The morning dew still clung to the grass as the mist slowly retreated across the riverbank. The sun crept over the jagged line of the forest, painting the sky in soft gold.
Thomas stood on the porch, breathing in the crisp air, admiring the quiet beauty of dawn. Behind him came the soft slap of bare feet. A woman in a nightdress and a shawl draped over her shoulders stepped beside him.
“Lovely morning,” Thomas murmured, filling his lungs. “You’ll catch a chill—best go inside,” he said gently, adjusting the shawl slipping from her smooth shoulder.
She pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his.
“I don’t want to leave,” Thomas admitted, his voice thick with tenderness.
“Then stay,” she whispered, her voice a siren’s call. *But what then?* The thought sobered him.
If it were that simple, he would’ve stayed long ago. But twenty-three years with his wife couldn’t just vanish. And the children… Lucy was practically gone already, spending more nights at her fiancé’s than at home. Young Tony, only fourteen—just at that difficult age.
A lorry driver could find work anywhere, but not big money here. Right now, he splurged on expensive gifts for Jen. But if his pay dropped to half—would she still love him the same? That was the question.
“Don’t start, Jen,” Thomas sighed.
“Why not? The kids are grown—it’s time to think of yourself. You said it yourself, you and your wife are just habit now.” Jen pulled away with a frown.
“If only I’d met you sooner…” He exhaled sharply. “Don’t be cross. I should go—already stayed too long.” He moved to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “Jen, I’ve got to make it home by evening. There’s cargo, contracts.”
“Promises, promises. You come, stir my heart, then rush back to her. I’m tired of waiting. Mike’s asked me to marry him.”
“Then go.” Thomas shrugged.
He almost said more but stopped himself. Slowly, he stepped off the porch, rounded the house, and walked through the back garden to the service road where his lorry waited. He always parked there, not wanting to wake the village with the engine at dawn.
He climbed into the cab. Normally, Jen would follow, kiss him goodbye. But today, she didn’t—truly upset. Thomas settled in, slammed the door, and before firing up the engine, dialed his wife’s number. He never called in front of Jen. A robotic voice answered—*the phone was switched off.* No missed calls either.
He pocketed his mobile, started the engine, listening to its deep growl. The lorry shuddered awake, rolling forward with a lurch. Thomas gave a short honk, pressed the accelerator, and pulled away.
On the porch, Jen shivered as the sound faded, then turned and went inside.
On the radio, Robbie Williams crooned *”Angels.”* Thomas hummed along, thinking of Jen—but soon, his thoughts shifted home. *”Why hasn’t she answered? Two days now. When I get back, we’ll sort this.”*
Meanwhile, his wife, Claire, stirred from anesthesia in a hospital bed—remembering everything in an instant…
***
They’d been married over twenty years. Twenty-four, to be exact. Thomas was a long-haul driver, earning well. A solid family—big house, two kids. Lucy, grown now, a hairdresser, soon to marry. Tony, at fourteen, dreaming of the navy.
Then—that call. At first, Claire thought it a prank.
*”Hello, Claire. Waiting for your husband? He’s rather… delayed.”* The voice oozed like treacle.
“What’s happened?” she snapped, fearing an accident.
“Oh, nothing tragic. He’s with *her*,” the voice purred.
“Who *is* this?” Claire shouted.
*”Just keep waiting…”* laughter chimed before the line died.
Panic swallowed her. Images flashed—Thomas in flames, Thomas in another woman’s arms. Who else knew his schedule? Only *her.* How dare she call, mock her!
She dialed Thomas, then hung up. What if he was driving? She’d talk when he returned. She tried chores to distract herself, but her hands shook. That mocking laughter echoed in her ears.
Of course—Lucy was out with her boyfriend. Tony had gone to a mate’s birthday.
She needed air. Grabbing her bag, she headed to Tesco—mayo, onions, beer for Thomas. A Sunday ritual. He’d promised to be back by supper. *”What if he doesn’t come?”* She shoved the thought down.
