She didn’t come… Because she never could again.
I got back from my business trip a little earlier than usual—around half six. The flat was eerily quiet. No sound. No smell of dinner. No cheerful call of, “You’re home? I’ll get you something to eat.” I checked every room—the bathroom, the loo. The stove was cold. The kettle empty. The fridge was neatly stocked with fresh, homemade meals, all packed in containers. But she wasn’t there.
“Where the hell is she?” I thought bitterly and dialled her number. It rang and rang. No answer.
“Fine. I’ll eat first. Sort this out later.” I tossed my phone onto the sofa and sat at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. I called again. Still nothing. Dark thoughts swirled in my head.
“Found herself a lover, has she? Bloody hell… I’m up north breaking my back, bringing money home, and she’s out gallivanting in the car I bought her. Taught her to drive myself, stupid sod! Used it for the school run, the shopping, and now the kids are grown, she’s off having fun. Just wait till I get my hands on her…”
I remembered how I’d scold her for every scratch on the car, how I dictated which supermarket to use, when to get her hair cut, even what colour to dye it. And she never worked—I insisted she stayed home, looked after the house and kids.
“Ungrateful cow’s probably out partying. I’ll knock some sense into her. She’ll stay put where she belongs.”
The lift hummed. I bolted to the door, peered through the peephole—not her. Then I spotted her car keys still on the hook. So she hadn’t driven. Just… walked off? Even worse.
“Did she leave me?”
I tore through the flat. Checked the wardrobe—her clothes still there. Still no answer to my calls.
“Damn her. Half nine and she’s still not back.”
I turned on the telly to distract myself but dozed off, restless, not following a thing.
Woke up at half eleven. Still no sign of her. My chest tightened. Furious, I called again. This time, a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, good evening. This is the surgical ward. Who am I speaking to?”
I snarled, “What the hell are you on about? Lost your mind?”
The line went dead. I redialled. A man answered.
“Sir, stop harassing my staff. Can you come to the hospital? Surgery ward.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You need to sign some paperwork. We did all we could. I’m sorry… your wife has passed.”
I froze.
“Don’t talk rubbish! She’s fine! She just doesn’t want to come home! Where is she?”
“Sir, your wife is dead,” he repeated.
Just like that. My world shattered.
Later, they explained—a nurse from the GP’s had rung her. Test results from a screening had worried the doctors. Asked her to come in. After the appointment, she stepped outside but never made it to the bus stop—felt dizzy, sat on a bench. Told herself it’d be alright. That I’d come home to hot meals and ironed shirts. That she’d manage—routine surgery, done all the time…
But she didn’t. Never came back.
I stood in the flat, every bit of it shaped by her hands, her care. And I understood—I hadn’t known how much I needed her until it was far too late.
On the table lay her list: *”Apples. Make broth. Wash shirts. Talk to him—enough business trips?”*
But we’ll never talk.
