She didn’t come home… Because she never would again.
He returned from his business trip a little earlier than usual—just past half six. The flat was eerily quiet. No sound. No smell of food. No familiar call of, “You’re back? I’ll get dinner on.” He walked through every room, checked the loo, even the bath. The stove was cold. The kettle empty. The fridge neatly stocked with fresh, homemade meals in plastic containers. But the woman who’d prepared them wasn’t there.
“Where the hell is she?” he thought bitterly, dialling her number. It rang and rang, but no one picked up.
“Fine. I’ll eat first. Then we’ll sort this out.” He tossed his mobile onto the sofa and sat at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. Still no answer. Suspicion gnawed at him.
“Got herself a bloke, has she? That’s just perfect… I’m out there slogging away up north, bringing home the money, and she’s off driving around in the car I bloody bought for her. Taught her myself, didn’t I? Used to ferry the kids about, do the shopping—now they’re grown, she’s off having fun. Well, she won’t like what’s coming.”
He remembered how he’d scolded her over every scratch on the car, dictated which shops to use, when to cut her hair, even what colour to dye it. And she never worked—he’d insisted she stay home, mind the house and the children.
“Ungrateful cow’s probably out gallivanting. I’ll knock some sense into her. She’ll stay put where she belongs.”
The lift hummed outside. He rushed to the door, checked the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys still hanging by the coat rack. So she was home… or had walked somewhere? Worse.
“Has she really done it? Just left?”
He stormed through the flat. Checked the wardrobe—all her clothes still there. Still no answer to his calls.
“That selfish bitch. Half nine now, still no sign.”
He flicked on the telly to distract himself but drifted into a fitful sleep, the screen droning on.
He woke at half eleven. Still no wife. His chest tightened. Furious, he dialled again. This time, a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, good evening. This is Sister Fletcher from A&E. Who am I speaking to?”
He shouted, “A&E? Have you lost your damn mind?!”
The line went dead. He called back. A man answered this time.
“Stop harassing our staff. Can you come to the hospital? A&E, surgical ward.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“There are papers to sign. We did all we could. I’m… sorry for your loss. Your wife’s heart gave out.”
He froze.
“What are you on about? Her heart? She never had one! She just doesn’t want to come home! Where is she?!”
“Your wife has passed away,” the voice repeated.
And just like that, his world shattered.
Later, they told him: the clinic had rung. Routine tests, something odd. Asked her to come in. She left after the appointment but never made it to the bus stop—got dizzy, sat on a bench. Told herself it’d be fine. Her husband would be home soon—there’d be dinner waiting, ironed shirts. She’d handle it all. The operation was simple, after all, done all the time…
But she never got the chance. Never came back.
He stood in the flat—every inch of it shaped by her hands, her care. And he realised, too late, just how much he’d needed her.
On the table, a list remained: *“Apples. Make broth. Iron shirts. Talk to him—enough with the business trips?”*
But now… she never would.
