The End
Emily sat alone at the dinner table for what felt like the hundredth time. The clock ticked past nine, and still, no call or message from Edward. “Working late again,” she told herself, though deep down, she didn’t believe it.
…Over the last month, these “late nights” had grown too frequent. At first, it was occasional—once every fortnight. Then weekly. Now, it seemed her husband had stopped coming home on time altogether.
Emily remembered how it started. Edward would claim there was a crisis at work—an urgent project, a pressing deadline. She believed him, waiting up deep into the night.
Then the excuses grew absurd. On Monday, he called to say he was trapped in the car park because a snowplough was blocking his way. Emily said nothing but watched him carefully. She knew full well his office had an underground garage—no snowplough could reach it in a week.
Wednesday, he was “stuck in a meeting,” though his firm rarely held them. When they did, it was over video calls in the morning.
Yesterday, he claimed he’d been stranded at the office because… his stomach had turned. Food poisoning, he said, had kept him in the loo for over an hour.
Emily wasn’t a fool. She knew he was hiding something. Hysterics wouldn’t drag the truth out of him. But what could it be?
“How are you feeling?” she asked when Edward finally stumbled through the door, forcing her voice to sound soft, concerned.
He slumped onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
“Not great,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach. “Had a dodgy takeaway at lunch.”
“Oh, awful. Poor you,” Emily said, dry amusement in her tone as she watched his face. “I’ll get you some medicine. Works wonders.”
“No!” Edward jolted upright, then winced and sank back down. “I mean—the lads at work gave me something. Can’t remember the name, but it did the trick.”
“Really? Fine,” Emily shrugged. “Just be careful taking pills when you don’t know what they are.”
“You’re right,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ll shower and turn in. Still feeling rough.”
“Of course.” She brushed her fingers over his cheek and left.
The moment the bathroom door shut, Emily snatched his phone from the nightstand. Scrolling through messages, calls, apps—nothing. Not a trace of suspicion. Then she checked the banking app.
“Transfer: £5,000 to Angelina W.”
Her chest tightened. The shower stopped. She frantically closed the apps, shoved the phone back, and fled.
“Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic,” she whispered like a mantra. “Who the hell is Angelina W.?”
The name buzzed in her skull. A colleague? A friend from work? The accountant?
Sleep didn’t come that night. Emily tossed in the suddenly vast bed, cold and empty despite Edward snoring beside her. Sometime before dawn, she slipped into restless dreams—fragments of voices, half-formed faces, a gnawing dread.
She woke with a jolt.
“Angelina!”
The name burned in her mind. Edward’s ex. The one he’d mentioned only in passing, always dismissive—”just a schoolyard romance.”
Emily sat up, clammy with sweat. The pieces fell into place—the late nights, the flimsy excuses, the sudden “food poisoning.” And now, the money.
She clutched her head, shaking.
“Schoolyard romance,” echoed in her skull.
Dawn crept in. She watched Edward’s peaceful face, trying to fit the jagged edges of the puzzle together.
Last night’s hunch was now fact. But why now? Why send her money after all these years?
She slipped out of bed. Coffee. A notepad. A plan.
“What do I do?” pulsed in her temples.
Confront Edward? But he’d only lie.
Hire a PI? Too extreme. Where did one even find a detective?
Find Angelina herself?
Time was slipping. She opened her laptop, scouring Edward’s socials. Most photos were recent—family holidays, work events. But deep in the archives, she found one—a younger Edward beside a girl.
Her. Angelina.
Emily shut the laptop, exhaling sharply. She had two choices: live in ignorance or learn the truth, no matter how bitter.
The answer was clear. She had to know.
That evening, she rehearsed her speech in the living room, twisting her phone in her hands. The door creaked open.
“We need to talk,” Edward said, his voice hollow.
“So do I,” Emily began.
“Let me speak first,” he cut in, sinking onto the hallway bench. “You won’t like this. I don’t expect forgiveness, but don’t judge me yet.”
Emily froze.
“Remember Angelina? My first love. We were together at sixth form, before uni,” Edward’s voice cracked.
Emily felt the gallows beneath her feet. He’d say the words—and the blade would drop.
“She got pregnant right after we started uni. I was young, stupid, selfish. I panicked,” he paused.
Emily wanted to shake him. But she already knew. A child. A need for a father.
“I gave her money. Sent her to the clinic. Then I vanished like a coward,” he whispered. “It went wrong. Complications. She begged for help, but I turned her away.”
“She… ended it?” Emily asked, then hated herself for the hope in her voice.
“Yes. After that, she never married. Always ill. Three surgeries. Then… the cancer spread. They gave her three months, but I doubt she’ll last that long.”
Emily stood numb.
“I lied. I’m ashamed. But I had to try to help. She’s got no one. No family. No husband. No children. We were kids, and I failed her.”
The silence was suffocating. Emily stared at the man she’d known forever. Jealousy, rage, pity—all warred inside her.
“You blame yourself?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“But it was just… bad luck.”
“Luck I caused.”
“Can’t anything be done?”
“No. You should see her. She doesn’t eat. The pain… The doctors say it’s kinder to let her die at home.”
“Wait. You said she’s alone.”
Edward nodded. Emily stepped back, hands pressed to her chest. She understood.
“I won’t leave you. You’re my wife. But I won’t blame you if you walk away. This is the least I can do for her.”
“So you’ll stay with her. Until…”
“Yes,” Edward said simply. “It’s unfair to you. But I can’t do otherwise.”
He looked at her, waiting. Her world had shattered.
“And if I say no?” she asked, already knowing.
“Then we live a lie. I’ll say I’m working late. Hide my phone. Let the lies rot us from within.”
Emily closed her eyes. She loved him. But now he stood before her a stranger—the boy who’d abandoned a girl years ago, now letting that mistake destroy their present.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” she whispered. “For then. For now. For forcing this choice.”
He reached for her. She stepped back.
“I’m not asking forgiveness. I just needed you to know. I love you. But I have to do this.”
He took his keys and left. Emily stood in the hallway, watching him go. It would’ve been easier if he’d had an affair.
Hours crawled. She paced. Sat. Paced again.
She seethed—then remembered his eyes, raw with guilt. He hadn’t looked away when he confessed.
*He didn’t betray me,* she thought. *He’s trying to fix an old mistake. Even now, he told me the truth.*
Her phone glowed on the table. She picked it up.
*”I understand. I love you. Let me help Angelina.”*
Minutes passed. Then—
*”Thank you.”*
Emily closed her eyes, tears slipping free. She’d made the right choice.
