“You’ll be with me forever…”
Emily flipped the sizzling bits of steak in the pan, clapped the lid on, and heard the familiar rumble of an engine and the crunch of tyres on the gravel drive. Victor was home early, and she hadn’t even finished dinner. She peeked at the apple pie in the oven, snatched some veg from the fridge, and began rinsing them under the tap.
“Em, I’m back!” Victor called from the hallway. “Bloody hell, that smells good!” He strode into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.
“Hungry?” Emily turned off the tap and glanced at him. “You’re early. I’m running behind.”
“Not to worry, I’ll wait. Got pudding?”
“Apple pie. Can you hang on a bit?”
“Course.” He wandered off to the living room while Emily chopped veg for the salad. She hated multitasking—especially cooking multiple dishes at once. One distraction, and something always burned. But tonight, miraculously, everything turned out perfectly. She laid the table, then went to fetch Victor. He was sprawled on the sofa, eyes half-shut, the telly murmuring the evening news. Before she could decide whether to wake him, he blinked up at her.
“Knackered? You look…” She tilted her head, searching for the right word.
“A bit. Supper ready?” He heaved himself up.
They settled at the table.
“Blimey. Looks cracking, smells even better,” Victor said, surveying the spread.
“Fancy some wine? Got a bit left,” Emily offered.
“Not tonight.”
She loved watching him eat—with gusto, but neatly. She loved him, full stop. Loved cooking for him, ironing his shirts, dozing against his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she adored him exactly as he was, quirks and all.
***
They’d met when both had already clocked up some mileage in the marriage department. Emily hadn’t managed to get pregnant in her first go-round, though doctors found nothing wrong with either of them. “These things happen,” they’d said. “Be patient.”
While Emily waited and hoped, her ex-husband hadn’t twiddled his thumbs. A friend spotted him at a shopping centre, cooing over baby clothes with a very pregnant woman. Emily refused to believe it at first. Must’ve been a mistake. They’d had a good marriage—he wouldn’t… But then the pieces clicked.
Make a scene? What good would that do? The baby wasn’t to blame—it deserved a father. Heartbroken but resolute, she let him go. She couldn’t stomach him flitting between two homes. This wasn’t just a fling—it was love, if they’d gone this far. Which meant he didn’t love her anymore.
When he came home that evening, Emily sat frozen in the dark, incapable of cooking or even telly. Her chest ached with betrayal.
“You ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa.
“No.”
“Your parents, then? Spit it out.” He stood baffled, concern flickering.
“It’s you. You’ve got another family on the way. When were you planning to mention it?”
His breath hitched. “So you know. Should I… go?”
“Now,” she said, turning away. She willed herself not to cry, but inside, she was shredded.
He packed silently, avoiding her gaze. Part of her wanted him to grovel, beg to stay. The other just wanted him gone.
The suitcase wheels halted by the sofa. “I’ll get the rest tomorrow, yeah?”
She nodded, still not looking.
A minute later, the front door clicked shut. And that was that. It hit her then—she was alone. Properly alone. And then the floodgates opened. She wept like life was over. Because, in that moment, it felt like it was.
She didn’t sleep. Paced barefoot, sobbed into pillows. Come morning, she dragged herself to work, puffy-eyed and sniffling. Colleagues sent her home, assuming she was ill. Walking into the flat, she noticed instantly—his things were gone. Even the toothbrush. Even the dirty shirt in the wash. As if their eight years had never happened.
She couldn’t decide if that was cruel or kind. Eventually, she settled on kind. No lingering reminders to torture her. Typical of him, really—suddenly meticulous after years of leaving socks everywhere.
Better to rip the plaster off quick than peel it slowly. No “forgotten” items as excuses to return. No stumbling upon his things and weeping. Still, she mourned that life for ages.
Then, a year later, she met Victor. He’d come into the bank asking about a mortgage. Later, over coffee, he’d asked, “Who’s the big house for? Kids?”
“For me. My future wife. Future kids.” He’d looked at her like he was already picturing it.
She’d nearly blurted out how much she wanted that—the house, the family. But she’d only said yes to coffee.
Victor, in turn, shared how his ex-wife had changed after their daughter was born—constantly snapping, demanding calls all day. Resentment snowballed.
“I tried, but I was knackered from work. She barely let me near the baby. I even suggested a girls’ weekend—got my mum to babysit.”
She came back glowing. Said she’d reconnected with an old uni flame in Brighton. Packed up their daughter and left.
“I didn’t stop her. Missed them like mad at first—drove down with gifts. Then my girl started shrinking away. Ex said she had a new dad now…”
Two lonely souls, then. But their spark caught instantly. With Victor, everything felt easy, familiar. Within months, they married.
Still, no baby.
“Don’t fret,” Victor would say. “Dirty nappies, tantrums—been there. We’re happy as we are, yeah?”
And they were. They’d poured everything into their dream home. Mortgages paid, debts cleared—just one more year of child support. Now they could finally breathe…
***
“Penny for ’em?” Victor asked.
Emily startled. “Just thinking. You look peaky.”
“Long day.” He stretched, yawned.
“Go rest. I’ll clean up.”
By the time she joined him, he was dozing on the sofa, telly murmuring.
“Vic, bed.” She shook his shoulder.
He blinked. “Must’ve nodded off.”
“Clearly. Come on.”
He kissed her cheek, shuffled off. She locked up, showered. When she slipped into bed, he was already out. She curled against him.
Then, in the black of night—a choked gasp. Victor thrashed.
“Vic? Vic!” She flicked the lamp on. His face was crimson, eyes bulging. He tried to rise, collapsed. Fell silent.
She screamed, shook him. No response.
Frantically, she dialled 999. Engaged. Again and again. Same infuriating tone.
“For God’s sake!” She rang colleagues, begged them to try. Then—slippers, dressing gown (when had she put that on?)—she bolted next door, hammered on the gate. A dog barked, lights flicked on.
“Who’s there?” called Robert, their neighbour.
“It’s Emily! It’s—” She choked. “Vic—please—”
His wife, Sarah, appeared. “Ambulance won’t connect—help—”
“Door open?” Robert barked.
“Yes! Hurry—”
“Get her inside, give her something for shock,” he ordered, then sprinted towards another house.
Sarah bundled Emily in. Between sobs, she babbled—waking, the fall—
“Mum?” Their teen son yawned on the stairs.
“Bed, love. Emily’s had a scare.”
“He didn’t—? He’s only forty-four. Never ill, never—”
Finally—sirens. Someone got through. Emily dashed outside just as they brought Victor down, a sheet over him. She screamed, lurched forward. Someone held her back.
“Easy, love. You’ll need your strength,” Robert murmured, pulling her close as she fought, howled.
“He went quick…”
“That can’t— No—” She wrenched free, charged at the stretcher. A jab in her arm—then nothing.
The ambulance left.
“Inside, you’ll freeze,” Robert said gently.
She let him lead her in. Her legs buckled. He steered her to the sofa—the same one where Victor had napped hours ago.
“Leave me,” she whispered.
When he’d gone, she wept into her hands. Didn’t sleep again. At dawn, she rang work, then stepped outside. The dog howled. The bushes Victor had trimmed last weekend, the gleaming patio he’d laid—everywhere, his touch. His car by the garage.
He was everywhere. And nowhere.
She tilted her swollen faceShe whispered into the empty air, “You’ll be with me forever,” and for the first time since he’d gone, she felt the warmth of his memory wrap around her like a hug.
