Edward pulled up beside the dingy five-storey block of flats and parked so the number plates wouldn’t catch the eye. He grimaced at the peeling, unglazed balconies and the dull, lifeless windows. The modern double-glazed panes stood out like fresh patches on an old coat. The building itself resembled a tramp—dressed in whatever rags it could scavenge from the dump.
Nestled among scrawny trees and other neglected buildings, the block had weathered countless shifts in government and society, now crumbling away like the ageing residents within.
To Edward, the place dredged up a gnawing boredom, an ache in his teeth. He’d grown up in just such a building, desperate to escape. And escape he had—studying hard at school, enrolling in the right university, then pursuing economics. A successful business needed sound financial grounding.
Once he’d achieved his dreams, he moved his parents to a better area, buying them a modest but modern house with a neat garden out front—trimmed hedges and bright blooms—while his mother tended a vegetable patch at the back. She couldn’t bear idleness.
Women adored Edward—not just for his wealth. He was handsome, generous, a skilled charmer. Twice, he nearly proposed to glamorous women whose beauty owed as much to cosmetic surgeons as nature. But he imagined introducing some leggy, polished fiancée to his plain, hardworking mother—how she’d shrink beside that artificial dazzle—and changed his mind.
Emily won him with quiet, natural grace and a warm smile. He fell hard. Within a month, he brought her home. His mother studied the girl, then gave an approving nod, barely perceptible.
Who could resist such unassuming beauty and gentle temperament? Accustomed to little, Emily was modest, undemanding. Her father had died; her mother followed soon after, lost to swift cancer. Edward draped her in tenderness, cherishing her. Even a year into their marriage, he still flushed like a schoolboy in her presence.
Then his deputy—a trusted friend—claimed he’d spotted Emily in that very backwater, near that same grimy block. What business could she possibly have there?
“And what were *you* doing there?” Edward countered.
“Got lost avoiding traffic, took a wrong turn. Ended up near the building.”
*”Cheating? Emily? Impossible!”* Yet a cold shiver slithered down Edward’s spine; his fists clenched.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” his friend backtracked, seeing his reaction. “She’s lovely, but not exactly one-of-a-kind. Sorry.”
At home, Emily smiled sweetly, acting as if nothing were amiss, nestling close. If she’d been unfaithful, surely she’d recoil from intimacy. But she pressed nearer, pliant, trusting.
Something wasn’t right. Either she was a brilliant actress, or his friend had misidentified her. Or—was this more than an affair?
The mystery gnawed at him. He decided to follow her. At lunch—the time his friend had seen her—Edward parked near the block and waited. To drown his thoughts, he turned on the radio.
Just as he prepared to leave, Emily appeared. She hurried to one entrance, unlocked a graffiti-scrawled door plastered with flyers, glanced back, and slipped inside.
*”She has keys.”* His heart hammered like a hound on the scent. He nearly chased after her—but without a key, he’d never catch her in time. He waited, drumming his fingers to the tune of Il Divo.
Forty minutes later, a taxi pulled up. Emily emerged, climbed in, and left.
Edward didn’t pursue her. At the office, his mind spun. Leaving his deputy to handle affairs, he went home early and poured a stiff brandy—unusual for him, but his nerves demanded it.
*”Emily, Emily. Why? What did I lack? You seemed so honest—yet you’re just like the rest.”* He paced like a caged bear.
The front door clicked. Keys jingled onto the side table.
Edward drained another glass just as Emily entered the dim kitchen.
“You’re drinking? What’s wrong—work?” she asked, spotting the glass.
Her eyes widened—with fear?
“Everything’s fine. But—don’t you have something to tell *me*?” he rasped.
“About what?”
*”Such convincing surprise. Bravo, darling!”*
“Where were you at lunch?” He eyed the bottle, debating another drink.
“Did you come by the office? No one mentioned it,” she said after a pause.
Edward watched her shoulders slump, colour draining from her face.
*”Lost for words? Let’s hear it—who’s your mystery man? Not some wreck in a dump like that!”*
“Don’t lie to me,” he said aloud.
“I’ve wanted to tell you…” She sank onto the sofa.
*”Playing the victim now? Won’t work.”*
“Why wait so long?” he asked coldly, reaching for the bottle. “How long have you deceived me?”
“I—I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t. Then…”
*”Go on. Don’t stop.”*
“Please, no more. You’ll regret it tomorrow,” she pleaded.
“My head already aches. Worry about *your* neck,” he snapped, swallowing another gulp.
Her eyes flickered with fear again.
*”No, you’ll look me in the eye, sweetheart.”*
He strode to the sofa, spinning it—and her—sharply toward him. She gasped, nearly tumbling off.
“I was afraid,” she whispered. “If you knew… you might leave me.”
“So you *have* been cheating?” He gave a drunken chuckle. *”Still waters run deep…”*
“Tell me. Now,” he slurred, swaying on the stool.
“I visit my father. He lives there. Not a lover.”
“Ah, your father!” Edward swayed again. “But—he’s dead. Or did I mishear?”
“I said he was. But I was ashamed of the truth. I thought he’d died—until an old friend called.” She clenched her hands between her knees. “He drank terribly. Mum suffered for years before throwing him out. Later, she searched—but then she fell ill and died.”
“I truly believed he was gone—how could he survive on the streets? But after we married, my friend called. She’d been our neighbour—married, then left homeless when her husband took their flat. She’s a hospital cleaner now. One day, a tramp was brought in—hit by a car. Barely alive, badly hurt. She recognised him. Contacted me.”
“How could I tell you? You’re wealthy, respectable—my father’s a drunk, a beggar. I paid her to care for him, bought food—but never with *your* money. I used my salary.”
Now it was Edward’s turn to look away.
He remembered that night well. Winter, a blizzard. Snow clumped against the windscreen as he navigated backstreets to dodge traffic.
Then—a shadow lunged into the road. The car jolted. He swore the street had been empty seconds before.
Beneath the wheels: a heap of filthy rags. No, a man. The stench of unwashed skin and stale booze hit him.
Almost as if the tramp had *waited* for him—seen the headlights and leaped. A man tired of life.
He’d nearly driven off. But at the last second, he called an ambulance—then left.
How could he have known it was Emily’s father? Of course, he’d told no one.
He moved to the sofa, taking her hands.
“Forgive me.” His palms burned against her fingers.
“You were caring for your father. How else can we help? Does he need surgery?”
She stared. “His liver, his heart… doctors say surgery would kill him. He hasn’t long.”
“Our guesthouse is empty. Bring him here—no more trips across town. We’ll hire a nurse. Your friend can stay too.” The words surprised even him.
“You’re not angry?”
“No. He’s family.”
“Edward, you’re the best husband!” She threw her arms around him.
*”If only you knew how good I really am. I’m the one who nearly left your father to die. One day I’ll confess—but not tonight, my love.”*
“Just spare me meeting him,” he muttered, wincing as if in pain.
“Of course. Thank you.”
Later, he’d glimpse a stout woman wheeling a frail man onto the guesthouse terrace, tucking a blanket around him. Edward never approached. Shame? Perhaps. The tramp wouldn’t recognise him—had never seen his face. Yet…
A month later, Emily announced her pregnancy. At first, Edward froze—another man’s child? Then he saw her radiant joy.
“A son! I’ll have a son!” He spun her laughing in his arms.
When her belly swelled, her father died. Edward exhaled in relief—he fancied she did too.
NoYears later, on a quiet evening as he rocked their little girl to sleep, Edward whispered the truth into the darkness, praying that time had gentled the blow, and that forgiveness—like fate—would weave its own crooked path.
