“Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I don’t want children. Aren’t we fine just the two of us?” asked Emily, staring at her husband.
The first ray of sunlight crept through the kitchen blinds, striping the floor, walls, and table in alternating bars of gold and shadow. It reached Jonathan’s face, cutting across his bloodshot eyes. He shielded them with a wince, but the light seeped through the thin skin of his eyelids. Shifting his stool sideways, he retreated into the kitchen’s dimness, where the sun couldn’t torment his sleepless gaze.
As if offended, the sun ducked behind the block of flats across the street, plunging the room into gloom. Then—a click. The lock turning. Jonathan flinched, listening to the cautious rustling in the hallway, his breath shallow. Bare feet padded closer, hesitating before entering the kitchen.
“Jonathan? You’re awake?” Emily’s voice was soft, tinged with surprise.
“Where were you?” His lips cracked as he spoke.
She took too long to answer. If she’d spoken immediately, he might have believed her. But she weighed her words.
“Went for coffee with Alice, then… stayed over at hers. Sorry, we had a few drinks. I completely passed out there,” she lied.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I told you, I was drunk. Didn’t want to wake you,” she said, smoother now.
“You hoped I’d just sleep through you being gone.” Jonathan didn’t look at her.
“What’s the big deal? We had drinks, chatted. Am I not allowed one night out?” Her voice rose, sharp with defiance.
“One night?” He turned.
Emily blinked and glanced away.
“I’m exhausted. Let’s talk later.” She moved to leave, but Jonathan seized her wrist and yanked her back. She gasped, stumbling forward, knees hitting the floor before she scrambled up, wrenching at his grip.
“Let go! You’re hurting me!” she hissed.
His fingers tightened.
“You’ll break my wrist! Stop!” Her eyes burned with contempt.
“You were with him. Admit it.”
“Yes! Fine!” she spat in his face. “Happy now? I *hate* you. I’m *sick* of you!” She jerked free—and Jonathan let go.
Emily staggered back, elbow cracking against the doorframe. A cry of pain.
“Get out,” he said flatly.
“Jonathan, at least—”
“Go. To *him*, for all I care. Come back for your things later.” He leaned against the wall, tilting his head back, eyes shut—refusing to look at her.
“Fine, I’ll leave.” She stormed out, rubbing her bruised elbow. “You’ll regret this. I never want to see your dull, miserable face again!” she shouted from the hall.
Jonathan snatched a mug from the table and hurled it at the wall. Shards skittered across the tiles.
The front door slammed. He slumped forward, face buried in his hands, motionless.
The sun peeked back out, painting stripes of light over his hunched shoulders, as if caressing him.
He sat like that a long while before rising, crunching fragments underfoot. He showered, shaved, drank black coffee. Too early yet for work—he walked, hoping the crisp morning air would shake off the fatigue. He left the car parked below.
All day, he waited for Emily’s call. Maybe she’d say he’d forced her to confess something untrue. Maybe she’d been at Alice’s all along. Maybe things could go back to normal. Yes, he loved her. He’d forgive her.
But the phone never rang.
Leaving the office at dusk, he regretted walking. The sky hung heavy with drizzle, mist clinging to his skin. He trudged home, hoping Emily would be there, waiting…
But the flat was silent.
He swept up the broken mug, pulled a half-empty bottle of whisky from the fridge, and knocked back a glass. His stomach clenched in protest. He waited for the burn to fade, then collapsed onto the sofa, facedown, and slept.
***
They’d married three years ago. Bright, vivacious Emily had enchanted him—her laughter, her impulsiveness. Not classically beautiful, but magnetic in a way men adored. At first, everything was effortless. The world orbited her effortlessly when she walked into a room.
She never cooked. He didn’t mind. Coffee and toast in the mornings—no skill required. He lunched near work. Evenings, friends brought takeaway. Weekends, they lazed until noon, then drifted to cafés or friends’ homes where lunch bled into dinner.
Jonathan didn’t question it. But one by one, friends settled, had children. He broached the subject with Emily. What was a marriage without children? She laughed, waved it off—too soon, nappies and tantrums could wait.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I don’t want kids. Not yet. Aren’t we fine just us?”
Emily hated the topic. She’d storm out for hours. Jonathan would search, frantic. Once, after a row, he stopped at a café for coffee—and there she was, leaning over a table with a younger man. He approached. A flicker of panic crossed her face before she smoothed it into a smile. But he’d seen it.
“This is an old schoolmate! Ran into him by chance. And this is my husband.”
The “schoolmate” offered a hand. Jonathan hesitated, then shook it. He sat with them, but conversation died. The man excused himself shortly after.
Emily changed. Less laughter, fewer outings. Twice, she came home late—*out with the girls*, she said. But most of her friends had kids. And now—no call, no return. He knew she’d blame her friends again. He didn’t check. Didn’t have their numbers. He’d trusted her, until now.
***
Jonathan woke in the night. For a second, he thought Emily had returned. He grabbed his phone—maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe she *had* been at Alice’s.
No. *He* wouldn’t call first. Pride wouldn’t let him. He tossed the phone aside.
In the bathroom mirror, stubble darkened his jaw. Red-rimmed eyes, creased shirt. He couldn’t let himself unravel. He drank tap water, finished the whisky, and went back to bed.
Days bled into weeks. Evenings, he visited friends. Their wives eyed him warily now. Without Emily, he dulled—jokes fell flat. Friends pitied him, dropped hints about her. *Someone saw something. Someone heard something.*
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Would you have believed us?”
He stopped visiting.
He’d quit smoking years ago. Now he craved it. At the shop, a petite woman fumbled with her bags at the till.
“Just you today?” the cashier asked.
“Ben’s poorly. Left him at home.” She handed over cash, stuffed groceries into her bag.
Jonathan bought cigarettes, hurried outside. The woman limped ahead, burdened. He caught up, offered to carry her bags.
“Not far,” she said, gesturing vaguely.
In her flat, he set the bags down. A boy, maybe five, peered from a doorway.
“Is that my dad?” Ben asked his grandmother.
“No, sweetheart. This kind man just helped me with the shopping.” She tried steering him away, but Ben kept staring.
Jonathan didn’t move. If he’d dreamed of a son, he’d have wanted one just like this—bright-eyed, delicate limbs, shorts grazing his knees. Maybe he *was* ready for fatherhood.
“Tea?” the woman asked.
He shrugged. They sat, three at the table, dunking biscuits.
“I’m Jonathan,” he told Ben.
Later, the boy ran off to play.
“Where are his parents?” Jonathan asked.
The woman sighed.
“My daughter works in London. His father…” She hesitated. “You seem decent. She was attacked, walking home one evening. Still in school. Wanted an abortion. I wouldn’t let her. Now I regret it. She provides for Ben—toys, clothes—but she can’t love him. He reminds her.”
She’d hidden for months, ashamed. Neighbors whispered, then moved on. When Ben was older, she sent her daughter to London—no one cared there. She was careful now. But Ben stayed with her. Bad legs, disability checks. They scraped by.
Jonathan left, but the boy’s face haunted him. Days later, he brought fruit, sweets, a toy truck.
“Remember me?” he asked when she opened the door.
They built the truck together on the floor. Leaving, she said, “You’d make a good father.”
“Ben’s lovely. Call if you need anything.” He handed her his number.
Three weeks later, she did. Ben was ill—medicine was needed, but she couldn’t leave him.
“I’Three years later, under the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree, Jonathan watched Ben—now his adopted son—laughing with Tanya, who had finally learned to trust again, and knew that life, like winter, had thawed into something unexpectedly warm and whole.
