Awkward Wife
Sophie slowly floated upwards toward the surface of pain and noise, as if rising from the bottom of a deep well.
Sophie Williams, can you hear me? Our monitors show youre conscious. Try to open your eyes, a distant, muffled voice urged.
She tried, but her eyelids felt heavy as lead. Her body was numb and uncooperative, every cell ached with a dull, sticky pain. A relentless high-pitched beep echoed in her ears.
Hospital smellsharp, sterile, unmistakeable disinfectant mixed with something bitterfilled her nose.
There we are, the voice rumbled, now much closer. Youre breathing on your own, thats good.
With effort, Sophie fluttered her lashes apart. The light stabbed at her eyes and she squeezed them shut again. The world was a watery blur: white ceiling, white walls, some tube snaking towards her arm.
Leaning over her was an older mans face, deeply lined. Stern blue eyes beneath bushy white brows scrutinised her. White cap, surgical mask pulled down to his chin.
Where am I? Her voice was barely more than the rustle of dry paper.
Youre in the intensive care unit, the man replied calmly, fiddling with a monitor by her bed. St Marys Central Hospital.
An accident she whispered. There was an accident?
A memory flared and fizzled: blazing sunlight on the windscreen, the road… Shed been drivingbut to where?
There was, the doctor nodded. Do you remember what happened?
I was headed to the clinic for a check-up. My husband and I we wanted to try IVF. We couldnt have children, not yet
Quite right, the white-coated man nodded. Im your doctor, Robert Jenkins. You were involved in a bad car crash.
Her mind slowly sharpened, and with it, her memoriesand fear.
My husband Does he know? Is he alright?
He does, Roberts voice got even more clipped. He wasnt in the car with you. No injuries.
Sophie furrowed her brow, trying to recall. No, that was right. Charles was supposed to meet her at the clinic; she drove alone.
How long have I been here? Cold dread crept up behind her ribs.
Doctor Jenkins looked away for a moment, sighing heavily. The sigh echoed over the beeping machines.
You need to rest. But you must know: what Im about to say will be a shock.
Please, just tell me, she murmured.
The accident happened quite a while ago. You were unconscious for a long time.
Long How long? A week? Two?
Youve been in a coma for three years.
Sophie’s world caved in, dropping her back into the darkness shed just escaped.
No Her lips trembled. No, you Theres a mistake. You must be joking
Three years, Robert said flatly. Severe brain injury, fractured bones. We barely saved you. Honestly, your chances were very slim.
Three years.
Sophie looked down at her own hand on the bed. Pale, frail, but hers. Alive.
You’re lucky, the doctor softened a little. Your blood type is rare. We needed a massive transfusion but didnt have any in the blood bank.
He paused, then added, Your husbandyou owe him your life. He has a compatible type. He donated as much as possible, wouldnt take no for an answer. If not for that, well
Doctors words settled over her like fog. Charles donor saved her
But relief didnt come. If anything, icy doubt stirred deep inside. Sophie distinctly remembered her blood groupand she was almost certain Charles had a different one.
Too exhausted to argue, she drifted back into a drowsy, medicated sleep.
When she next awoke, the ward was quiet. The beeping now a soft background buzz. Someone stood beside her bed.
Familiar, bittersweet trace of aftershave. Her husbands scent.
Charlie. She didnt need to see him to know.
He stepped closer, features emerging from the shadows: that sharp jaw, perfectly combed dark hair but something felt off.
His face, usually composed behind a mask of polite restraint, was twisted by an expression shed never seen: cold, almost sneering cruelty.
A nurse moved quietly beside hima plump, kindly woman in her fifties. Sophie vaguely remembered her name: Violet.
Charles bent down, close enough that she felt his chilly breath.
Darling, his voice was soft, oily, meant only for her. Nice to see you awake at last.
He half-smiled.
While youve been napping under a drip for three years, Ive claimed my inheritance.
Sophie frowned, confused.
Inheritance? What do you? Her voice was rough and frail.
Papers, love. The ones you so helpfully signed before your little adventure, he shrugged. Remember? You always signed everything without looking. Gave me power of attorney. Over everything.
I… I never
Thank you for your trust, he murmured with that same poisonous sweetness. Never thought your naivety would pay out so handsomely.
Suddenly she remembered: the A&E room, Charles leaning over her stretcher.
Soph, sign thesejust a consent for surgery, nothing to worry about. His voice had been gentle, urgent.
Her shaky hand had signed every page, barely reading them.
