London. A damp autumn evening. The wind howled through the streets, weary eyes met the dim glow of streetlights, and a heart even wearier still. Emily trudged home after ten gruelling hours on the shop floor of the supermarket. Just one thought pulsed through her mind:
*Maybe Danny’s at least fried some potatoes…*
The flat greeted her with the rich scent of something warm, something comforting. She peeled off her coat, kicked off her boots, and stepped into the kitchen—plates of steaming mash and roast chicken waited on the table. Cutlery laid out, salt, bread, the kettle nearby. Danny barely glanced up as he nodded toward the chair.
“Sit.”
“Blimey, what’s the occasion?” Emily forced a tired smile. “This is new.”
“Just a normal dinner,” he shrugged. “But we need to talk.”
They ate in silence. The chicken tender, the mash just salty enough. She filled the kettle, brewed a pot of Earl Grey, then sat across from him.
“Go on, then. I can tell something’s eating at you.”
Daniel stared out the window for a long moment before meeting her eyes.
“Nan and Grandad’s golden anniversary is Saturday. They’ve asked us.”
“Oh, the ones who gave us five grand for the wedding?” She exhaled sharply. “How’s that going to work? Weren’t we meant to be divorcing?”
“Just… let’s go. For them. They’re getting on. It’d mean the world.” He paused. “We’re still married, technically.”
Emily studied him, doubt flickering in her eyes. She hadn’t the energy—not to fight, not to reconcile.
“Fine. Maybe one last visit as a couple.”
They drove in Danny’s father’s car, him and his dad up front, Emily sandwiched beside his mother in the back. The silence thickened.
“You two had a row?” her mother-in-law whispered.
“No,” Emily lied, her smile brittle.
“Look what we got them for the anniversary.” She nudged a velvet box open. Gold bands gleamed inside. “Lovely, aren’t they?”
“Lovely,” Emily echoed.
“Stay happy, love. Fifty years, and your kids’ll do the same for you.”
Emily looked away. *Fifty years? That’s a lifetime…*
The party was lively—young cousins, uncles, grandparents. Laughter, mountains of food, raised glasses. But Emily kept her distance from Danny. His aunts and cousins whisked her into planning the entertainment. Women her age, mid-thirties, teasing their husbands—yet unmistakably still in love.
The questions gnawed at her:
*Did I ever love him? Does he love me?*
Maybe once. But now? The flat was joyless. Money was always tight. She hadn’t bought a new coat in three years. Kids? He never brought them up. Could barely hold down a job. And yet… he’d once been everything.
The night wound down late. Guests trickled home. Grandma Rose clasped her hands.
“Stay. Help us tidy up.”
Emily and Danny cleared tables without speaking, moving in silent tandem. By midnight, the house was spotless.
Rose set the teapot down.
“Well, Arthur, fifty years we’ve muddled through,” she grinned at Grandad.
“Nearly split a dozen times,” he grumbled. “Almost signed the papers.”
“But we walked back.”
“I was jobless back then. Skint.”
“And you forget how men flocked to me?” Rose poked him. “Called me a right catch. You shone like a lighthouse.”
“A catch, eh?” He scoffed, but his eyes crinkled.
Emily watched them—bickering, interrupting, yet utterly in love. Something twisted inside her.
*We used to be like that. Young, furious, convinced we were right. Now they laugh about what nearly broke them.*
Rose pressed an envelope into her palm.
“Treat yourselves. It’s autumn—you’ll need something warm.”
Emily hesitated, but Danny took it.
“Ta, Nan.”
“Off to bed. Room’s ready.”
Danny’s childhood room—same wallpaper, same old desk. Only now, the bed held two. They lay in silence.
“Emily…” His voice was rough.
She curled against him. His shoulder warm, familiar. Not money. Not a fur coat. Just *him*.
Daniel drifted off. Emily stared at the ceiling.
*Good we didn’t divorce. Tomorrow, we’ll buy that coat. Then… maybe a baby. Maybe grandkids one day. And in forty-nine years… gold bands. Just like theirs.*
She smiled—properly, for the first time in ages. And slept. Soundly. Beside him.