She took a shortcut—an alley flanked by garages. Dim, deserted. Quicker, but unwise as dusk fell.
Suddenly—a yank. Her bag, ripped away. She stumbled, turned, saw a man sprinting off. *”No chance,”* but she ran anyway. Her wallet, keys, phone—her *life* was in that bag.
“Stop!” she screamed. He vanished around a corner. One misstep—her heel caught a stone. She crashed onto the asphalt, pain shooting through her hip, elbow bloody. She tried rising—agony exploded in her ankle. Purple swelling ballooned.
No phone. No help. She screamed—who’d hear past these walls?
She considered crawling—maybe someone would spot her. But who’d approach a woman in tatters, thinking her drunk?
She slumped against a garage door, wiping tears with dirty hands.
Headlights. A car stopped. A man stepped out, unlocking a garage.
“Help!” she shrieked.
He turned. One shaky step, then another toward her.
“Please—I was mugged. My ankle—call an ambulance!”
He hesitated, then pocketed his phone.
She tensed, fingers groping for a weapon.
Instead, he crouched. “Ambulance’ll take ages. Let’s get you up—hold my neck.”
She clung as he lifted her, grunting with effort. Her leg throbbed, dead weight.
At his car, he paused to open the door. She balanced on her good foot.
Inside, he handed her wet wipes. “What happened?”
“Shortcut. Mugger took my bag. Thank you—I’d have been stranded all night.”
He passed his phone. “Call someone.”
*Thomas is driving.* She dialed Lucy instead. Loud music blasted through.
“Who?” Lucy yelled.
“It’s Mum. My ankle—I think it’s broken. Going to hospital.”
“What? Can’t hear!”
“Broken ankle! Hospital!”
“Call you back!” The line died.
Tony didn’t answer either.
Frustrated, she whimpered.
“No luck?” the man—John—asked kindly.
She shook her head, then spilled everything.
***
Claire woke to sunlight. Her head ached; her leg was numb until she shifted—pain flared, duller now.
“Awake?” A nurse smiled down. “Your husband’s here.”
“Husband?”
John entered. He caught her disappointed look.
“Sorry—said I was him to get in. How are you?”
“Alright, I think.” She forced a smile.
“Brought you cherries.” He set a bag on the side table. “Washed. Thought of strawberries, but didn’t know if you’re allergic.”
After he left, she dozed off—woke with a jolt as Thomas barged in.
“Lucy called—said you were in hospital! Couldn’t reach you—had to ring every A&E!”
“My phone was stolen. I called from someone else’s.”
“Who was this *husband*? They wouldn’t let me in till I showed my ID!”
“The man who brought me here. Said he was my husband—he wouldn’t have got in otherwise.”
“And why’d he visit?” Thomas eyed the cherries.
*John brought fruit. My own husband came empty-handed.*
“Why call Lucy, not me?”
“Thought you were driving—didn’t want to distract you.”
“I’ve got another run tonight,” Thomas said flatly.
“Tonight? You just got here!”
*No “how are you?” Nothing.*
“Lucy hasn’t visited?”
“Dunno. Probably with her bloke.”
“And Tony?”
“Asleep. Right, I’ll go—got prep to do.”
“Tom—get me a phone? Just a cheap one. Lucy can bring it.”
“Fine.” He left. Claire cried silently.
Lucy arrived that evening.
“Mum! How’d you manage this?”
“Sprained, not broken.”
“Dad got you a phone. I kept it—gave you mine instead. That alright?”
*”Fine,”* Claire lied.
“These cherries are huge.” Lucy grabbed a handful. “Dad brought them?”
Claire nodded. Lucy ate without guilt.
“Tony?”
“Fine. Got pissed at the party—I shouted at him.”
“I’ll ask to goShe watched the door close behind John, realizing that sometimes kindness comes from strangers when those closest to you have already walked away.