Your late father’s firm, he explained now, catching her confusion. Remember? Alan left you that silly little logistics company? You never cared. Left it all to me, and I turned it into a real goldmine.
He smirked.
Its mine now, entirely.
Sophie stared. A chill gripped her harder than any injury. This wasnt the husband shed married.
You couldnt have she whispered.
I could and I did, he drawled. Straightening his pristine shirt cuffs, he nodded to the nurse. Take care of her, Violet.
As she shut her eyespretending to drift offtears prickled, sliding down her cheeks, burning hot.
Charless footsteps rang out on the hospital tiles. Expensive shoes. He was gone, leaving her alone with this nightmare.
A warm hand gently dabbed the tears away.
Hush, deary, hush, the nurse soothed. Dont waste your tears. He’s not worth it.
Thank you Sophie whispered, fighting down a sob.
Later, as Violet changed her dressing, she bent close.
Keep your chin up. You’re stronger than you think. If you survived that, youll manage this. Men like your husbandtrust me, youre not the first or last to get played. Focus on getting well. Thats what matters.
Simple words from an ordinary nurseyet it was the first glimmer of hope in Sophie’s darkness.
Violet Sophie called quietly.
Yes, love?
The doctor said that Charles was my donor.
Violets face hardened for a moment.
Who told you that?
Doctor Jenkins.
She shook her head and pursed her lips. Listen close, she whispered, though they were alone. Your Charles didnt give a drop. Didnt even know his own blood type. I was there, kept asking him, but he brushed me off every time.
But But the doctor?
Doctor must have made a mistake. Or maybe someone helped him make itif you see what I mean, Violet sighed heavily. Charles likes to spin a good talehero, saviour. Told everyone in the ward he pulled his wife back from the brink. Jenkins is an excellent doctor but hopeless with paperwork. He was just told husbands the donor and put it down.
So where did the blood come from?
Blood bank, anonymous donor, Violet said firmly. Got there just in time. You were lucky.
She squeezed Sophies shoulder.
So you owe him nothingyour life, or anything else. Understand?
Sophie nodded slowly. Everything. Lies. His heroics were as hollow as his affection.
That night, with the machines beeping and sleep elusive, Sophie stared at the ceiling, aching with regret and disbelief that shed ever misjudged him. How had her Charlieher sweet, attentive husbandbecome so bitter and cold?
And her mind taunted her with the memory of their very first meeting.
Four years agoit felt like a whole other life.
Sophie was dashing down the escalator in the Tube. Rain, crowds, rush hour. She was late for an interview at a translation agency. Right in the thick of it, her heel snapped.
Oh brilliant, she muttered, grabbing the handrail to steady herself.
Her shoe dangled uselessly. She limped to the platform, feeling like a prize idiotone shoe, wet umbrella, hair a mess.
Looks like Cinderellas lost not a slipper, but her patience, came a silky, teasing male voice beside her.
Sophie looked up. A man in a perfectly tailored coat, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and confidence, stood there. Not conventionally handsome, but radiating charisma.
Looks like Cinderellas about to burst into tears, she admitted wryly. Interview in fifteen minutes. Looking like this
He gave her a sharp, assessing look.
They wont hire you, he said, matter-of-fact.
Thanks, just what I needed, Sophie huffed.
I’m not here for sympathy. I’m practical, he offered a hand. Charlie.
Sophie, she replied, hesitating.
Come on, Sophie. No more Underground for you.
Excuse me?
Ill drive you. Well fix that shoe on the way.
I truly, I cantI dont know you
Well, now you do, he smiled, and his smile was utterly disarming. Call it an investment in the future. International relationsyoure a translator, right? Did I guess right?
Yes, but
No buts. Youve got five minutes to make the best decision of your life.
Charlie had always been like thatdecisive, confident, sweeping aside other peoples problems as if they were nothing. Hed really driven her to the interview, popped into a shoe shop en route.
Ignoring her protests, he bought her classic black pumps.
These must cost a fortune, she breathed.
Id say theyre worth your future job, he replied.
That day, she got the job. That very evening, Charlie rang her up.
So, those shoesdid they bring you luck?
How did you get my number?
Sophie, I know everything. He laughed. Dinner to celebrate?
An awkward pause stretched, but she ended it: Yes.
One dinner spiralled into many. Their romance was fast, dazzlingCharlie wined and dined her like no one else ever had: extravagant bouquets, posh dinners, surprise weekends away.
