My husband, David, and I had been together for over twenty years. Our life was calm and pleasant, the sort of rhythm I thought would see us through to old age. We had a little cottage in the Cotswolds where wed escape to every weekend. David did all the housework, while I took care of the meals. It was a simple happiness. I never imagined it would changebut then, quite out of the blue, David dropped a bombshell:
Emma, Im sorry, but I cant do this anymore. Ive met someone else. Ive fallen completely in love with her.
At thirty-eight, I wasnt naïve. Id sensed for some time that there was someone new in his life. I tried not to blow things out of proportion, believing, foolishly perhaps, that hed never actually leave. Well-meaning friends would sometimes even send me photographs of David and his mistress out in London. Still, I tried to look the other way and carry on. So, when David finally said he was leaving, I was utterly stunned.
Fortunately, our daughter Amelia was off on holiday by the coast with her mates at the time. To cope, I shared the news with my own friends.
We gathered for a proper girls night in, seeking answers. One friend told me to lose some weight and start seeing other men. Another suggested I visit a psychic and see if she could bring David back. Yet another told me outright to find someone new and not to waste any more time mourning.
And then Jane spoke up. Just carry on as usual, she said. Itll get easier, honestly.
But I cant, Jane! It hurts too much.
You must. Trust me, these things fade. Ive been through three divorces. Just keep onclean the place, cook, head to work, watch something decent on telly, read a good book.
But who am I meant to cook for now?
For us, of course! Well drop round in the evenings and eat whatever you make!
I thanked them for all their advice, but I couldnt choose which suggestion to follow for quite a while.
Eventually, I decided to see the psychic my friend had recommended first. I took her a photograph of David and the other woman. She laid out her cards, performed a little ritual, and declared that David would return to me in two weeks time.
He didnt come back in two weeksor even after a month. Meanwhile, the psychic had pocketed half my monthly wages. Left lonely and downcast, I started buying far too many cakes and sweet things from the supermarket. In just two weeks, Id put on an alarming half stone.
After that, I resolved to change tactics. I gave the flat a thorough clean, polished everything until it shone, repotted my flowers, and rearranged the furniture. It was the cosiest it had ever been. I also signed up for a dance class, desperate to combat the cake-induced weight gain. I kept making homemade soupDavids favouriteand every evening my friends would come over and finish off whatever Id cooked. When theyd gone, Id curl up and watch Game of Thrones.
David and I had always talked about watching it, but we never quite found the time. It became my little evening treat. One night, just as I was settling in, the front door creaked open. David stepped into the living room. He glanced around, taking in the spotless flat, the fragrant smell of homemade chicken soup drifting from the kitchen, and found me tucked on the sofa watching television.
Evening, Emma. I just came to pick up the rest of my things.
Theyre all ready for you here. Do you have a bag?
No, I don’t.
No worries, Ive got one for you here.
I handed him the bag with his things.
Did you make chicken soup?
Yes, I did. Are you hungry? Would you like some?
He hesitated, then gave a nod.
I poured him a bowl. David finished two helpings. When he was done, he stood up and said, Thank you, Emma. Id better be going.
All right. Ive got to finish this episode anyway.
What are you watching?
Game of Thrones.
We always meant to watch that together, remember? he said quietly.
I remember, I replied.
David left. I shed a few tears once the door clicked shut, finished my programme, and went to bed. Two weeks later, David appeared againthis time with all his bags.
Emma, Im so sorry. I love you. I really love your soup, this lovely flat, everything. Please forgive me for chasing some fleeting excitement.
So you just missed my soup?
I missed everything! But mostly, I missed you.
Well, come in, then.
I feel terrible for you and for Amelia. Youll keep this between us, wont you?
Yes, I will. Are you after dinner?
I am. Thank you.I ladled out another bowl, and we ate together, quietly, the way old friends do when words arent quite necessary. Afterward, I stacked the bowls and let the silence settle between us. David lingered in the doorway, as if waiting for the right spell to be cast, for some invisible thread to draw him back across the threshold of our life.
I promise, Emma, Ill do better, he said at last.
I looked at him for a long while, seeing not the man who had left, nor the man groveling to return, but simply Davidthe companion I had chosen all those years ago, and who had chosen me, flaws and all.
Tomorrow, youre on kitchen duty, I replied, giving him a watery smile. My friends expect your famous pancakes now.
He grinned, relief and something like gratitude flickering in his eyes. As I closed the curtains against the cool Cotswold night, I realized that happiness wasnt the absence of pain or the guarantee that nothing would ever change. Happiness was soup simmering on the stove, friends at my table, and the simple trust to let life begin againeven after the most unexpected endings.
And so, we sat together as the credits rolled, two people with a history, carving out the next chapterone bowl at a time.
