**The Return of the Ex-Wife: A Test of Strength**
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the kitchen like a spell of calm. Ten years with Andrew. Ten years of quiet harbour and happiness. Emma smiled at the morning—sunlight dancing on the table, the soft snores of their daughter, Lily, in the bedroom. Peace.
The doorbell rang too sharply. On the doorstep stood James, Andrew’s son from his first marriage. His eyes burned with an unusual excitement, cheeks flushed.
“Dad,” he breathed, barely stepping inside. “She’s back. Mum. Yesterday! She’s rented a flat in the city centre… Says she missed us!”
The name “Victoria” hung in the air, heavy and uninvited, like a knock at the door in the dead of night. *That* Victoria. The one who, fifteen years ago, vanished into a “happy future” with some Italian, leaving six-year-old James in the arms of a bewildered father and his elderly grandparents. “For good!” her only, final letter had declared. Now she was back. Empty-handed but not empty of hopes, Emma thought, a cold weight settling in her chest.
The meeting at the posh restaurant was a one-act play. Victoria swept in like a pink cloud of chiffon and thick, cloying perfume.
She spun tales of suffering: “A dreadful marriage!” “He turned out to be a monster!” “I missed my boy so much!”
Her ring-laden fingers kept brushing Andrew’s hand. “Andrew, remember how we…?” He moved away slightly, his face a polite mask, but Emma noticed the tension in his shoulders. James, though, watched his mother like he was enchanted, hanging onto every word, every tear clinging to her mascaraed lashes.
The first attack came late at night. A phone call shattered the silence. Victoria sobbed, the sound half-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. Emma lay awake, listening to his footsteps. He returned hours later, smelling of cold and damp.
“Fixed it?” she asked softly.
“Washer. Nothing serious.” He tossed his jacket aside, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She… was in just a towel. Said the water ruined her wardrobe.” His voice held no warmth, no embarrassment—just weary annoyance. “Old tricks.”
Next came the “darkness.” A daytime call, Victoria’s voice thin with panic.
“Andrew, the hallway lights—they’re flickering! Like something out of a horror film! I’m too scared to go out! James is at uni—I can’t even buy bread!”
He went. Bought bread. The bulb *was* flickering. He replaced it. She opened her door in a sheer negligée, leaning against the frame.
“My hero,” she whispered, syrupy-sweet. “Come in? Coffee? A chat… Like old times?”
Andrew shook his head firmly. “Late. Emma’s waiting. I’ve got enough caffeine as it is.”
He left. Her face twisted briefly with spite before slipping back into helplessness.
The climax was James’s panicked call.
“Dad—now! Mum’s ill! Collapsed—says everything’s going dark! Can’t breathe!”
Andrew moved quickly, but without alarm. He arrived to find Victoria draped on the sofa like a Raphael Madonna, one hand on her forehead, the other carelessly loosening her silk robe.
“Andrew,” she breathed, eyes fluttering open. “I was so frightened… Alone…”
He didn’t step closer. Glanced at the empty wine bottle on the floor. Called an ambulance. While they waited, he asked James, calmly:
“What did she eat? Drink?”
“Mum says it’s stress,” James mumbled.
The paramedics diagnosed mild poisoning. Victoria clutched Andrew’s sleeve as he left.
“Don’t abandon me… I’m so scared…”
He gently freed himself.
That night, over tea, Emma saw not pity in his eyes but tired contempt for the cheap theatrics. “Same play, different set,” he muttered. “She always faked helplessness when she wanted something. Remember how she ‘fell ill’ before leaving for Italy? Needed my ‘support’? Then—poof—the letter. I was a crutch. Broke? She found another. But I’m not a crutch. Not for her.”
Defeated, Victoria turned to James. Her complaints grew louder, her tears thicker—especially with him around. “Your father tossed me aside!” “She’s turned him against us!” “We’re blood—she’s just some stranger!” Poisonous words sank into the boy’s mind. James snapped at Emma, visiting less, his visits strained. Once, he slammed the door after Andrew refused to help Victoria with some “urgent” paperwork.
“Why are you so *heartless*?” James shouted. “She’s suffering! Alone!”
Andrew stood. Taller, harder. His calm voice cut deeper than a yell.
“James. I help when help’s *needed*. I’m not her husband, therapist, or servant. I’ve a family. Here. You. Emma. Lily. And Emma isn’t a ‘stranger.’ 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 unhappy 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 never going back. Ever. Get that through your head.”
The finale came at Andrew’s birthday. Victoria arrived uninvited, a ghost in a too-young, too-revealing dress, clutching an expensive box. A watch. The one he’d once longed for, in another life. She smiled, whispered to James. Emma’s knuckles whitened around her glass.
Andrew took the mic. The room quieted.
“Thank you, all—especially my loves: Emma, Lily, James.” His gaze found each, warmth lingering on Emma. Then he turned to Victoria.
His voice turned to ice.
“Victoria. You weren’t invited. That watch? A relic of dead dreams. I don’t want it. Or you here. You’re James’s mother. That’s all. Leave.”
Silence. Victoria froze. Rouge gave way to sickly pallor, then blotches of rage. She looked to James—but he was watching his father with dawning shame. Finally, he saw her: not a victim, but a schemer playing on his heart.
“You—you—” she hissed. All faux frailty gone, only naked spite remained. She hurled the box. The glass face shattered. “You *worm*!” she screamed, hatred undisguised, then fled, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
Andrew didn’t glance at the wreckage. He pulled Emma close.
James picked up the box. “Dad… 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,” Andrew said softly. “What matters is you see it now. Let’s move on.”
Emma pressed into Andrew, breathing in his familiar scent. Victory wasn’t in grand gestures or loud words—it was in his quiet steadiness, the clarity with which he’d seen the game and refused to play. He’d chosen them. Their life. Her. And the shadow of the “European princess,” returned with empty suitcases and a bag of old tricks, stayed firmly beyond their door.