His attention won her over. She melted into his care.
Her younger sister, Alice, viewed the whole thing from afar with a dry kind of scepticism, thinking privately that whoever said love is blind definitely knew what they were talking about.
Later, Charlie took her to meet his parents.
His father, Richard, stern and silent, had the manner of an old-school headmaster. At dinner, he eyed her soberly.
A translator, eh? he grunted. Not very serious. Women ought to be having families and children.
Dad, Charlie grimaced. Were working on it.
Working on it! the old man scoffed. In my day, we just got on with things.
His mother, Margaret, soft-spoken and gentle, was instantly warm.
Im almost one of your sort, in a way, she smiled. Taught English at a comprehensive school all my life.
You taught? Sophie was genuinely surprised. Charlie never said.
Didnt see the point, Richard cut in. Stuck at school, earning pennies.
Not true, Margaret objected quietly. I loved my work.
She smiled at Sophie. I can see a kindred spirit in you. You love words, dont you?
I do, Sophie confessed, feeling herself relax.
She and Margaret chatted about books all evening. Her future father-in-law never thawed.
Pretty, but shallow, Sophie heard him mutter as she left the kitchen. Useless in business.
Soon Charles insisted she resign her job.
Sophie, darling, youre meant for greater things, hed murmur, kissing her fingers. Youll be the pride of our home. Youre too bright to waste time on other peoples contracts. Pursue art, charity, whatever you fancy.
But… I like what I do.
Youll come to love this life more, trust me.
Sophie believed him. She quit, became the perfect hostess at his country housethrowing perfect parties, dazzling their circle.
Then came the longing for a child.
One year, and then anotherdoctors delivered a cruel verdict: infertility.
Its my fault, Sophie sobbed.
Nonsense, Charlie held her, though his arms felt stiff. Moneys no object. Well try IVF, find the best clinic. Well have an heir.
She ached for that baby so much it became her whole world, blinding her to the coldness in Charlies eyes, the growing distance, his ever-increasing business trips.
Around then, her father Alan fell ill.
Sophie and Alice took turns at his bedsideno one else could. Their mother had died when they were young, from a freak illness that turned catastrophic.
Alan had started as a factory engineer and become a businessman. Not immensely rich, but independent.
He died three days before his fiftieth birthday, which hed wanted to celebrate in style.
The funeral drifted by in a fog. Charlie was outwardly attentive and polite, but every conversation circled back to one thingdetails of inheriting the estate.
Swamped in grief, Sophie never questioned it. She should havelying in her hospital bed, she saw that now.
Right from their first meeting, Charlies father had been spot on: she really had turned into a pretty, decorative wife, nothing more.
Two days in hospital passed in a blur. Charlie never once visited the ward after that first day. Once she was stable, she was moved out of ICU into a four-bed ward: noisier, with the smell of dinner coming from the corridor, but alive with chatter.
On her first day, Alice came to see her.
She barely recognised her sister. The nineteen-year-old student she remembered was now an exhausted, grown-up woman.
Soph… oh Soph Alice flung herself into her arms, sobbing.
Hush, hush, Sophie stroked her hair. What is it? Whats happened to you?
Three years, Soph, she sniffled. I was so scared
She gathered herself and sat on the edge of the bed.
Ive got dreadful news.
Worse than what Ive already been through? Sophie managed a wry half-smile.
Its him. Your husband
Go on, Alice. Im ready.
He threw me out, Alice whispered, shaking. From our home. Dads house.
Sophie froze.
What do you mean? Thats your house too. Dads will
Charlie said its his now. You signed over your share three years ago. I didnt believe him, but he showed the papers. Changed all the locks. When I got back from uni, my things were bagged on the doorstep.
The papers. Again.
And thats not all, Alice pulled out a crumpled envelope. Hes filed for divorce.
Sophie opened it with trembling hands.
Whats in it?
Hes accusing you, Alices voice shook with outrage, of moral instability and ingratitude. After saving your life. Hes told everyone he was your big donor.
Well, thats original, Sophie muttered. And you? Where are you living?
In halls, sharing with a friend. Weve got nothing, Soph.
Well see about that, Sophie murmured, new resolve hardening inside her. If Ive recovered from a coma, I can face this too.
Alice wasnt so sure. She was more worried that Sophie might not survive this latest blow.
The days blurred on. Sophie was youngher body slowly healing, nurses beginning to believe shed get through. Her husband never came again. He kept updated through the doctors, making sure never to speak to her directly.
