James stepped out of work, nearly slipping on the icy steps. The night before had brought sleet, and by morning, a bitter wind lashed at his face. Cars honked impatiently in the gridlock, drivers desperate to get home. Once, traffic would’ve annoyed him, but now it was a relief—he wasn’t eager to go back to an empty house.
Something had broken between him and Charlotte. Seven years of marriage, starting back in uni, had dissolved into routine. Whatever love they’d had seemed to have evaporated, leaving only habit. James often wondered: where was that spark that once tied them together? Had it ever really existed?
Every couple hits rough patches, but without children to fight for, their marriage felt hollow. It had never been passionate, just comfortable. James hadn’t fallen head over heels for Charlotte, but being with her had felt like home.
*”We’ve been together four years,”* she’d said one day on campus. *”What’s next? I need to know if I’m in your plans.”*
It sounded like a push toward marriage. James hadn’t thought about it, but he replied, *”Of course you are. We’ll graduate, get jobs, get married. Why ask?”*
*”I just need to be sure,”* she murmured.
*”Don’t worry—white dress, wedding, kids, the lot,”* he’d said, hugging her, half-convinced himself it would happen.
Charlotte didn’t bring it up again until after graduation. They landed jobs—she insisted they work at separate firms—and saw less of each other. Before her birthday, she circled back: *”Mum keeps asking when we’re getting married.”*
*”What’s the rush?”* James deflected.
*”Don’t you love me?”* Her voice trembled. *”Why string me along for years if not?”*
He was used to her. Why look for someone else? On her birthday, he gave her a ring and proposed. Charlotte beamed; her mum cried. At home, James told his parents, *”I’m getting married.”*
His mother frowned. *”Why so soon? You should’ve settled first. Or is there… another reason?”*
She’d never warmed to Charlotte—too controlling beneath her quiet exterior.
*”No ‘reason,’”* James said. *”We love each other. Four years is enough, isn’t it?”*
*”This was her idea,”* his mum sighed. *”Think it through, son.”*
But his mind was made up.
Their May wedding was lovely. Charlotte in white seemed like spring itself. Kids? They’d wait—buy a flat, a car first. His parents helped with the mortgage deposit. The young couple got a two-bed, furnished it. His dad handed over his old Volvo and upgraded himself. Life was falling into place.
Then Charlotte got an idea: James should start a business. She’d met a uni mate selling electronics who needed a partner.
*”I’m in construction—I like my job,”* James argued. *”The market’s packed. No point.”*
*”I thought you wanted to work for yourself,”* she pressed. *”Everyone needs gadgets. We could outmanoeuvre competitors.”*
*”I don’t want to,”* he said flatly.
Charlotte sulked. Their first big fight left them not speaking for days. They made up, but she kept pushing, insisting a business would pay off the mortgage faster. James started suspecting his mother was right—he’d rushed into this. Did he even love Charlotte?
Luckily, her mate’s venture flopped, and the topic died. They paid off the mortgage, bought James a Land Rover, then a Mini for Charlotte. Time for kids, then? His mum fretted: *”Why no grandchildren? What’s wrong?”*
*”It’ll happen,”* James soothed, not admitting Charlotte was against it.
*”All our friends have kids,”* he told her later. *”We’re nearly thirty. Jobs, home, cars—check. Now’s the time.”*
*”What kids?”* She waved him off. *”I’m not quitting my career to be a housewife. You’d stop loving me the second I did.”*
Charlotte got a promotion, burying herself in projects. Kids stayed James’s dream; she chose her career.
That evening, escaping the traffic, he walked into their flat. Charlotte was glued to her phone.
*”Took you long enough,”* she muttered.
*”Traffic,”* he said shortly.
*”Emily called—invited us for New Year’s,”* she said. *”Why so quiet?”*
*”You already said yes,”* James shrugged.
*”And you mind?”* she snapped.
*”I wanted just us. We’re drifting, Lottie. Candles, romance—just one night?”*
*”Seriously?”* She scoffed. *”Sit through telly, then your parents’, then mine? Snooze. I promised Emily.”*
She went back to her phone. James tried again: *”Say plans changed.”*
*”No,”* she cut him off.
Emily’s party was rowdy. James noticed a guy eyeing Charlotte. She flirted, laughed too loud, then danced with him. After, they huddled in a corner, deep in conversation. James left without a word.
Charlotte stormed in three hours later, furious: *”You ditched me!”*
*”You were busy,”* he shot back. *”Did your ‘gentleman’ see you home?”*
*”Yes! And you—”* She bit her lip.
*”Me what? He’s loaded, I’m not? Maybe we divorce?”*
*”Fine!”* she spat.
They rang in the new year fighting. Divorce became inevitable. Charlotte demanded the flat, but James refused—he’d paid the mortgage, funded the refurb. The court split their assets. She got a one-bed, half the furniture went to him.
At first, loneliness ached. But James adjusted. He learned to cook, let the washer handle laundry, and suffered through ironing.
One evening, parking outside his building, he heard a door burst open. A woman stumbled on the step, nearly falling, but James caught her.
*”Broke my heel!”* she groaned. *”Now I’ll be late!”*
*”Let me take you up to change. I’ll drive you wherever,”* he offered.
She gave a sad smile. *”Really? Thanks.”*
In the car, she admitted, *”I know you. Two months ago, I flooded your flat. I live above you.”*
James remembered her—she’d seemed older then.
*”My son died a year and a half ago,”* she said quietly. *”My husband couldn’t take it—left. Now he’s got a new family, a baby coming. You don’t look happy either.”*
He didn’t answer—they’d arrived. The next day, she brought him stew. *”Had to thank you. Cooked too much, no one to eat it.”*
James invited her to stay for dinner. *”I’m Claire,”* she said. *”My son called me Ladybird, like the cartoon.”*
Tears welled up. She left soon after.
They exchanged hellos in the hall. When James fell ill, Claire brought medicine: *”Heard you coughing nights.”* She often fed him; he fixed her tech.
That New Year’s, James stayed in despite his parents’ invite. Sipping champagne, watching telly, he felt marooned. At midnight, his buzzer rang. Claire stood there—hair done, wearing a lovely dress. *”Made a feast. No one to share it. Come up?”*
At her table, James dozed off. *”Should go—I’ll crash here otherwise,”* he mumbled.
*”Stay,”* she pleaded. *”Don’t want to be alone. I’ll think of my boy and cry.”*
He did. Her touch woke him later. Morning brought a fry-up. *”Fancy ice skating?”* he asked.
*”Haven’t skated in twenty years,”* she admitted.
*”Me neither. Let’s try.”*
After, they stopped at a café. Back home, he held his flat door open for her. They parted at dawn when his mum summoned him for lunch.
Then Claire vanished. For a month, James listened for her footsteps. Finally, cornering her in the hall, he asked, *”Avoiding me? Why?”*
She confessed: *”I liked you straight off. I want a child—time’s running out. So I took that chance. But you don’t love me. I’m older. Nothing’ll come of this. And… I’m pregnant.”*
James argued: he’d always wanted kids; Charlotte had refused. Five years’ age gap meant nothing. He’d marry her now.
*”Alright,”* she relented. *”But no changes yet. After the baby, we’ll see.”*They named their daughter Lily, and as she grew, James realized that sometimes the best love stories begin when you least expect them.
