“I thought you wouldn’t come back…” — A Tale of One Return
When Andrew came home from work, he dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and walked into the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked out of habit.
Polly didn’t even turn around.
“Nothing. But that doesn’t matter. I spoke to the landlady today. Told her we’re moving out by the end of the month.”
Andrew froze.
“What? We agreed we hadn’t found a new place yet.”
“Why bother looking?” She turned to him with a smile. “We’re moving in… with your ex-wife, Irene.”
He sank into a chair, stunned.
“Polly, have you lost your mind?”
“Completely. You said yourself half the flat is still yours. We’ll save money, I’ve already found a nursery for Oliver nearby, and the shops are just round the corner.”
Andrew felt like he couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t felt in control of his life in ages. His job paid less, the construction project he’d pinned his hopes on was delayed, and money was running desperately thin.
Things with Polly had been off for a long time. She was younger, demanding, and used to luxury. Once, it had seemed exciting. Now, it was exhausting.
He hesitated but finally called Irene.
“We’re in a tight spot. Need somewhere to stay for a few months.”
“It’s your flat too, Andrew. Of course, come over,” she replied calmly.
When they arrived, Polly glanced around and wrinkled her nose.
“Bit gloomy,” she muttered, stepping through the rooms in her shoes. “It’ll do.”
Irene stayed silent through it all. But when it came to the kitchen, she laid down the rules.
“We take turns cleaning. Cook your own meals. The fridge is shared, but with separate shelves.”
Polly was outraged.
“We didn’t sign up for rules!”
“And we didn’t sign up to run a boarding house,” Irene replied, her voice steady.
The next month was a nightmare. Polly needled Irene, hinting she should leave. But Irene held her ground. Andrew stayed quiet—he knew this was his fault.
One day, Irene said,
“I’m going to my parents’ for a break. Just… please don’t wreck the flat.”
Polly barely hid her delight. The next day, she started again.
“I’ve commissioned a designer, picked out tiles—I need the money.”
Andrew snapped.
“Have you gone mad?! We never agreed to this. I’m not giving you a penny!”
“And who are you to decide?” she shot back. “You’re not a husband anymore, just a wallet that’s almost empty.”
That evening, she packed her bags.
“Oliver and I are going to Bristol. If you want us back, come get us. And bring money.”
Andrew silently pulled out his card and tossed it into her bag.
“I’ll see my son on Sundays.”
When the door closed behind them, Andrew felt freedom for the first time in years. He stood by the window, staring at the river for a long time.
A week later, Irene returned. Quiet, as always. He heard the water running in the bathroom and rushed in, forgetting he wasn’t alone in the flat anymore.
“Sorry…” he muttered when he saw her.
She walked into the kitchen, and without turning, he said,
“I think… I still love you.”
“And I, Andrew. But there’s no going back. Only starting over.”
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
“Ready, he says…” She chuckled. “Feel like I’ll be supporting you again. Hungry?”
“Starved. Haven’t eaten all day.”
“Then peel the potatoes. Around here, we do things for ourselves.”