Shed long figured out that for years, hed been waiting for that bedside monitor to go flat.
Two weeks later, Sophie was discharged.
She stood outside the hospital gates, clutching a small bagViolet had packed it for her. Shed handed in the hospital clothes, took a deep breath and called Charlie.
Oh, youre out already, he sounded almost cheery. Brilliant.
Charlie, I have no money. My bank cards
Blocked, he replied with a hint of laughter. Youve been gone three years, love. Of course everythings frozen.
He paused before turning icy. Look, prepare for divorce. Sorry, but Im not waiting around for another three years. My solicitor will be in touch. Dont call me again.
He hung up.
Sophie slumped onto a bench outside. May. Three years, three springs. Gone.
Alice soon arrived, bringing old jeans and a T-shirt.
Come onback to mine, in halls, she said, lifting Sophies bag.
Stepping out of hospital, Sophie felt as helpless as a child.
Alices room in halls was tinytwo beds, one desk covered with fabric swatches and sketches. Alice was studying design.
Sophie, pale and shaky, sat on the bed and gazed out. Her old lifegrand house, posh parties, fancy clothesfelt like a cardboard set now, flattened in seconds.
Ill have to get a job, she said that evening.
You need rest! Youre barely walking, Alice protested.
Please. The doctor said work was fine. And we need to live. I know three languages.
She opened Alices battered laptop, went online. Glancing at the first English text, she easily read and understood.
See? I remember everything, she said, relieved.
But when she tried to type out a translation, she froze.
She knew the words, the meaning, but couldn’t string them together in English. The words slipped from her grasp, scrambled and strange.
Whats wrong with me? she whispered, then panicked and tried French. Same resultshe understood, but couldnt express herself. It was like her voice was sealed off behind glass.
Next morning, Sophie returned to the clinic.
Doctor Jenkins ran tests. He frowned, then broke it gently: Youve got a form of aphasiathe language part of your brain took a knock. But dont worry, with patience and practice youll recover.
But I need work now
Rest and practiceitll come back with time.
That evening Sophie asked Alice, If I cant translate, what else can I do?
You managed Dads houseyou cook, clean, organise. You make everything cosy.
Housekeepingguess its a skill after all, Sophie sighed.
Next day she marched into a domestic staff agency.
The woman behind the desk scanned her doubtfully.
Experience?
I managed a large household, Sophie said carefully.
I seehousewife. Not exactly a profession. Anything else?
The woman spotted Sophies fading scar above her temple.
Whats that, then?
Just out of hospital after an accident, Sophie admitted.
The woman pursed her lips. You dont look well. We need energetic candidates. Well call if something comes up.
Please Sophies voice trembled. Ill do any work. Im tidy, I cook well, I love children.
The agency woman sighed. Her desperation must have got through.
There is one job. Temporary. But a tough one. SurgeonDr Leo Morgan. Needs a governess for his daughter. Shes nine.
Ill take it.
Waitlike I said, its difficult. Last three nannies ran off in a day. His wife died in a car crash two years ago. Hes married to his work, and the little girl barely speaks. See if you last.
The flat was huge; river view, yet cold and echoing, all sharp edges and expense.
Dr Morgan was tall, brooding, with tired grey eyes. Grief clung to him.
Youre Sophie Williams, he confirmed flatly. Agency told me. End of the hall is the childs room. Lizzie. Youll find her there.
He disappeared into his study.
Sophie knocked gently.
Lizzie?
No answer. She poked her head in.
A skinny girl with two thin plaits sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes locked on a tablet. She didnt look up.
Hello, Lizzie, Sophie said softly. Im Sophie. Im here to help with your homework.
No reaction. Not a word, not a glance.
Sophie sighed. This would be harder than shed hoped.
The first days were a slog.
Leo left before dawn, returned late. Sophie barely saw him. Lizzie ignored every attempt at conversationate mechanically, bathed automatically, did homework silently, then shut herself away.
Sophie, knowing the pain of loss and betrayal herself, felt the depth of the childs sadness.
On the third evening, she came into the room uninvited.
Lizzie, thats enough tablet for today, she said gently but firmly.
Lizzies eyes flashed up at her, wary as a wild animal.
You know, Sophie chatted on, when I was little, I loved making things from clay. I think youve got some modelling stuff on that shelf.
Indeed, on a shelf was a box of clay and Play-Doh. Sitting cross-legged, Sophie pinched off a little and began to mould it.
