London. A damp autumn evening. Tired eyes, an even wearier heart, and a wind that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be gentle or spiteful. Emma dragged herself home after ten gruelling hours at the supermarket till. One thought looped in her mind like a broken record:
*Please, Daniel, tell me you’ve at least managed to fry some potatoes…*
The flat greeted her with the cosy scent of something delicious. She kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her coat, and wandered into the kitchen—where steaming plates of mashed potatoes and roast chicken waited on the table. Forks, salt, bread, the teapot. Daniel gave a quiet nod toward her chair.
“Sit down.”
“Blimey, is it my birthday?” Emma forced a smile. “What’s the occasion?”
“Just dinner,” he shrugged. “But we need to talk.”
They ate in silence. The chicken was tender, the mash perfectly buttery. Emma filled the kettle, brewed a pot of Earl Grey, and sat across from her husband.
“Out with it, then. You’ve got that look.”
Daniel stared out the window for a long moment before meeting her eyes.
“Grandad and Nan’s golden wedding anniversary is Saturday. We’re invited.”
“Oh, the ones who gave us five grand for our wedding? And how’s that meant to work? Weren’t we about to file for divorce?”
“Thought we could go. Just this once. They’re getting on. It’d mean a lot. We’re still married, technically.”
Emma eyed him warily. She couldn’t muster the energy to argue—or to reconcile.
“Fine. One last family outing, then.”
They rode in Daniel’s dad’s car, him up front with his father, Emma sandwiched between her mother-in-law and suffocating silence.
“Had a row, have you?” her mother-in-law whispered.
“Not at all,” Emma lied through a tight smile.
“Look at these rings we got them. Proper gold, aren’t they lovely?”
“Lovely,” Emma echoed.
“Stick together, you two. In fifty years, your kids’ll do the same for you.”
Emma looked away. *Fifty years? That’s practically a life sentence.*
The party was lively—generations crammed into one room, laughter, a mountain of food. But Emma kept her distance from Daniel. His aunts and cousins swept her into organising games, gossiping, gently mocking their husbands—yet it was obvious they adored them.
A nagging thought prickled: *Did I ever adore him? Does he still adore me?*
Maybe once. But now? The flat felt barren. Money was always tight. She’d eyed the same autumn coat in Marks & Spencer for three years. Kids? He never brought them up. Couldn’t hold a job. And yet—he’d once been her dream.
The celebration wound down late. Guests trickled out. Nan Edith beckoned them:
“Stay the night. Help us tidy up a bit.”
Wordlessly, Emma and Daniel cleared tables. Two hours later, the house was spotless.
Nan set out tea.
“Well, George, fifty years and we’re still here,” she chuckled.
“Nearly wasn’t,” Grandad grumbled. “How many times did we almost bolt to the registrar’s?”
“Yet here we are.”
“Wasn’t easy when I lost my job.”
“Or when half the town fancied me,” Nan teased. “Called me their ‘English rose.’ You puffed up like a proud peacock.”
“Rose? More like a thorn,” he shot back—but his eyes sparkled.
Emma watched them bicker, interrupt, laugh. They *loved* each other. Properly.
*We were like that once. Young, stubborn, convinced we were right. Now they joke about what nearly broke them.*
Nan slipped an envelope into Emma’s hand.
“Get yourselves something nice. Autumn’s coming. No arguments—we’ve plenty.”
Emma hesitated, but Daniel took it.
“Ta, Nan.”
“Off to bed with you. Room’s ready.”
The room was familiar—Daniel’s childhood haunt. Now the single bed held two. They lay in silence.
“Emma…” he murmured.
She curled into him. His shoulder was warm, familiar. Not wealth. Not a new coat. Just *him.*
Daniel dozed off. Emma stared at the ceiling.
*Glad we didn’t divorce. Tomorrow, that coat. Then maybe… a baby. Then grandkids. And in forty-nine years? Gold rings. Just like theirs.*
She smiled—for the first time in ages—and slept. Peacefully. Beside him.
