**You Will Stay With Me Always…**
Emma flipped the sizzling pieces of steak, covered the frying pan, and heard the hum of an engine and tires crunching on the gravel outside the open window. Victor was home, and she hadn’t finished dinner. She checked the apple pie in the oven, pulled vegetables from the fridge, and began washing them.
“Emma, I’m back!” Victor called from the hall. “Smells amazing!” he added, inhaling deeply as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Hungry?” Emma shut off the tap and turned to him. “You’re early. Dinner’s not ready yet.”
“It’s fine, I’ll wait. Did you make pudding for afters?”
“Yes, apple crumble. Can you hold on a bit?”
“Of course.” He disappeared into the living room while Emma started chopping the salad. She hated multitasking—especially cooking multiple dishes at once. Distractions meant burned food. But tonight, everything went perfectly. She set the table and went to fetch Victor. He was sprawled on the sofa, eyes half-closed, the telly murmuring the evening news. Before she could decide whether to wake him, his eyes fluttered open.
“Tired? You look…” Emma hesitated, searching for the right word.
“A bit. Dinner ready?” He heaved himself up.
They walked to the kitchen together.
“Mmm. Looks lovely, smells even better,” Victor murmured, eyeing the spread.
“Fancy some wine? We’ve got a bit left,” Emma offered.
“Not tonight.”
She loved watching him eat—with gusto but neat. She loved him. Loved cooking for him, ironing his shirts, falling asleep against his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she loved him exactly as he was—quirks and all.
***
They’d met when both already carried the weight of failed marriages. Emma hadn’t been able to conceive in her first marriage, though doctors found nothing wrong. “These things happen,” they’d said. “Be patient.”
While she waited, her husband hadn’t. A friend spotted him at a shopping centre with a pregnant woman—buying baby clothes. At first, Emma refused to believe it. But the pieces fit.
A scene? What good would it do? The baby was innocent. She suffered silently until he came home that evening, late as usual. She sat in the dark, numb.
“You ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa.
“No.”
“Your parents, then? Out with it.”
“It’s you. You’ve got another family on the way. When were you going to tell me?”
A pause. “So you know.” He exhaled sharply. “Should I leave now, or—”
“Now.” She turned away, gripping herself to keep from crumbling.
He packed without looking at her. She oscillated between wanting him to beg and wishing he’d just vanish. The wheels of his suitcase rattled to a stop beside her.
“I’ll get the rest tomorrow, alright?”
She nodded, eyes averted.
The front door clicked shut. Only then did it hit her: she was alone. The dam broke. She wept all night, paced barefoot through their small flat, convinced her life was over.
Morning came. She dragged herself to work, red-eyed. Colleagues sent her home. Returning, she realised he’d taken everything—even the shirt in the wash. As if their eight years never happened.
At first, she thought it was better this way—no reminders. But grief lingered.
A year later, she met Victor at the bank, where he was inquiring about a mortgage. They went for coffee.
“Who’s the big house for? Kids?” Emma asked.
“Future wife. Future kids.” His gaze locked onto her, as if already picturing it.
She bit back the urge to say she wanted those things too.
Victor shared his story: his wife had changed after their daughter’s birth—snapping, demanding, dissatisfied. He’d suggested a break, sent her to visit a friend in Edinburgh. She returned happier—and confessed she’d rekindled an old flame. She left, taking their daughter.
Victor had let them go, though it shattered him. Visits dwindled when his daughter grew distant.
Two broken people. Yet with Victor, Emma felt like she’d known him forever. Within months, they married.
Children never came.
“Don’t fret,” Victor would say. “I’ve done nappies and night feeds. Still ended up alone. We’re happy as we are, yeah?”
Money poured into their house instead. Finally, it was theirs—mortgage cleared, debts settled, alimony nearly done. Life was good.
***
“Penny for your thoughts?” Victor’s voice snapped her back.
“Nothing. Just remembering… You look pale.”
“Long day.” He stretched, yawning.
“Go rest. I’ll clean up.”
When she joined him later, he was dozing on the sofa, the telly murmuring.
“Vic, bed.” She shook his shoulder.
He blinked awake. “Must’ve nodded off.”
“You did. Go on up.”
He kissed her cheek and stumbled to bed.
Emma locked up, showered, and slipped under the covers. Victor was already asleep. Soon, she was too.
Then—a ragged gasp. Thrashing.
“Vic? Vic!” She switched on the lamp. His face was crimson, eyes bulging. He tried to rise—then collapsed.
She screamed, shook him. Nothing.
Frantically, she dialled 999. Busy. Again. Again.
“Bloody hell!” She rang colleagues, begged them to call an ambulance. Someone had to get through.
Barefoot in her dressing gown, she sprinted to the neighbours, hammered on their door.
“Who’s there?” called Oliver from inside.
“It’s Emma—next door! Victor’s—help!”
Oliver’s wife, Claire, appeared. “I can’t get through to emergency—”
“Go inside. I’ll fetch help,” Oliver said, already running.
At last, sirens wailed. Emma raced back. Paramedics carried Victor out—covered in a sheet. She screamed, lunged. Oliver held her back.
“He’s gone, love. Instant, the medics said.”
“That’s not possible!” She fought, wailed, until a needle dulled the pain.
The ambulance left. Oliver guided her inside.
“Let me be,” she whispered.
Alone, she wept until dawn. Called work. Stepped outside. The garden—trimmed by Victor. The path—laid by him. His car by the garage. Everywhere, him.
She glared at the grey sky.
“You’re not real. If you were, you wouldn’t have taken him.”
She arranged the funeral mechanically. His daughter came with her mother. Emma’s mum hovered, but she pushed her away.
At the hospital, she asked: “Could he have been saved?”
“No. These things happen. Don’t blame yourself.”
At the graveside, she crumpled. That cold, stiff body wasn’t her Victor.
The house emptied.
“Come home with me,” her mum urged.
“No. I need to remember him here.”
She wasn’t mad. She heard his footsteps, his breath at night. As long as she remembered, he’d stay with her.
All she had left were memories. And love.