Want to help build a castle for a princess? With tall towers?
Slow at first, her fingers remembered. Words still stumbled, but her hands worked fine.
Lizzie watched from behind her fringe.
Thats wrong, she said suddenly, quietly.
Whats wrong?
The tower. Lizzie sidled over. Princesses should have the biggest one.
She began shaping the upstairs turret.
They sat silently, working, for almost an hour.
Later, when Sophie helped her tidy up, a battered old scrapbook surfaced from under the bed.
Oh, whats this? Sophie reached for it.
Leave it! Lizzie snatched it, hugging it close. Its Mums.
Your mum drew? Sophie asked kindly.
Lizzie nodded and, with rare tenderness, lifted the cover.
It wasnt a photo album. Each page was filled with magical sketchesfantastical creatures, wooden puzzles, plush toysthat almost seemed to leap from the page.
So lovely Sophie whispered.
The more she flicked through, the more she realised these werent just drawings: they were plans for special educational toys. On the last page was a neat signature: a flying bird with a building block and Helens Workshop: Clever Toys for Special Kids.
Special? Sophie asked.
Mum wanted to open a studio, Lizzie sniffed, leaning into Sophie. For kids like Michael.
Whos Michael?
My friendMum’s friends son. He doesnt talk. Mum said kids like him need different toys to help. Dad called it silly.
Sophie stroked Lizzies hair, staring at the designs. It was more than a hobby; it was a vocationvivid and real.
She hardly slept, haunted by the album, by the creative, caring Helen shed never met, and by Lizzies loneliness.
By morning, shed decided: dreams should be made real.
That evening, when Dr Morgan returned, she waited.
Lizzie asleep? he asked, exhausted.
Yes. I need a word.
She put the album on the table.
Dr Morgan froze.
Where did you get this? his voice grew sharp.
Lizzie found it. Its genius, Dr Morgan
Leave it alone. Now. Youve no rightits private.
With respect, youre wrong, Sophie shot back, surprising herself. Its your wifes dream. And your daughters.
Don’t speak about my wife. You know nothing about her.
Maybe not. But I know your daughter. She lights up holding that album.
Lizzie appeared in the doorway, barefoot in pyjamas.
Dad, why are you shouting at Miss Sophie?
Leos rage faded, replaced by confusion and pain.
Sweetie, go to bed. This is
Mums album, Lizzie clutched it close. Were making toys with Miss Sophie.
She looked at her father with a spark in her eyes Sophie had never seen before.
Dr Morgan looked at his daughter, then at Sophie. He relented.
Do as you wish, he said hoarsely. It wont matter.
He turned and left.
But Sophie didn’t give up.
That night, she rang Alice.
Alice, youre a designer, right? You up for a little side project?
In what exactly?
We need you here. Immediately.
The two of them set to work.
In the spare room, Alice brought her laptop and digital drawing pad; the last of their money went on plywood, paints and fabrics. Sophies natural sense of style plus Alices skill produced their first prototypes.
Leo acted as if he didnt notice.
Until one day, Sophie overheard him on the phone:
Hi Marina, its Leo. My daughters governess is up to something odd. Toys for special kids, like Helen wanted. Maybe you should pop by. Professionally, you know.
Next day, Marina arriveda warm, intelligent woman of about forty, with a shy little boy in tow.
This is Michael, she said gently. He has autism.
Sophie nodded, and set a handmade wooden rainbow puzzle on the table.
Michael, usually nonreactive, stilled, reached out and methodically fitted a piece in place.
Marina gasped, covering her mouth.
Hes never Oh, my never done that before.
Michael ignored everyone, absorbed in the puzzle.
Marinas eyes shone. We need these toys, Sophie. Ill tell the others.
For Marina, it was a miracle. For Sophie, proof.
Marina became their championrecruiting more parents. The project snowballed.
Alice, looks like well have to register a company, Sophie said one week later.
Alices eyes sparkled.
One evening, Leo came home to find the lounge transformed into a workshopsawdust, swatches, Sophie, Alice, and Lizzie all busy wrapping their first order.
He paused in the doorway.
Sophie met his gazehers calm, resolute. For the first time, Leo didnt look away.
Marina are you sure? Sophie asked later, holding a handwritten order.
And so, thats how my friendthrown away by her slick husband, written off after three lost yearsstarted to make her own new life. Theres this tiny, sunlit thread of hope stitched into everything she does now.
And to be honest, I think its the first time shes truly, stubbornly happy.
