayed with James’s parents, giving them time to sleep in and be alone. A happy, picture-perfect family. What more could anyone want?
When their son started school, Emma wanted to return to work. She was restless, afraid she’d lose her skills.
“Why? I earn enough. Stay home, enjoy the kids,” James argued. “Let’s have another. We can handle it. My parents adore the grandkids, they’d help.”
But this time, Emma couldn’t get pregnant. She blamed herself, saw doctors—none found anything wrong.
“Stop worrying. If we had no kids, I’d understand. But we’ve got two perfect ones. Don’t stress,” James reassured her.
She tried to let go, but the urge to work returned.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t hire you at my clinic,” James said bluntly. “Spouses working together is messy. And you’ve been out of practice for years. No clinic would take you.”
The arguments started then. Emma threw herself into the kids, the house. But when his parents took the children, the emptiness gnawed at her. One evening, she drank wine to numb it. It helped—until she passed out on the sofa, waking to find James hadn’t come home.
He answered on the third call.
“You didn’t come back last night—”
“I did. You were too drunk to notice.” His voice carried disdain.
“It was one glass! What else am I supposed to do? You won’t let me work, the kids are gone—”
“I’ll call Mum to bring them back. I’ve got to go.” He hung up.
Emma hurled her phone against the wall, watching it shatter.
When had it all gone wrong? Life had been perfect. Now it was crumbling. She paced, tidying nothing, craving another drink but resisting—his parents would bring Lily and Oliver soon. No one could see her like this.
But hours passed. No one came. The phone was broken. She drank again, passed out on the sofa.
She woke to James coming home. He looked pristine—fresh shirt, rested. She felt haggard in comparison.
“You look well. Didn’t realize the clinic had showers. Or spare clothes,” she remarked, watching his reaction.
He ignored her. Then, impulsively, she asked:
“Are you cheating on me? Is that why you wouldn’t let me work? So I wouldn’t find out?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re drunk again.”
“It was one glass, and now you’re calling me an alcoholic?”
The fight exploded. When James admitted there was someone else, that he hated coming home, hated seeing her, Emma slapped him. He raised a hand to strike back.
“Do it. Half the council gets their teeth done by you—they’ll cover for you. Marry her, then.”
She didn’t see it coming. The blow sent her crashing into the wall. Pain exploded in her jaw—worse was the humiliation, the betrayal.
He’d hit her. The man who’d once whispered sweet nothings. She remembered their tiny room, the music, their game of who loved the other more. They had everything they’d dreamed of—except the love.
She tore off her wedding ring, flung it out the window. Waited for him to do the same. Then she noticed—his finger was bare.
“You—” Her throat closed. How long had this been going on?
“You’re exhausted with me. Look at yourself. Would you trust you with the kids? You’re a drunk, a mess—”
His words choked her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. The room tilted—then darkness.
***
She woke to sterile smells, beeping machines. Something pressed against her ribs, forcing air into her lungs. She tried opening her eyes—the beeping spiked. “I left the fridge open,” she thought nonsensically. “The food’s spoiled. The kids—” Light lanced her vision; she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Emma! Can you hear me?” James’s voice, distant but urgent.
She tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t part.
His face hovered above hers—relieved, scared. “You’re in hospital. You collapsed. Your heart stopped.”
She blinked at the white ceiling. “Not dead, then.”
“You’re safe now.” He squeezed her hand. Darkness swallowed her again.
The next time she woke, breathing was agony—like a weight crushing her chest.
“James,” she rasped, barely audible.
“I’m here.” He held her hand.
Memory flooded back—the smashed phone, the fight, the ring flying out the window, his fist—
“The ring,” she whispered.
“Which one?”
“My wedding ring.”
“You threw it away. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Yours.”
“Mine?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “This one?” He raised his hand—the gold band gleamed.
“Enough. She needs rest. Leave,” a nurse ordered, and pain flared as a needle pricked her arm.
Each day, she grew stronger, replaying her life like a puzzle. A week later, James took her home—thin, weak—to their house.
“Mummy! You’re back!” Lily and Oliver barrelled into her. She clung to them, relieved they remembered her.
At dinner, she barely touched her food.
“Who cooked?” she asked suddenly.
“Mum did. She brought the kids over this morning. Tired? Kids, go play. Your mum needs rest.”
When they were alone, silence stretched. Emma wondered—could they fix this? The house was in his name. She had no job, no prospects. He held all the power. Could she accept that? Leave it all behind? Not yet.
Would he cheat again? Did he regret the fight? Could they start over?
“I was terrified,” James admitted. “I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking… when you’re better, there’s a spot at the clinic. One of the dentists left. You could start as an assistant, easeShe looked at him, the faintest hope flickering in her chest, and whispered, “Maybe… we can try.” .
