“What are you staring at me like that for? Yes, I don’t want kids. Aren’t we happy just the two of us?” Emily asked her husband.
The first ray of sunlight peeked through the kitchen window. Cutting through the blinds, it striped the floor, the wall, and the tabletop in bands of light and shadow, finally landing on James’s tired, red-rimmed eyes. He shielded them, but the brightness still burned through his eyelids. He pushed his chair back into the shade, away from the relentlessly cheerful sun.
As if offended, the sun ducked behind the block of council flats across the street, plunging the kitchen into gloomy dullness. Just then, the long-awaited click of the front door lock echoed through the flat. James tensed, holding his breath as he listened to the careful shuffling in the hallway.
Bare feet padded softly, paused in the living room, then moved hesitantly toward the kitchen.
“James? You’re awake?” Emily’s voice sounded startled, uncertain.
“Where were you?” he croaked, his lips dry and cracked.
She didn’t answer right away. If she had, maybe he’d have believed her. But that hesitation—those few seconds of calculated silence—told him everything.
“Went out for coffee with Sophie, then… stayed at hers. Sorry, we had a drink, lost track of time. Fell asleep at her place,” she lied.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I *was* drunk, like I said. Didn’t want to wake you.” Her voice steadied, smoother now, rehearsed.
“You hoped I’d be asleep and not notice you were gone.” James didn’t look at her.
“What’s *with* you? So we had a drink, had a laugh. Am I not allowed to let loose once in my life?” Her voice rose, defensive, shifting to attack.
“Once in your life?” James finally turned to face her.
Emily blinked and looked away.
“I just want to sleep. We’ll talk later.” She moved to leave, but James grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him. She yelped, stumbling onto his knees before scrambling back up, trying to wrench her arm free.
“Let go—you’re hurting me,” she hissed.
James tightened his grip.
“You’ll break my wrist! Let go!” Desperation and fury flickered in her eyes.
“You were with *him*, weren’t you? Say it.” He held her there, refusing to let her pull away.
“Yes! *Yes!*” she screamed in his face. “Happy now? I *hate* you. You’re suffocating me.” She jerked violently, and in that instant, his grip loosened.
The sudden release sent her stumbling back. Her elbow cracked against the doorframe and she cried out in pain.
“Get out,” James said flatly.
“James, at least—”
“Get the hell out! Go to him, if that’s what you want. Come back for your things later.” He leaned against the wall, tilted his head back, and shut his eyes.
“Fine. I *will*.” Emily straightened, rubbing her bruised elbow. “You’ll regret this.” She strode out of the kitchen, voice sharp from the hallway. “You’ll never see my face again, you miserable bastard!”
“Yeah, piss off.” James snatched the mug from the table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, porcelain skittering across the tiles.
The front door slammed. James turned back to the table, dropped his head into his hands, and froze there.
The sun reappeared, painting stripes of light over his hunched back, as if trying to soothe him.
He sat like that for a long time before finally standing. He showered, shaved, gulped down a black coffee. Too early for work, he walked instead of driving, needing the cold air to chase away the heaviness in his chest.
All day, he waited for Emily’s call. Hoped she’d say he forced her to confess something that wasn’t true, that she really *had* been with Sophie, that everything could go back to normal. He loved her. He’d forgive her.
But she never called.
When he left the office, he regretted not bringing the car. The sky hung low, drizzling, a damp chill clinging to his skin. He trudged home, clinging to the hope that Emily would be waiting—but the flat greeted him with hollow silence.
He swept up the broken mug, pulled the half-finished bottle of whisky from the fridge, and downed a glass. His stomach twisted in protest. He waited for the burn to subside before stumbling to the sofa and collapsing face-down into sleep.
***
They married three years ago. Bright, wild Emily had enchanted him with her laughter, the way she pulled every room into her orbit. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she had *something*—a magnetism men couldn’t resist. At first, everything was perfect. Easy. The world revolved around her.
She hated cooking. He didn’t mind. Coffee and toast for breakfast—no talent required. He grabbed lunch at the pub near work. Evenings were spent with friends, takeaway pizzas and beers. Weekends meant lazy lie-ins, brunches that bled into dinners. For a while, it was enough.
But then friends drifted away—couples settling down, having kids. James broached the subject once. Twice.
Emily deflected every time.
*“What’s with the look? Fine, I don’t want kids. Not yet. Are we not happy as we are?”*
The mere mention of children made her snap. Storm out. Disappear for hours. Once, after a fight, he stopped at a café for coffee—and saw her sitting at a corner table with a man. He approached.
*“Oh! This is an old uni mate. Ran into him by chance. James, this is Rob.”*
Rob offered a hand. James hesitated, then shook it. He sat, but the conversation died. Rob left, muttering about errands.
After that, Emily changed. Less laughter. Fewer nights out. Twice, she came home late, muttering about drinks with friends. But most of those friends had kids now.
And then, last night—she hadn’t come home at all.
***
He woke in the dark, convinced Emily had returned. His fingers twitched toward his phone. Maybe he was wrong—maybe she *had* stayed with Sophie.
No. He wouldn’t call first.
Pride wouldn’t let him.
In the bathroom mirror, he barely recognized himself—stubble, bloodshot eyes, the slump of exhaustion. He washed his face, drained the last of the whisky, and collapsed back into bed.
Days blurred. Evenings spent at friends’ houses—except their wives eyed him warily now. Without Emily, he was a ghost at the table, jokes falling flat.
*“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”* he muttered once.
*“Would you have believed us?”* came the reply.
He stopped visiting.
One evening, craving a cigarette (he’d quit years ago), he ducked into a corner shop. Ahead of him in the queue, a petite woman with greying hair struggled with her shopping.
*“Just you today?”* the cashier asked.
*“Ben’s got a cold. Left him with a film on.”* She paid in cash, bagged her groceries with stiff fingers, and limped toward the exit.
James bought his cigarettes, lit one outside, and spotted her again—hobbling under the weight of her bags. He jogged over.
*“Let me help.”*
She didn’t refuse.
*“I’m just ’round the corner.”*
Inside her tiny flat, a boy—five, maybe six—peeked out from the living room. Big eyes, tousled hair, pajamas with cartoon dinosaurs.
*“Are you my dad?”*
James froze.
The boy’s grandmother—Margaret—ushered him away, but not before James caught himself thinking: *If I’d imagined a son, he’d look like this.*
Over tea, Margaret explained. Her daughter, Lucy, worked in London. The boy’s father? *“She was attacked,”* Margaret whispered. *“Sixteen. Wanted to end it. I stopped her. Now she sends money, calls sometimes, but… she can’t love him.”*
The story stuck. Days later, James returned with a toy fire engine. He and Ben built it together on the living room floor.
*“You’d make a good father,”* Margaret said as he left.
Three weeks later, her call came—Ben was sick. Could James sit with him while she fetched medicine?
The boy lay feverish, cheeks flushed. James read him stories until he drifted off.
When Lucy returned, she recoiled at the sight of him. *“Don’t come back,”* she said. *“He’ll get attached.”*
He stayed away.
Until Christmas Eve, in a shopping centre, he heard Ben’s voice—small, wobbling, begging his mum not to leave again.
Lucy crouched, helpless.
James stepped in.
Now, heAs the New Year’s bells chimed in the distance, James held Ben’s hand tightly, watching Lucy’s hesitant smile bloom like the first snowflake of winter.
