Late in Realizing His Mistake
Emily clenched the medical reports in her fist, the paper damp from sweat. The corridor of the clinic was packed, barely any room to move.
“Emily Whitmore!” a nurse called out.
Emily stood and walked into the doctor’s office. The physician—a stout woman with tired eyes—took the file from her hands and skimmed through the results.
“Take a seat,” she said, giving the papers a dismissive glance. “Everything’s normal with you. Have your husband checked.”
Emily went cold. James? But he was…
***
At home, her mother-in-law, Margaret, was chopping vegetables for soup, the knife moving furiously, as if she were battling enemies.
“Well, dear, what’s the news?” Margaret asked without looking up.
“I’m fine,” Emily murmured, hanging up her coat.
“Then why—” Margaret finally raised her eyes, a flicker of worry crossing them.
“James needs to get tested.”
The knife paused mid-air. Margaret straightened up like a rod.
“Rubbish! My son is perfectly healthy! It’s these doctors—they don’t know what they’re talking about. Women used to have children without all these tests.”
Emily walked into the living room. A pair of mismatched socks—one navy, one black—lay strewn on the sofa. She picked them up absently and tossed them into the laundry basket.
Three years of marriage, and those socks had become a symbol of their life—scattered, never quite matching.
James came home late.
“Why the long face?” he grumbled, collapsing into his armchair.
“James, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
She handed him the papers. He skimmed through them, then tossed them onto the coffee table.
“So?”
“You need to get checked.”
“Why on earth would I?” James leapt up, pacing the room. “I’m a healthy man! Look at me!”
He *looked* healthy—broad-shouldered, thick dark hair. But health wasn’t always visible.
“James, please…”
“Enough!” he snapped. “If you don’t want kids, just say so! Why this charade with doctors?”
From the kitchen came the shuffling of slippers. Margaret lurked by the door, breathing so loudly each inhale was audible.
“I want children more than anything,” Emily said softly.
“Then why don’t we have any? Maybe you’re hiding something? Had an abortion, now you can’t conceive?”
The blow stung. Emily recoiled.
“How could you—”
“How else? Three years and nothing to show for it! And now some doctors say *I*—” He cut himself off, fists clenched.
The door swung open. Margaret barged in like a bulldozer.
“James, don’t listen to her! It’s all nonsense. She needs to work more, waste less time at clinics.”
Emily looked at her husband. He turned away, staring out the window.
“James, do you really think I—”
“I don’t know what to think,” he hissed. “But I know this—healthy men don’t go to doctors.”
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
“He’s right. Hospitals are no place for a real man.”
Something inside Emily snapped—like a taut string giving way.
“Fine,” she said evenly.
The next day, the war began. Margaret nitpicked everything—salt spilled, pans not scrubbed, dust on the dresser. Emily stayed silent, teeth gritted.
“Maybe you shouldn’t even be at home,” Margaret sneered at dinner. “Get a proper job instead of wasting time at clinics.”
James chewed his steak, eyes down.
“I *do* work,” Emily reminded her.
“Three days a week? That’s not work, that’s a hobby.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything! My son is healthy, and you’re trying to make him seem ill! If there are no children, it’s the woman’s fault—always has been!”
Emily stood, legs unsteady.
“Where are you off to?” Margaret scoffed. “Eat and run?”
“I’m tired.”
“Tired? Of what? Three days a week isn’t exactly backbreaking work!”
James finally looked up, something like pity flickering in his eyes—but he said nothing.
That night, Emily lay awake listening to his snoring. Once, it had comforted her—proof he was close. Now it grated. How had she never noticed how stubborn he was?
In the morning, she packed an old duffel bag—just a few dresses, underwear, a washbag.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, teacup in hand.
“To Gran’s.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
James stepped out of the bathroom, saw the bag.
“Emily, what’s this?”
“What does it look like?”
“You’re serious?”
“What else? You refuse to get tested, your mother blames me—why stay?”
He stepped closer, voice low.
“Don’t be daft. Where will you go?”
“To Gran’s.”
“That tiny flat? It’s barely twenty square metres!”
“Small but cosy.”
Margaret snorted.
“Good riddance! Let her go. Maybe she’ll appreciate what she had here.”
James shot her a glare but said nothing.
Emily hoisted the bag and headed for the door.
“Emily!” James called.
She turned. He stood in the hallway—damp hair, bewildered.
“When will you be back?”
“When you see a doctor.”
The door shut behind her.
Gran gasped when she saw Emily with the bag.
“Love! What’s happened?”
“I’ve had a row with James. Can I stay a while?”
“Of course, darling. Though it’s cramped…”
The flat *was* tiny—a bed, table, two chairs, an ancient telly. But it was clean, and it smelled of vanilla—Gran loved baking.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Gran said, putting the kettle on.
Emily poured it all out. Gran listened, shaking her silver head.
“Oh, love… Men are proud. Admitting something’s wrong? Like death to them.”
“So I should just wait forever for him to see a doctor?”
“No. You did right leaving. Let him think.”
The first few days passed quietly. Emily settled on the fold-out bed, helping Gran with chores. James called, but she ignored it.
Then Gran started complaining of chest pains. The paramedic insisted on hospital.
“Don’t fret, love,” Gran whispered as they wheeled her out. “I’m old—these things happen.”
In hospital, Gran improved. Emily visited daily—bringing homemade food, chatting.
“How’s James?” Gran asked one day.
“Same. Called a few times, shouted down the phone.”
“Did you answer?”
“Once. The second time, no. What’s the point?”
“Maybe he’s seen a doctor by now?”
“Doubt it.”
In the corridor, visitors milled about. Emily nearly collided with a man in a white coat—young, fair-haired, kind-eyed.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No harm done. Visiting someone?”
“My gran, room seven.”
“Ah, Mrs. Higgins! Lovely lady. Daniel Carter, cardiologist.”
“Emily.”
“Pleasure. Don’t worry—she’ll be fine. Just age…”
He spoke of treatment, recovery, but Emily watched his hands—long fingers, neat nails. Steady hands.
“Thank you for taking care of her,” she said.
The next day, he lingered to chat. And the next. Emily started arriving early, hoping to catch him.
“Love, that doctor keeps asking when you’re coming,” Gran said one day, grinning.
“Does he?”
“Of course! Says, ‘How’s your granddaughter?’ Fine young man, by the way. And single.”
Emily flushed.
“Gran, don’t—”
“Why not? You’re nearly free. That James of yours—”
“I’m married.”
“Pfft!”
A week later, Daniel was transferred. On his last day, he stopped Emily in the corridor.
“I’ll miss you,” he said simply.
“Me too,” she admitted.
He handed her a card.
“Call if you need anything. Or just want to talk.”
Their fingers brushed.
“Thank you.”
“And—” He hesitated. “You’re beautiful. And so sad. I hope one day that changes.”
Gran was discharged. At home, she grew stronger, but Emily still worried.
James called; sometimes she answered, sometimes not. The last time, he’d yelled that she was “acting like a spoiled child.” She’d hung up and stopped picking up.
A month later, a stranger called.
“Emily? Daniel’s mother. He gave me your number—”
“Is something wrong?”
“No! It’s his birthday tomorrow—he’d love to see you. Could you come?”
Emily hesitated. GranGran, overhearing, waved her hands eagerly and said, “Go, love, it’s time you had some happiness,” and with those words, Emily finally let go of the past, stepping into a future where love and understanding waited with open arms.
