**Snowflakes in the Air**
After twenty years of marriage, many couples hit rough patches—Emma and James were no exception.
“Two decades with James,” Emma thought, curled up in her armchair under a blanket. “We’ve been through so much, raised our son, Oliver. He’s at university now, living in student halls. Wanted independence, and he’s got it—never complains.”
Oliver had always been as stubborn as her. She understood him well—he was a reflection of herself. Strange how she and James never had another child, though she’d once dreamed of two. But life was complicated, and now she was sure they’d made the right choice.
They’d met at university, married in their third year, and had Oliver in the fourth. Thank goodness for her mother’s help—no need for a gap year. Somehow, they’d managed to graduate together.
Money had been tight at first. But as the saying goes, “All troubles pass like smoke from apple trees.” James landed a job at a prestigious firm, climbing the ladder rung by rung. Now he was deputy director. Emma hadn’t been as ambitious, content with her managerial role in a different office.
James had been clear: “I could get you a job here, but I don’t want us working together. Look at Henry—he hired his wife, and now they argue nonstop. She’s jealous of every woman in the building.”
Emma agreed. “Work’s work, family’s family. I feel the same.”
James was serious by nature, not one to chase skirts. Still, he wasn’t a saint—pretty women caught his eye, and his thoughts could wander. But he’d never strayed. A bit of harmless flirting, perhaps. Couldn’t blame him—some women practically threw themselves at him.
Emma had her moments of jealousy. Now, snow drifted outside as she stared at her phone, at James’ unshaven, familiar smile. The flat was silent.
“He smiles, and it hurts,” she thought. “Why won’t he call? I agreed to this separation, swallowing my pride, and now—what? I could’ve fixed things, but no…”
Six months earlier, James had announced: “The firm’s throwing an anniversary party. Wives and husbands are expected—so start planning, love.”
“Oh, James! I need a new dress. I want to look perfect.”
“Course. When shall we shop?”
“That weekend, then.”
The dress was stunning—elegant, sophisticated. James had gaped when she’d slipped it on with new heels.
“Blimey, Emma, you’re a vision!”
“What did you expect?” she’d laughed, chin high.
Now, in her chair, Emma remembered the party. One image burned: James dancing, charming every female colleague. Especially Sarah from accounts, in a figure-hugging red dress, whispering in his ear, both laughing.
James had left Emma with Henry—divorced and alone—who’d droned on about his Thailand holiday. She’d nodded along, pretending interest. James had asked her to dance, cheerful, asking if she was enjoying herself. She’d nodded, but her heart had ached watching him with others.
Back home, he’d sensed her mood but stayed silent—she’d speak her mind soon enough. After changing, she’d finally said:
“I didn’t like how you behaved tonight. Leaving me with Henry—his stories were excruciating.”
“Should I have clung to you all night? The women asked me to dance, not the other way round. You saw that.”
“I did,” she shot back, knowing she was overreacting but unable to stop. “Better that than ignoring your wife to chat with Sarah from accounts.”
James sighed. “Emma, I’m tired of your jealousy. This isn’t the first time. Your accusations, the scenes—it’s exhausting. You’re acting paranoid.”
“Better paranoid than a flirt.”
“Right. Then maybe we need time apart.”
Tears pricked her eyes, but pride won. She wouldn’t beg. “Fine by me.”
Outside, thunder growled as he packed his bags the next day.
Alone, she wondered: “Should I’ve told him I loved him more? Trusted him? Deep down, I never believed he’d cheat. And I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Now it’s not a break—it’s the beginning of the end.”
Regret always came too late.
Emma hadn’t so much as glanced at another man. James was all she saw.
December arrived. Snow fell peacefully—rare for England, where wind usually whipped it sideways. She loved winter, the white blanket over rooftops, trees, the whole of London.
Her phone buzzed—Mum.
“Emma, darling! How are you?”
“Fine,” she lied.
“Your father and I expect you and James for New Year’s—and Oliver, if he can come. No excuses! Tradition’s tradition.”
She loved their New Year’s in the Cotswolds—skiing, tea by the fire on Dad’s old bearskin rug, classic films, and Mum’s pies.
Hanging up, guilt gnawed. Her parents didn’t know James had moved out.
“Maybe I should call him,” she thought.
When she did, his voice—so familiar—made her heart leap.
“Mum invited us for New Year’s. I didn’t tell her… about us.”
“I’ll go,” he said slowly. “But what do we say?”
“Nothing. Let’s pretend, for their sake. After, I’ll explain. Just… act like you love me.” Her voice wavered.
“Alright.”
They met two days later, hungrily studying each other’s faces, smiling shyly.
“How’ve you been?” James asked.
“Oh, surviving,” she said lightly.
Shopping for gifts, she laughed freely for the first time in months.
At her door, he helped unload the bags.
“Thanks for the lift.”
“Anytime.” His gaze lingered.
“Fancy a cuppa?”
“God, yes.” He pulled her close. “Yes, please.”
As snowflakes danced toward them, Emma felt the sky tilt to meet her. Happiness, sudden and bright. James, too, felt weightless. Nothing else mattered.
