**The Return of the Ex-Wife: A Test of Strength**
The scent of freshly brewed tea and warm scones filled the kitchen like a spell of contentment. Ten years with Edward. Ten years of quiet harbour and happiness. Emma cherished the morning—sunlight dancing on the table, the soft snores of their daughter Charlotte in the bedroom. Peace and serenity.
The knock at the door came too sharply. On the doorstep stood Daniel, Edward’s son from his first marriage. His eyes burned with unusual excitement, cheeks flushed.
“Dad,” he blurted, barely over the threshold. “She’s back! Mum! Yesterday! Rented a flat in the West End… says she missed us!”
The name “Victoria” hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome, like a knock in the dead of night. *That* Victoria. The one who vanished fifteen years ago into a “happy future” with a Frenchman, leaving behind a six-year-old Daniel in the care of his bewildered father and elderly grandparents. “For good!” her one and only farewell letter had declared. Now she was back. Empty-handed, but not without empty hopes, Emma thought, a cold weight settling beneath her ribs.
Their meeting in a posh restaurant was a one-act farce. Victoria swept in like a pink cloud of chiffon and overpowering, cloying perfume. She spilled pearls of suffering—”Awful marriage!”, “He turned out monstrous!”, “I missed my boy so much!” Her ring-laden fingers kept brushing Edward’s arm. “Eddie, remember how we—?” He shifted slightly, his face a polite mask, but Emma caught the tension in his shoulders. Daniel, though, stared at his mother like a mesmerised child, hanging on to every word, every tear rolling down her mascaraed lashes.
The first strike came late that night. A phone call shattered the silence. Victoria sobbed on the other end, the sound muffled by running water.
“Eddie! Help! The tap’s burst! Water’s everywhere! I’m all alone—I don’t know what to do!”
Edward dressed without a word. Emma lay still, staring into the dark, listening to his footsteps. He returned hours later, smelling of rain and damp.
“Fixed it?” she murmured.
“Washer went. Easy.” He dropped his jacket, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She… answered the door in just a towel. Said the water ruined her wardrobe.” His voice held neither warmth nor embarrassment—just tired irritation. “Classic move.”
Next came the “blackout.” A daytime call, Victoria’s voice thin and frightened. “Eddie, the hallway lights—they’re flickering! Like something out of a horror film! I can’t even go out for bread! Daniel’s at uni…”
He went. Bought bread. The bulb *was* flickering. He replaced it. Her door swung open—there she stood, draped in a sheer negligee, leaning provocatively against the frame.
“My hero,” she cooed. “Come in? I’ll make tea… We’ll chat… Like old times?”
Edward shook his head, polite but firm. “Late. Emma’s waiting. And I’ve had enough caffeine to last me.”
He left her in the doorway. For a second, fury twisted her face before the helpless mask slid back on.
The climax came with Daniel’s frantic call. “Dad! Emergency! Mum’s ill! Collapsed—says it’s gone dark! Can’t breathe!”
Edward moved fast, but there was none of the old urgency. He arrived to find Victoria sprawled on the sofa like a tragic heroine, one hand draped over her forehead, the other carelessly letting her silk robe slip open.
“Eddie,” she whispered, fluttering her eyes. “I was so scared… All alone…”
He didn’t approach. Just glanced at the empty wine bottle on the floor. Called an ambulance. While they waited, he asked Daniel, casual as discussing the weather, “What did she eat? Drink?”
“Mum says it’s the stress,” Daniel mumbled.
The paramedics diagnosed mild poisoning. Victoria clutched Edward’s sleeve as he turned to leave. “Don’t abandon me… I’m terrified…”
He gently freed himself.
At home, when he met Emma’s gaze, she saw no pity—just weary disgust at the cheap theatrics. “Same old script,” he said later, at the kitchen table. “Different set. She’s always played helpless when she wanted something. Remember how she ‘fell ill’ just before running off to that Frenchman? Needed my ‘support’? Then—poof, goodbye. I was a crutch. Broke? She found another. But I’m not a crutch, Em. Won’t be. Not for her.”
Thwarted, Victoria turned her full attention to Daniel. Her complaints grew louder, her tears thicker—always when he was near. “Your father discarded me like rubbish!”, “She’s turned him against us!”, “We’re *family*! She’s an outsider!” Poisonous words, sinking deep. Daniel snapped at Emma, visited less, simmering with tension. Once, he slammed the door after Edward refused another “urgent” favour—some paperwork for Victoria.
“Why are you so heartless?” Daniel shouted, face twisted with hurt. “She’s suffering! Alone! In tears!”
Edward stood. Taller, harder than usual. His calm cut deeper than anger.
“Daniel. I *do* help when it’s real. I’m not her husband, therapist, or servant. I’ve got a family. Here. You. Emma. Charlotte. And Emma’s *not* an outsider. She’s my wife. I love her. Respect her. And I expect you to do the same. As for the tears…” He paused, locking eyes with his son. “She’s upset because the world won’t bend to her whims. She made her choice fifteen years ago. Time to live with it—without wrecking others. I’m *not* going back. Ever. Mark my words.”
The final act played out at Edward’s birthday. Victoria arrived uninvited, a ghost from the past in a dress too young, too revealing. In her hands—an expensive box. A watch. The very one he’d once longed for. She sought his gaze, whispered to Daniel. Emma’s knuckles whitened around her glass. Edward took the karaoke mic. The room hushed.
“Thank you, everyone,” he said, calm but firm. “Especially my family—Emma, Charlotte, Daniel.” His gaze warmed as it rested on them. Then turned to Victoria.
His voice turned to ice. “You weren’t invited. That watch? A relic of dead dreams. I don’t need it. Or you here. You’re Daniel’s mother. That’s all. Leave. Now.”
Silence. Victoria froze. Rage mottled her face. Her eyes darted to Daniel—but he was staring at his father with dawning shame. Finally, he saw her—not a victim, but a schemer playing her part.
“You—” she hissed, voice cracking. The act dropped. Pure venom remained. She hurled the box. The glass face shattered. “*Pathetic!*” she shrieked, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
Edward didn’t glance at the wreckage. He pulled Emma close.
Daniel picked up the box. “Dad…” His voice wavered. “I’m sorry. Emma—I’m sorry. I… didn’t see how she was using me to get to you.”
“She used *everyone*, son,” Edward said softly. “But you see now. Let’s move on.”
Emma leaned into Edward, breathing in the familiar scent of his shirt. Victory wasn’t in grand speeches or gestures. It was in his quiet strength, in the way he’d seen the game and refused to play. He’d chosen *them*—their life, their present. Chosen *her*. And the shadow of the “continental princess,” back with empty suitcases and an arsenal of old tricks, stayed firmly beyond their door.
**Lesson learned: Some storms pass quickly when you refuse to take shelter in them.**
