Snowflakes Drifting Past
After twenty years of marriage, many couples face strained moments. Emma and James were no exception.
“Twenty years with James, we’ve been through so much, raised our son Oliver, who’s at university now. I should call him—see how he’s doing with his independent life in those student halls. Never complains,” Emma thought, curled up in an armchair under a knitted throw.
Their son had inherited her stubborn streak—she knew that well, which made it easy to understand him. It was like looking in a mirror. Strange, they never had a second child, though she’d once dreamed of two. Life had a way of making her realise it was for the best.
They’d met at uni, married in their third year, and Oliver arrived during the fourth. Thank goodness for her mum’s help—no need for a gap year, somehow everything fell into place. She and James even graduated together.
Of course, it wasn’t easy at first—money was tight. But as the saying goes, “All troubles fade like morning mist.”
James hustled his way into a top firm, climbing the corporate ladder steadily. Now he’s deputy CEO. Emma hadn’t been as career-driven—she was happy as an office manager at a different company.
James had made his stance clear early on:
“I could get you a job at my firm, but I don’t want us working together. My mate Liam brought in his wife, and now they argue non-stop—she’s jealous of every woman there, even the cleaners.”
“Don’t worry, love,” Emma replied. “Work is work, family is family. I feel the same.” He’d been pleased she understood.
James was a serious man—not one to chase skirts. Still, he wasn’t a saint. He noticed attractive women, even let his mind wander now and then. But he’d never crossed the line—maybe a bit of harmless flirting. Could you blame him? Some women didn’t make it easy.
Emma, though—she struggled with jealousy. Sometimes it boiled over into rows. Now, as she sat by the window watching snow drift down, her phone screen glowed with a familiar, slightly scruffy face—the face she loved.
The flat was silent, but that smile still taunted her.
“Smiling away, while I’m hurting. Couldn’t he just call? I’ve been out of sorts, lonely. All because pride stopped me from bending, agreeing to this ‘trial separation.’ And now? I could’ve softened things, but no…”
Six months ago, James had announced:
“The firm’s throwing a party for its anniversary. Boss says bring spouses, so get ready, love.”
“Oh, James! I’ll need a new dress—I want to look perfect.”
“No problem. When shall we go?”
“Weekend shopping trip?” So they’d settled on that.
The dress was stunning—elegant, classy. Even James gaped when she paired it with new heels.
“Bloody hell, Emma, you’re still a knockout!”
“Damn right,” she laughed, tossing her head proudly.
Now, in her chair, she relived that night. One image burned: James, flashing his easy grin, dancing with female colleagues. Mostly Sarah from accounts—clad in a figure-hugging red dress, whispering in his ear, both laughing like old friends.
Meanwhile, Liam—divorced and alone—had monopolised Emma. James did ask her to dance, chatted brightly, but her gut twisted watching him with others.
When Liam droned on about his Thailand trip, she feigned interest. Afterward, at home, James knew something was off but didn’t ask—she’d spill it soon enough.
Finally, makeup scrubbed off, Emma spoke:
“I hated how you acted tonight. Leaving me with Liam all evening—his stories bored me senseless.”
“So I should’ve glued myself to you? Avoided every woman who asked me to dance? Most asked *me*, by the way—did you notice?”
“Yeah,” she shot back, knowing she was pushing it but unable to stop. “Better than ignoring your wife to schmooze the boss or twirl Sarah around all night.”
“Emma,” James sighed, slumping into a chair. “I’m sick of your jealousy. This isn’t the first time. The accusations, the scenes—it’s exhausting. You act like some paranoid shrew.”
“Better paranoid than a philanderer.”
“Well, then maybe we need time apart. A breather.”
Tears threatened, but pride won. She couldn’t admit she didn’t want this—that she loved him, feared losing him.
“Fine by me,” she said stiffly.
Outside, thunder growled—sudden summer rain lashing the windows, lightning painting the room in stark flashes.
Next day, he left with a bag. Emma ached to howl.
Alone at night, doubts crept in:
“Should I’ve told him I loved him more? Trusted more? Deep down, I *never* thought he’d cheat. And agreeing to split—was that the beginning of the end?”
Realisation comes too late, when you’re already looking back.
Emma hadn’t glanced at another man—James still filled her world.
Snow blanketed everything—a soft white shroud over roofs, roads, the entire city.
Her phone buzzed—Mum calling.
“Emma, darling! How are you both? Dad and I expect you for New Year’s—Oliver too, no excuses! Tradition stands.”
Her voice was bright; Emma couldn’t ruin it. “We’ll be there,” she promised.
She loved celebrating at their cottage in the Lake District. Skiing by day, then huddled by the hearth with steaming tea, sprawled on the sheepskin rug Dad had hunted down. Watching old films, gorging on Mum’s mince pies.
Hanging up, unease settled. Her parents didn’t know—James was in a rented flat now. She couldn’t spoil their holidays.
“Maybe… call him?”
Heart racing, she dialed.
“Hi, James,” she murmured.
“Hi,” came his warm voice—how she’d missed it.
“Mum rang. They’re expecting us for New Year’s. I didn’t tell them…”
“I’ll go,” he said slowly. “But… what do we say about us?”
“We don’t. Pretend everything’s fine—I won’t ruin their holiday. Just… act like you love me. Please.” Her voice wavered.
“Alright,” he agreed. “I can do that.”
“Good. I’ve gifts to buy still.”
“Need help?” he offered suddenly.
“Yes. Meet me at the mall in two days?”
Her pulse hammered—six months since she’d seen him. Six months of silence.
At the mall, they drank in each other’s faces, exchanging shy smiles.
“How’ve you been?” James asked.
She shrugged. “Surviving.”
They shopped for her parents, sister, and Oliver. Emma laughed freely, chattering—happier than she’d felt in months.
James drove her home, helped unload bags. As she stepped out, she said, “Thanks for the lift.”
“Anytime.” His gaze lingered.
What she wanted—*needed*—was for him to stay.
“Fancy a cuppa?”
“God, yes,” he breathed, pulling her into a sudden hug. “Yes, absolutely.”
Emma tilted her face skyward, grinning as snowflakes spiraled down—the very heavens rushing to meet her. She was happy. So was James. And right then, nothing else mattered.
