She didn’t come home… Because she never could again.
He returned from his business trip a little earlier than usual—half past six in the evening. The flat was eerily quiet. No sounds. No smell of dinner. No familiar call of, “You’re back? I’ll get you fed in a minute.” He walked through every room, checked the loo, the bath. The hob was cold. The kettle empty. The fridge neatly stocked with fresh, homemade meals in containers. But the woman who’d made them was missing.
“Where’s she gallivanting off to?” he thought bitterly and dialled her number. The line rang, but no one picked up.
“Fine. I’ll eat first, then sort this out.” He tossed his phone onto the sofa and sat at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. No answer. Suspicion gnawed at him.
“Got herself a fancy man, has she? I’m up north breaking my back, bringing money home, and she’s out joyriding in the car I bought her. Taught her to drive myself, the daft cow! Used to ferry the kids about, haul shopping, and now they’re grown, she’s off having a laugh. Well, I’ll sort her out…”
He remembered scolding her for every scratch on the car, dictating which shops she could go to, when to get her hair cut, what colour she could dye it. She didn’t even work—he’d insisted she focus on the house and kids.
“Ungrateful little madam’s probably out clubbing. I’ll tan her hide—teach her to stay where she belongs.”
The lift buzzed. He rushed to the door, peered through the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys on the hook. So she hadn’t taken it. Gone out on foot, then? Worse…
“Did she really leave me?”
He paced the flat, checked the wardrobe—clothes still there. Still no answer to his calls.
“Bloody cow. Half nine, and she’s still not back.”
He turned on the telly to distract himself but sank into a restless sleep without following the plot.
Woke up at half eleven. Still no sign of her. His chest tightened. Furious, he called again. This time, a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, good evening. I’m a nurse from the surgical reception. Who am I speaking to?”
He bellowed, “What d’you mean, surgical? Have you lost your mind?!”
The line cut. He dialled again. A man answered this time.
“Please stop abusing our staff. Can you come to the hospital? Surgical ward.”
“What for? What’s happened?”
“There are papers to sign. We did everything we could. I’m sorry… condolences. Your wife’s heart stopped.”
His voice froze.
“That’s rubbish. Her heart? She never had one! She just doesn’t want to come home! Where is she?”
“Your wife has passed,” the voice repeated.
And just like that, his world collapsed.
Later, they told him: a nurse from the GP surgery had called her in—test results from a screening had worried the doctors. They asked her to come in. After the visit, she left the clinic but never made it to the bus stop—dizzy, she sat on a bench. Told herself it’d be fine. Her husband would come home—there’d be food, ironed shirts. She’d get everything ready. It was just a minor op, routine…
But she didn’t make it. Never came back.
He was left in the flat where everything had been done by her—her hands, her care. And he realised too late how much he’d needed her.
On the counter, a note remained: “Buy apples. Make broth. Wash shirts. Talk to husband—enough with the business trips?”
But she’d never get to ask.
