The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm scones lingered in the kitchen like a spell of quiet contentment. Ten years with Andrew. Ten years of steady love and peace. Emily welcomed the new morning—sunlight dancing on the table, the soft snores of their daughter, Lily, drifting from the bedroom. All was calm.
The doorbell shattered the silence. On the doorstep stood James, Andrew’s son from his first marriage. His eyes burned with restless energy, cheeks flushed.
“Dad!” he blurted, barely stepping inside. “She’s back! Mum! Yesterday! Renting a flat in the city centre… Says she missed us!”
The name “Victoria” hung in the air, unwelcome, like a knock at midnight. *Her.* The one who vanished fifteen years ago, chasing “happiness” with a Swiss businessman, abandoning six-year-old James to his bewildered father and elderly grandparents. “For good!” her single, final letter had declared. Now she was back—empty-handed but not, Emily suspected, without hope. The weight in her chest turned icy.
The reunion in that pretentious restaurant was a one-act drama. Victoria swept in, a whirl of pink chiffon and cloying perfume.
She spilled her pearls of suffering: “A terrible marriage!”, “He turned out a monster!”, “I ached for my boy every day!”
Her ring-laden fingers kept reaching for Andrew’s arm. “Andrew, remember how we…?” He shifted slightly, his face a polite mask, but Emily saw the tension in his jaw. James watched, spellbound, hanging on every word, every tear clinging to her mascara.
The first strike came late that night. The phone tore through sleep. Victoria’s sobs crackled down the line, drowned by rushing water:
“Andrew! Help! The tap—it’s burst! Water everywhere! I’m alone… I don’t know what to do!”
Andrew dressed in silence. Emily lay still, staring into the dark, listening to his footsteps. He returned hours later, smelling of cold and damp.
“Fixed it?” she murmured.
“Washer. Nothing.” He dropped his coat, sat on the bed’s edge. “She… answered in just a towel. Said her wardrobe was ruined.” His voice held no warmth, no shame—only weary irritation. “Classic move.”
Then came “the blackout.” A midday call, Victoria’s voice thin with fear:
“Andrew, the hallway light—it’s flickering! Like a horror film! I can’t go out! James is at uni… I can’t even buy bread!”
He went. Bought bread. The bulb *was* flickering. He replaced it. Her door flew open—she stood there in a sheer negligee, leaning languidly against the frame.
“My hero,” she cooed. “Come in? Coffee? A chat… Like old times?”
Andrew shook his head, firm but polite. “Late. Emily’s waiting. And I’ve had enough caffeine.”
He left. For a second, her face twisted with fury before melting back into helplessness.
The climax was James’s panicked call:
“Dad! Emergency! Mum collapsed—says she can’t see, can’t breathe!”
Andrew moved, but without urgency. He arrived to find Victoria draped on the sofa like a Renaissance Madonna, one hand draped over her brow, the other loosening her silk robe.
“Andrew…” she whispered, fluttering her lashes. “I was so scared… All alone…”
He didn’t step closer. Noticed the empty wine bottle on the floor. Called an ambulance. While they waited, he asked James, casual as discussing weather:
“What’d she eat? Drink?”
“She said it was stress…” James mumbled.
The medics diagnosed mild food poisoning. As Andrew turned to leave, Victoria clutched his sleeve:
“Don’t leave me… I’m terrified…”
He gently freed himself.
At home, his eyes met Emily’s—no pity there, just cold disgust for the cheap theatrics. “Same old script,” he said later at the kitchen table. “Just a new set. She always played helpless when she wanted something. Remember when I told you about her ‘sudden illness’ before she left for Switzerland? Then—*poof*—the letter. I was her crutch. When I broke, she found another. But I’m not a crutch, Em. Not for her.”
Defeated with Andrew, Victoria turned full force on James.
Her complaints grew louder, her tears thicker—especially with him listening. “Your father tossed me aside!”, “She’s poisoned him against us!”, “We’re blood—*she’s* the outsider!” Poisonous words digging into the boy’s mind. James grew sharp with Emily, his visits strained, rare. Once, he slammed the door after Andrew refused another “urgent” favour—some paperwork for Victoria.
“Why are you so heartless?!” James yelled, face twisted. “She’s suffering! Alone!”
Andrew stood. He seemed taller, harder. His calm cut deeper than shouting.
“James. I help your mother when it’s real. I’m not her husband, therapist, or servant. I’ve a family. Here. You. Emily. Lily. And Emily isn’t ‘the outsider.’ She’s my wife. I love her. Respect her. And expect you to do the same. As for the tears…” He paused, locking eyes. “She’s upset because the world won’t bend to her. She made her choice fifteen years ago. Now she lives with it—without wrecking others. I’m not going back. Ever. Mark that.”
The final act came at Andrew’s birthday. Victoria arrived uninvited, a ghost from the past in a dress too young, too daring. In her hands—an expensive box. The watch he’d once longed for, lifetimes ago. She sought his gaze, murmured to James. Emily’s knuckles whitened on her glass.
Andrew took the karaoke mic. The room hushed.
“Thank you all,” his voice steady, filling the space. “Especially my loves—Emily, Lily, James.” His gaze warmed on them. Then turned to Victoria.
Ice edged his stare.
“Victoria. You weren’t invited. That watch…” He nodded at the box. “A relic of dead dreams. I don’t want it. Or you here. You’re James’s mother. That’s all. Now leave.”
Silence. Victoria froze. Blush gave way to pallor, then blotchy rage. Her eyes darted to James—but he was staring at his father with dawning shame. Seeing her, finally, not as a victim but a schemer playing his heartstrings.
“You… you—” Her voice broke. The frail act vanished. Only fury remained. She hurled the box. The glass face shattered. “You *worm*!” she shrieked, and fled, door slamming hard enough to shake the walls.
Andrew didn’t glance at the wreckage. He pulled Emily close, his grip firm.
James picked up the box.
“Dad…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. Emily—I’m sorry. I… I didn’t see. How she used me. To get to you.”
“She used everyone, son,” Andrew said quietly. “But you see now. Let’s move on.”
Emily pressed into her husband’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his shirt. Victory wasn’t in grand words or gestures. It was in his quiet strength, the clarity in his eyes that saw through the old game and refused to play. Andrew had chosen *them*—their life, their love. The shadow of the “European princess,” returned with empty suitcases and tired tricks, would never cross their threshold again.
