The shadowed streets of Manchester saw Andrew walking home after a long day’s work, his thoughts heavy, his heart clenched with unease. The windows of their fourth-floor flat were dark. “Where has she wandered off to this time?” he wondered. Stepping inside, the silence struck him like a blow. Before he could even remove his boots, a knock came at the door. Their neighbor, her face drawn with worry, spoke words that shattered his world: “Emily, your wife—she was taken away in an ambulance.” Andrew stood frozen, disbelief numbing his senses. In an instant, his life—a tapestry of mistakes and missed chances—collapsed, leaving only pain and regret.
The realization had struck him earlier, thunderous and sudden, as he walked. He halted, feeling the ground shift beneath him. “How could I have been so blind?” he thought with a bitter smile. It had all been so clear, yet he’d refused to see. At home, Emily—the woman he’d once loved but long since taken for granted—would be waiting. He pictured their usual exchange: her cold “You’re back?” as she turned away, not even glancing at him. “Will you be eating?” she’d ask, her voice devoid of warmth.
There was a time when Emily cooked with love—baking pies, collecting recipes, preserving jars of pickles. But in recent years, everything had changed. For the children, when they visited, she still made an effort. For Andrew? Not a trace of care remained. Her meals grew tasteless, as if prepared out of duty. When patience wore thin, he’d fry potatoes or shape pasties himself, wordlessly, without complaint. Emily would eat but never thank him. Her indifference cut deep, yet he stayed silent, afraid to stoke the embers of another quarrel.
Once, she had been different. Her tenderness, her warmth, the way she’d press against him and linger, as if sharing the very heat of her heart—those moments had once filled his soul. But they belonged to the past. Now, her care felt mechanical, a hated obligation. When had it begun? Perhaps when he’d lingered at the pub while she waited alone at home? Or when he’d failed to fetch her from the hospital after their youngest was born, too busy “celebrating with mates”? He’d brushed it off then—”It’s just a night out!”—but the hurt in her eyes haunted him still.
Emily had changed. She grew quiet, distant. Stung by his sharp words, she’d retreat to their room, as if avoiding him. Andrew would fume: “So what if I spoke my mind? I’ve the right!” Yet her silence wounded more than any shout. When the children visited, she’d brighten—bustling about, cooking, smiling. With him, only walls remained. “Who’s she fooling?” he’d think. Life slipped away, their marriage reduced to hollow routine.
Andrew had long since stopped his nights out. He worked as an engineer, earned well, never strayed. Yet Emily seemed not to care. She earned as much, was fiercely independent. Why had she stayed? For the children? They were grown. He couldn’t understand her. Once, he’d tried—then given up. “If this is how she wants to live, so be it.” But deep down, he ached for warmth, for a wife who greeted him with joy, not resignation. For a love that had long since faded.
And now, the crushing thought: she hadn’t loved him. Perhaps never had. Andrew remembered wondering why a woman so clever, so bright, had chosen him. Had it simply been time, and he—tall, decent-looking—a convenient choice? “Knew the children would take after her,” he thought bitterly.
Stepping into the dark flat, the silence roared. “Where is she?” Panic mounted. Another knock. The neighbor, eyes averted, murmured:
“Andrew… the ambulance took Emily an hour ago.”
He ran through the streets, tears choking him. For the first time in his life, he prayed:
“Please, don’t take her. How will I live without her? Save her, I beg you! If she lives, I’ll make it right—I swear it! I’ll go to church, I’ll do anything—just let her live!”
But Emily was already gone. At the hospital, they told him her heart had stopped in the ambulance. His world crumbled. Days blurred. Children, friends, kin spoke, but he heard none of it. Only one thought drummed inside him: “I never asked for forgiveness.”
Now Andrew lives alone. The children begged him to join them, but he refused. Often, he visits the parish church nearby. There, amid quiet and the scent of incense, he almost feels Emily near. The stone walls seem to hold his grief. Gazing at the stained glass, he whispers, “Forgive me for not seeing you.” But no answer comes—only silence, his constant companion.
