Emma didn’t hear the squeak of the wheelchair wheels against the hospital linoleum or the hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor. Her head swayed slightly with the motion, her eyes unfocused. She didn’t see the fluorescent lights flickering above, didn’t hear James shouting, “Emma! Emma!” She didn’t notice the doctor stepping in his path.
“You can’t go in there. Wait here.”
James slumped onto the hard plastic chairs outside the intensive care unit, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. She saw none of it. She was flying through a tunnel of light, desperate for the rush to end, for stillness to claim her.
***
She had performed in a short comedy skit at the university’s International Women’s Day celebration, playing a student who showed up unprepared for an exam and had to improvise her way through. The audience roared with laughter, applauding wildly. Afterwards, after the dancing, James had asked her for a waltz.
“You were brilliant up there—like a proper actress,” he said, gazing at Emma with genuine admiration.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be on stage. Lily chickened out last minute. I was so nervous I forgot my lines and just made it up as I went. My hands were shaking the whole time!” Her eyes still sparkled with the thrill of it.
“I couldn’t tell. You looked completely in control. You’re in the wrong profession.”
After the dance, he walked her back to her dorm and awkwardly kissed her cheek. James still lived with his parents, but a month later, they rented a small room from an elderly widow near campus. He fought his parents over it, and eventually they relented, agreeing to help the young couple financially.
The widow next door was hard of hearing, but they played music loudly just in case. Emma would later remember that time as the happiest of her life.
“I love you,” James would whisper afterward, breathless beside her.
“No, I love you more,” she’d reply, pressing her cheek to his damp chest.
“Impossible. I love you even more than that.”
They played the game endlessly. They dreamed of graduating, finding good jobs, buying a proper house, having children—a boy and a girl.
“No, a girl first, then a boy,” Emma insisted.
“And then another boy,” James added, kissing her.
It felt like no one had ever loved as deeply as they did.
Their classmates envied them. Their professors smiled wistfully, remembering their own youthful passions. They’d seen countless couples like this—just as they once had been—before time turned them into lecturers, drilling medicine into careless students’ heads.
After university, James and Emma worked for two years at a local dental clinic before joining a private practice run by James’s father’s friend. Two years later, the owner opened a second clinic and made James its manager.
Money wasn’t a problem. His parents covered most of their house deposit. As planned, Emma had a daughter, then a son three years later without returning to work.
His parents often took the children on weekends, giving James and Emma time to rest and reconnect. A perfect, happy family. What more could anyone want?
When their son started school, Emma decided to go back to work. She was tired of being at home, afraid of losing her professional skills.
“Why? I earn enough. Stay home, raise the kids,” James argued unexpectedly. “Let’s have another boy. We can manage. My parents would love another grandchild, and they’re still fit enough to help.”
But this time, Emma couldn’t conceive. She blamed herself, spiralling into anxiety, visiting specialists who found nothing wrong.
“Don’t torture yourself. If we had no children at all, I’d understand. But we have two—perfect ones. There’s no reason to panic. Just live your life,” James reassured her.
She calmed, but kept pushing to return to work.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t hire you at my clinic,” he said bluntly. “First, it’s unprofessional for spouses to work together. Second, you’ve been out of the field for years. No clinic would take you.”
Their once-harmonious home filled with arguments. Emma busied herself with the children and housework. But when James’s parents took the kids, the empty hours gnawed at her. One evening, she drank wine to dull the restlessness. It helped. She drifted off on the sofa, not waking until morning—alone. 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 was cold, edged with something like disgust.
“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 have to go.” He hung up.
Emma hurled her phone against the wall, watching it shatter.
When had it all fallen apart? Everything had been perfect. When had the cracks appeared? She wandered the house, rearranging things pointlessly. She wanted another drink but resisted. His parents would bring Sophie and Ethan soon. No one could see her like this.
But hours passed. Night fell. No one came. Her phone was broken. She poured another glass.
James returned late, looking polished and fresh. She was a mess in comparison.
“You look well. Doesn’t seem like you’ve been working double shifts or sleeping in your office. And that’s a new shirt. I don’t remember it.”
He ignored her. Then, as if shoved, she blurted:
“Are you cheating on me? Is that why you kept me from working? So I wouldn’t see, wouldn’t know?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Have you been drinking again?”
“One glass, and suddenly I’m an alcoholic?” Her voice rose.
The fight escalated. When James admitted there was someone else, that he dreaded coming home, dreadEmma looked at him, the man who once promised to love her more than anything, and realized that some wounds never truly heal.
