**The Return of the Ex-Wife. A Test of Strength**
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm scones floated through the kitchen like a spell of calm. Ten years with Edward. Ten years of quiet harbour and happiness. Emma savoured the new morning—sunlight dancing on the table, the soft snores of their daughter, Emily, still asleep in her room. Peace and contentment.
The doorbell rang too sharply. On the doorstep stood James, Edward’s son from his first marriage. His eyes burned with an unfamiliar excitement, his cheeks flushed.
“Dad!” he blurted, barely over the threshold. “She’s back! Mum! Yesterday! She’s renting a flat in the city centre… Says she missed us!”
The name “Victoria” hung heavily in the air, an unwelcome knock in the dead of night. *That* Victoria. The one who vanished fifteen years ago into her “happily ever after” with an Italian, leaving six-year-old James in the care of his bewildered father and ageing grandparents. “For good!” her one and only farewell letter had declared. Now she was back. Empty-handed but full of hope, Emma thought with a cold weight in her chest.
The meeting at an upscale restaurant was a one-act play. Victoria swept in like a pink cloud of chiffon, drenched in cloying perfume.
She scattered pearls of suffering: “A dreadful marriage!” “He turned out to be a monster!” “I ached for my little boy so much!”
Her ring-laden fingers kept brushing Edward’s sleeve. “Eddie, remember how we…?” He shifted slightly, his face a polite mask, but Emma saw the tension in him. James, though, watched his mother as if enchanted, hanging on every word, every tear clinging to her mascaraed lashes.
The first wave of manipulation came late that night. A phone call shattered the silence. Victoria sobbed over the sound of rushing water.
“Eddie! Help! The tap’s burst! Water’s everywhere! I’m alone… I don’t know what to do!”
Edward rose without a word and dressed. Emma lay still, staring into the dark, listening to his footsteps. He returned hours later, smelling of damp and cold.
“Fixed it?” she asked quietly.
“Just a washer. Nothing serious.” He tossed his jacket aside, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She… met me in just a towel. Said the water ruined her wardrobe.” His voice held no warmth, no shame—just weary irritation. “Same old trick.”
Next came the “power cut.” A midday call, Victoria’s voice thin and frightened.
“Eddie, the hallway light’s flickering! Like in a horror film! I’m too scared to go out! James is at uni… I can’t even buy bread!”
He went. Bought the bread. The bulb *was* flickering. He replaced it. Her door swung open. She stood there in a sheer negligee, leaning suggestively against the frame.
“My hero,” she purred. “Come in? I’ll make coffee… We’ll chat… Like old times?”
Edward shook his head, polite but firm. “Too late. Emma’s waiting. And I’ve had enough caffeine for one day.”
He left her in the doorway, her face twisting briefly into a snarl before smoothing back into helplessness.
The climax came with James’s panicked call.
“Dad! Now! Mum’s ill! Collapsed… Says her vision’s going dark! She can’t breathe!”
Edward moved quickly, but there was no urgency in his steps. He arrived to find Victoria draped gracefully on the sofa, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead, the other letting her silk robe slip open.
“Eddie…” she whispered, fluttering her lashes. “I was so frightened… All alone…”
He didn’t approach. Glanced at the empty bottle on the floor. Called an ambulance. While they waited, he asked James, as casually as the weather,
“What did she eat? Drink?”
“Mum said it was stress,” James mumbled.
The paramedics diagnosed mild food poisoning. As Edward turned to leave, Victoria clutched his sleeve.
“Don’t abandon me… I’m so scared…”
He gently freed his arm.
When he met Emma’s eyes at home, she saw no pity—just tired, bitter contempt for the cheap theatrics. “Familiar script,” he said later at the kitchen table. “Different setting. She’s always played the helpless victim when she wanted something. Remember when she ‘fell ill’ just before running off with that Italian? Then—*bam*—the letter. I was her crutch. Broke, so she found a new one. But I won’t be that for her. Not again.”
Defeated with Edward, Victoria turned her full attention to James.
Her complaints grew louder, her tears more plentiful, especially when James was near. “Your father threw me away like rubbish!” “*She* poisoned him against us!” “We’re family! *She’s* the outsider!” Poisonous barbs sank into the boy’s mind. James snapped at Emma, his visits home grew tense and sparse. Once, he slammed the door after Edward refused to help Victoria with some “urgent” paperwork.
“Why are you so *cruel*?” James shouted, face twisted. “She’s suffering! She’s alone!”
Edward stood. He seemed taller, harder. His calm voice cut deeper than any shout.
“James. I help your mother when she *needs* it. I’m not her husband, therapist, or servant. I have a family. Here. You. Emma. Emily. And Emma is *not* an outsider. She’s my wife. I love her. I respect her. I expect you to do the same. As for the tears…” He met his son’s gaze. “She’s upset because the world doesn’t revolve around her. She made her choice fifteen years ago. Now she lives with it—without wrecking our lives. I won’t go back. Ever. Remember that.”
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 one he’d once dreamed of, in another life. She caught his eye, smiled sweetly, whispered to James. Emma’s knuckles whitened around her glass. Edward stepped up to the karaoke, took the mic. The room fell silent.
“Thank you, everyone,” his voice steady but firm. “Especially my loved ones—Emma, Emily, James.” His gaze warmed as it settled on Emma. Then he turned to Victoria. His stare turned icy.
“Victoria. You weren’t invited. That watch…” He nodded at the box. “A relic of empty dreams. I don’t want it. Or you here. You’re James’s mother. That’s all. Leave.”
Silence. Victoria froze. Her blush faded to sickly pallor, then furious red. She looked to James—but he was watching his father with sudden understanding. And shame. He saw her now—not a victim, but a scheming actress playing her part.
“You—you—” she hissed, voice breaking. The helpless act vanished, leaving naked rage. She hurled the box at the floor. The glass face shattered. “You *bastard*!” she screeched, then fled, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
Edward didn’t glance at the broken watch. He pulled Emma close, arms tight around her shoulders.
James picked up the box, silent. “Dad…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. Emma… I’m sorry. I didn’t see… how she was using me. To get to you.”
“She tried using everyone, son,” Edward said quietly. “What matters is you see it now. Let’s move on.”
Emma leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his shirt. Victory wasn’t in grand speeches or dramatic gestures. It was in his quiet strength, in the clarity of his choice—their life, their love. And the shadow of the “continental princess,” returned with empty suitcases and a bag of old tricks, stayed firmly outside their door.
*Lesson learned—stand firm. Love isn’t a game, and those who treat it as one will always lose.*
