“Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I don’t want children. Not now. Aren’t we fine as we are?” asked Emily, her voice sharp in the quiet kitchen.
The first rays of dawn slipped through the blinds, painting stripes of light and shadow across the floor, the wall, the table—finally reaching James’s face, stinging his tired, bloodshot eyes. He flinched, shifting his stool back into the dimmer corner where the sun couldn’t reach. As if offended, the light retreated behind the block of flats across the street, plunging the kitchen into gloom.
Then—a click. The latch turning. James stiffened, holding his breath as soft, careful footsteps padded through the hallway. A pause. Then they moved closer.
“James? You’re still up?” Emily’s voice was falsely bright, uncertain.
“Where were you?” His own voice cracked, dry from hours of silence.
She hesitated. If she’d answered straight away, he might have believed her. But that pause—that damned pause.
“At the pub with Sophie. Then we went back to hers. I’m sorry, we had a few drinks, lost track of time. I fell asleep there.”
“You didn’t call.”
“I told you, I was drunk. Didn’t want to wake you.” Her tone steadied, rehearsed.
“You hoped I’d be asleep and wouldn’t notice.” His gaze stayed fixed on the table.
“What’s the matter with you? It was just one night out! Am I not allowed one bloody evening for myself?” Her voice rose, defensive now, lashing out.
“One evening?” James turned to her.
Emily blinked, glancing away.
“I’m tired. Let’s talk later.” She turned to leave, but James grabbed her wrist, yanking her back. She gasped, stumbled against him, then wrenched free, glaring.
“Let go! You’re hurting me.”
His grip tightened.
“Tell me the truth. You were with *him*, weren’t you?”
She exhaled sharply. “Yes! *Yes!* Happy now? I hate this—I hate *you!*” She twisted away, and this time, he let her go. The sudden release sent her stumbling backward into the doorframe, her elbow striking the wood with a thud. She cried out.
“Get out,” James said, voice low.
“James, wait—”
“Go. To him, to hell—I don’t care. Come back for your things later.” He slumped against the wall, head tilted back, eyes shut, refusing to watch her leave.
“Fine.” Emily left, rubbing her bruised elbow. “You’ll *regret* this!” she shouted from the hallway. “I’m *glad* I won’t have to look at your miserable face anymore!”
James snatched the nearest mug and hurled it against the wall. Shards rained across the tiles.
The front door slammed. He turned back to the table, resting his forehead on folded arms.
Then—the sun reappeared, striping the kitchen in light once more. The golden bars crept over his hunched shoulders like a hesitant caress.
Hours later, he showered, shaved, drank coffee. The office wasn’t open yet, so he walked, hoping the crisp morning air might clear his head. All day, he waited. Hoped. Prayed for a call—for her to say she’d lied, that she *had* been at Sophie’s, that everything could go back to normal. That he could forgive her.
But the phone stayed silent.
By evening, rain drizzled as he trudged home, shoulders damp. The flat was empty. He swept up the broken china, drank whisky straight from the bottle, then collapsed onto the sofa.
—
They’d married three years ago. Vibrant, reckless Emily, who’d charmed him with her laughter, her impulsiveness. She wasn’t classically pretty—but there was something about her that drew people in. At first, it was easy. The world seemed brighter when she was near.
She hated cooking. He didn’t mind. Coffee and toast in the mornings, lunches at the café near work, evenings with friends who brought takeaway or wine. Weekends spent lazy in bed, then out at pubs till late. At first, it was enough.
Then their friends started having children. James broached the subject carefully.
“What’s *wrong* with just us?” Emily snapped whenever he mentioned it.
She grew irritable, storming out for hours. Once, after an argument, he stopped at a café for coffee—and saw her, sitting close to a man. She’d introduced him as an old schoolmate. James shook his hand, forcing politeness. The man left quickly.
After that, something shifted. Emily laughed less. Came home late claiming nights out with friends—though most of them had babies now. And last night—she hadn’t come home at all.
James woke in the dark, reaching for his phone. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe—
No. *She* should call *him.*
Days blurred into weeks. He visited friends, but their wives eyed him warily. Without Emily, he felt faded, his jokes falling flat. Eventually, they told him things—hints they’d held back before.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Would you have believed us?”
He stopped visiting.
One evening, he bought cigarettes—a habit he’d quit years ago—and saw a woman struggling with shopping bags. He offered help. At her flat, a boy with wide, curious eyes peered out.
“Is that my dad?” the child asked.
James’s chest tightened.
He visited again. Brought toys. Sat on the floor assembling a toy fire engine with the boy. The grandmother—Margaret—watched with sad eyes.
Later, she told him the truth. Her daughter, Grace, had been assaulted as a teen. She hadn’t wanted the baby. Now, she worked in London, leaving her son behind.
James stopped visiting after Grace returned one day, frosty and sharp. *Don’t get his hopes up,* she warned.
But weeks later, he saw them again—Grace and the boy, *Daniel*, in a shopping centre before Christmas. The child was near tears, clinging to his mother as she prepared to leave for work.
James stepped in. Made Daniel laugh. Walked them home.
Grace hesitated, then asked: *Would you come to his school play tomorrow?*
He did.
That night, for the first time in months, James *felt* something. He *bought* something—a tree, gifts. Because this year, surely, things would change. Love would find a way.
It had to.
