Shadows of the Past: A Tale of Love and Forgiveness
In the quiet town of Wellingford, where ancient oaks cast shadows over cobbled lanes, James thought irritably, “Go on, have another cry, then.”
They pulled up to the house. Emma, his wife, sat in the car, leaning heavily on the door. James rolled his eyes—”Here we go, now I’ve got to open the door for her.” But she was already struggling out on her own. He yanked the handle sharply, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Watch it, clumsy!” he muttered, steering her inside.
He dropped the bags by the doorstep, waited as Emma limped to the bedroom, then muttered, “I’ll be late.”
Without another word, he turned and left. The engine roared to life as he drove aimlessly through the winding streets, trying to drown his frustration. He needed a break, some space. He rang his mate Dave from work, who invited him over to test a new video game. James went.
Beer in hand, the conversation turned personal. James spilled it all—how the passion had faded, how routine had swallowed them whole, how Emma “nagged like a drill sergeant.” Then he mentioned Sophie from marketing—young, carefree, always laughing. She’d brush against him, laugh at his jokes. With her, he forgot his troubles.
Emma
“Why aren’t we going on holiday in July?” I asked on the drive home.
James erupted. He shouted, slammed the steering wheel, his face twisted with anger. I turned to the window, tears slipping out. What had I done wrong? It was just a question. Lately, he’d become jumpy, erratic.
My friend Sarah hinted, “Maybe there’s someone else?” She told me about her husband, Tom, who’d changed when a younger colleague started batting her lashes. Tom suddenly dressed sharper, spouted slang—”cringe,” “lol.” Sarah nearly died of embarrassment when he tried bantering with her son’s friends like a teenager. Even her son cringed.
In the end, Sarah cracked. She packed Tom’s bags and sent him to “reform” at his mum’s. When she called her mother-in-law, joking she was returning a “misbehaving teen,” the woman deadpanned, “Try the orphanage. Or the loony bin.” Tom got such an earful from his mum that he snapped out of it. Sarah felt lighter.
But James wasn’t like Tom. And I knew—no one else was involved. Yet something was off.
James
Sitting at Dave’s, my thoughts circled back to Emma. What had happened to her? Where was the lightness she once had? Now it was all chores and that stupid holiday question. Then I pictured Sophie—her bright laugh, how she’d giggled at my jokes earlier at the pub after work.
My phone rang. Emma, asking me to pick her up from work and stop by the shops. My mood soured. Sophie had given me such a look when I said I had to go. And Emma! Who asked her to drag herself to work with a bad ankle? She’d twisted it, it was swollen—she should’ve stayed home. But no, the office “couldn’t cope” without her.
I fiddled with my phone, debating calling Sophie. I dialed… Then Dave spoke up.
“What’s got into you? Ringing Sophie?”
I canceled the call, embarrassed.
“Best be off, Dave,” I mumbled.
“I had a ‘Sophie’ once,” he said. “Her name was Liz. Wrecked my marriage over her. Now I see my daughter every other weekend. Ex-wife remarried, happy, I suppose. Thought I was happy too. Lasted a month. Mistook a fling for forever. By the time I realised, it was too late. Live alone now, play games. Asked the ex for forgiveness. She said, ‘I forgive you, but I won’t live with a cheater.’ Put myself in her shoes—yeah, I’d have done the same.”
Dave fell silent. My chest tightened.
“Think before you ring,” he added.
I left. My phone buzzed—Sophie.
“Did you call me?” she chirped.
“Wrong number,” I grunted.
“Fancy dropping by? Accidentally-on-purpose, maybe? I love a nice rosé…”
Disgust washed over me—at her, at myself. I hung up. She called again and again. I ignored her, sitting in the car, then deleted her number and blocked it.
Back home, the shopping bags were still by the door. Emma sat in the dark at the table, staring out the window. I sat opposite.
“Em,” I began.
She turned. Her face was puffy from crying. My chest ached.
“Em, we need to talk,” I stumbled.
I rambled—apologies, regrets, misplaced blame. She listened silently.
“I’m going to Mum’s,” she said softly. “Taking sick leave. Think about what you want, James. I’m not forcing a choice. Just decide what matters.”
She left. I sat alone. I hadn’t fallen out of love—that much was clear. So what was wrong with me?
I stayed up all night, staring at nothing.
Emma
He was gone four hours. What happened to us? It’s terrifying, how years of building something can unravel so fast. It hurts. Pathetic, maybe, for a woman in her forties, but… I think he’s fallen out of love. I’m not enough.
Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis? I doubt I’d want more kids—our son’s twenty-two, our daughter nineteen. But him? He could marry someone younger, prettier, with a perfect figure. She’d post smoothie photos online. Him, grey-haired in a smart jumper, cradling a chubby baby. The perfect family.
I remembered our son screaming with colic, our daughter in hospital. Why do second wives get the fairy tale? Happy kids, doting husbands… Their toddlers probably recite Shakespeare by two.
Life’s not fair. He gets a fresh start. I don’t.
I cried, my ankle throbbed, I wallowed in self-pity. One thought looped: “What did I do wrong?”
Then it hit me—nothing. Love just… expires. For some, it lasts forever. For us?
Tears streamed. The door slammed. He was back.
He said we needed to talk. Rambled, backtracked, blamed nothing and everything. I said I was going to Mum’s. And I left.
I lied to Mum—said we were fumigating. Told her James was at a mate’s, the kids away at uni.
“Fumigating what?” Mum frowned.
“Big pests, Mum. Really big.”
“Have you been crying?”
“Allergies,” I brushed her off.
“Leave her be, love. Let’s eat,” Dad cut in.
Mum fussed, piled my plate, brought antihistamines.
“Mum, stop. Dad, got any whisky?”
“There’s wine—” Mum started.
“Got some, love,” Dad interrupted, shooting her a look.
We drank in silence. Dad talked about his army days, showed old photos. I laughed. Then he fetched his guitar, and we sang at the kitchen table. The knot in my chest loosened. I fell asleep to Mum whispering, “What’s wrong with her?”
Morning came too soon. Voices hummed downstairs.
“James, what’s this about pests?” Mum grumbled. “Emily says fumigating, you say bedbugs… Have a pancake, there’s jam.”
I walked in. James was devouring Mum’s pancakes.
“Morning, Em,” he smiled. “Got rid of them all.”
“The pests?”
“And the bedbugs.”
“Sure?”
“Couldn’t be surer. Even put the shopping away.”
I exhaled, closed my eyes.
James and Emma
“Let’s not fumigate anything again, Em,” he said.
“Agreed. But pests don’t just appear. They’re invited.”
“Right. We’ll be more careful.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
James
I’d pictured life without her—another woman’s voice, hands, scent. The thought twisted my gut so hard I bit my own arm. At dawn, I drove to her parents’.
“Bedbugs sorted? Emily still asleep?” I asked her mum.
“Fast asleep,” she said, eyeing me oddly. “Pancake?”
“Cheers.”
Emma
It passed. We learned. The old won’t return, but the worst won’t either. This isn’t the end—just a new chapter.
Love isn’t about never faltering. It’s about finding your way back.
