Snowflakes drift softly outside the window. After twenty years of marriage, many couples face rough patches—Emma and James were no exception.
“Two decades with Jamie,” Emma mused, wrapped in a thick knit blanket, curled up in her armchair. “We’ve been through so much—raising our son Oliver, who’s now studying at uni. I should call, see how he’s doing on his own in that student flat. Never complains, our boy.”
Oliver had inherited her stubborn streak—a fact that made understanding him effortless. They’d only had one child, though she’d sometimes dreamed of two. Life had other plans, and now, she was sure they’d made the right choice.
She and James had met at university, married in their third year. By the fourth, Oliver arrived—thankfully, her mother had stepped in, so she never had to take time off. Somehow, they’d managed, both graduating on time.
Money was tight back then, but as the saying goes—*time heals all wounds*.
James had worked his way up—landed a position at a prestigious firm, climbed the ranks steadily. Now, he’s deputy CEO. Emma hadn’t chased the same heights, content as an office manager at a different company.
“Could’ve found you a spot with us,” James had told her once, “but I’d rather we didn’t work together. Look at Liam—hired his wife, and now they argue constantly. She’s jealous of every woman in the building.”
Emma had nodded. “Work’s work, Jamie. Family’s family. I feel the same.” He’d been pleased with her answer.
James was dependable—not a flirt by nature, though, like any man, he noticed a pretty face now and then. He’d never crossed the line, but harmless banter? That happened. Women did flirt with him.
Emma had her moments of jealousy—occasional arguments spiraling into rows. Now, sitting alone, snow dusting the windowpane, she stared at her phone, his familiar, stubble-shadowed grin gazing back.
Silence filled the flat. His face still smiled at her. *He looks happy, yet here I am, aching. Couldn’t he call? But no—I pushed for this separation, swallowed my pride, and now I regret it.*
Six months ago, James had come home with news.
“Big company bash for the anniversary. Boss insists everyone brings spouses—so, love, time to dress up.”
“Oh, James! I’ll need a new gown,” she’d beamed.
“Course. When?”
“Saturday—we’ll hit the shops.”
She’d chosen an elegant emerald-green dress. James had nearly dropped his drink when she’d stepped out in it.
“Bloody hell, Em—you’re stunning.”
Her laugh had been triumphant. “You doubted me?”
Now, that night replayed in her mind—James charming his way across the dance floor, spinning colleagues in his arms. Especially Lydia from accounting, sleek in a fitted red dress, whispering God-knows-what in his ear, both roaring with laughter.
He’d left her with Liam, his recently divorced mate, who’d droned on about his trip to Ibiza. James had asked her to dance, joked, checked if she was enjoying herself. She’d nodded—all while jealousy twisted inside.
Back home, James had sensed her mood but stayed quiet, knowing she’d snap eventually.
After scrubbing off her makeup, she’d finally said, “You barely glanced at me tonight. Left me listening to Liam’s nonsense while you flirted with Lydia.”
“Should I have glued myself to you all evening?” he’d sighed, sinking into a chair. “They asked *me* to dance, Em. Christ, I’m sick of this—your jealousy, the accusations. It’s exhausting.”
“Better paranoid than a womaniser.”
A pause. Then, softly: “Maybe we need some time apart.”
Tears had burned, but pride won. She couldn’t say *no, I don’t want this*—couldn’t admit she feared losing him.
“Fine,” she’d said.
Outside, thunder had growled, lightning cutting the sky.
The next morning, he’d packed a bag and left.
Alone in the evenings, she’d wonder: *Should I have told him I loved him more? Trusted him, not doubted? God, I never really thought he’d cheat. And agreeing to this—it wasn’t a break. It was the beginning of the end.*
Now, she knew her mistakes. Too late.
New Year’s approached. Snow spiraled past the window—a rare calm night. Usually, the wind whipped it sideways. She loved winter, the way white blanketed everything, smothering London in quiet.
Her phone vibrated—her mum.
“Darling, how are you both?”
“Fine,” Emma lied.
“Now, don’t back out—you and James *must* come for New Year’s. Oliver too! No excuses—tradition’s tradition.”
She adored their family celebrations—her parents’ cottage nestled in the Cotswolds, skiing, fireside teas, her dad’s old bear rug, black-and-white films, Mum’s mince pies.
Hanging up, guilt gnawed. They didn’t know James had moved out—renting a flat in Kensington. She couldn’t ruin their holiday.
*Maybe… maybe I should call him.*
Her fingers trembled as she dialled.
“Hi, Jamie.”
“Em.” His voice was warm—God, she’d missed it.
“Mum rang. Wants us for New Year’s. I didn’t tell her… about us.”
“I’ll come,” he said slowly. “But—how do we explain?”
“We don’t. Not yet. Just… pretend everything’s normal. Please?” Her voice shook.
“Okay.”
Relief. “I’ve got gifts to buy.”
“Need help?”
They met two days later, at Westfield. Both drank in the sight of each other—hesitant smiles, lingering glances.
“How’ve you been?” James asked.
She shrugged. “Surviving.”
Gift shopping felt surreal—laughing, chatting, lighter than she’d felt in months.
He drove her home, helped unload bags.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Any time.” His gaze held hers.
Her chest ached. *Don’t go.* “Fancy a cuppa?”
“God, yes.” Then, suddenly, he pulled her close. “Missed you.”
Emma tilted her face upward, smiling as snowflakes kissed her skin. The sky itself seemed to lean in.
She was happy. So was James.
And for now—nothing else mattered.
