«Emily, I’m sorry to turn up at this hour, but I’ve got terrible news. My wife was killed in a crash last night» Martin slurred, his words stumbling over one another, the smell of whisky hanging about him.
I was taken aback, but I let him into the flat anyway. We hadn’t spoken in a month, our quarrel still fresh, yet here he was, halfdrunk at two in the morning, bearing his grief like a weight. All our petty arguments seemed suddenly pointless.
«Tell me, Martin, what happened? Don’t hold back,» I urged, feeling a pang of guilt. After all, Martin and I had once been more than friends.
He said nothing, simply hauled me onto the sofa. I didn’t resist; I wanted to calm him, to soothe the man who’d always found a way into my thoughts. It wasn’t the moment to call him selfish or arrogant. The night stretched on, restless and bitter. By morning I managed to rouse him, and he stared at me with a blank expression.
«Emily, why am I here? We were at odds,» he asked, genuinely bewildered.
I didn’t remind him why hed come, only guessed that his drunken ramblings were halftruth, half fantasy. Then his phone buzzed with a text that read «Sweetheart» the nickname he used for his late wife. He fumbled with the device, guilt darkening his eyes.
«Are you an idiot?» I snapped. «You buried her yesterday and now youre joking about it? Get out, you wretched fool!»
I shut the door on him and never saw him again.
Since I was twenty, I’d lived alone. My parents had both passed away one after the other, and I never rushed into marriage. Suitors fluttered around me like bees on honeysome stingy, some generous, some already hitched. With Martin I lasted longer than anyone else, because I fell hard for him despite knowing he had a family. Eventually I realized Martin was a born actor; lies and fantasies were as easy to him as breathing. He’d bring me extravagant roses, extravagant gifts, and wild nights, all while never forgetting his «Sweetheart» back home. I wouldn’t have been shocked to discover he kept a string of mistresses; he was a serial lover, a smoothtalking rogue.
By then, all my friends had settled down, children in tow, while I kept seeing Martin, fully aware there was no future. He would never leave his wife. Our arguments grew more frequent, often about nothing at all.
Finally, Martins last stunt put a definitive end to our shaky affair. I was free again, seeking a happiness I couldn’t name.
Thats when James drifted into my life. He was a country lad who worked in the city. We met on the commuter trainshe was heading to her aunts, he to his joband struck up conversation, swapping numbers. He was single, which was the main point. We started dating.
If Martin was a storm, James was a gentle drizzle. He was frugal, rough around the edges, not much for sweet words. Yet I accepted his flaws; after all, time was moving on. He invited me to his village, saying, «Mum wants to meet you.»
«What’s there to see? I’m already expecting,» I thought, because I was pregnant and had a wedding to plan, veil and all.
We arrived at Jamess family home. The table groaned under a spread of hearty country fare. I felt sick, the sight of the food turning my stomach. My future motherinlaw, eyeing me like a judge at a trial, ordered James: «Son, take the guest out onto the porch, let her sit on the bench, and come back to the table.»
James obeyed, leaving me alone with her cold stare. The next day James escorted me back to the train without a word, then returned to his mother, who clearly hadnt taken a liking to me. I hurried the wedding plans, but they fell apart. I never even made it home before I was rushed to the hospital. Id had a miscarriage. The doctor, pity in her voice, said, «Dont worry, love. If the babys not right, its better this way than you having to suffer with a sick child later.»
I thought, «Fine, James isnt my destiny. He and his mother seem content enough.» I walked away from him with a cold, calm detachment, regretting nothing.
Among my lovers was an old schoolmate, Andrew. Hed chased after me from the backbench ever since we were teens. I kept him around as a backup, a spare card. He proposed, but I stayed silent, playing a mysterious game. Eventually Andrew married a woman with a child, and they later had a son. Ten years on, the same Andrew appeared, apologetic and verbose: «Emily, I married too quickly, I want a divorce.»
He kept complaining about his wifes temperament, their mismatched personalities, the disharmony in his life. I would nod, listen to his sighs, offer a comforting touch. One night, his eyes lit up like a butterdrenched pancake in the sun: «Emily, weve just had a second baby! Congratulations!»
«Congratulations!» I replied, then, barely holding back tears, I shouted, «Tell your wife to leave, Andrew, forever!»
That night I wept into my pillow, the tears bitter as vinegar.
My best friend back at school was Grace. She seemed to have it allhusband, daughter, a comfortable life. I admit I envied her. Her husband, David, never appealed to me; he wasnt my type. Id often visit Grace, where she ignored David entirely. One afternoon she confided, «Emily, Ive fallen in love! Ive lost my head. Hes married, has two kids.»
«Forget it, Grace,» I warned. «Why ruin your family and his? What are you missing? Youve got a good life. Dont chase a married man.»
She sobbed, «I cant live without Danny, Im suffocating. Id give everything up and fly to him!»
«I understand,» I said, «but stop before its too late. Youll end up nursing a wound you cant heal.» She stared at me, distant, and that was the last time we spoke. She never called again.
Then, out of the blue, David showed up one day: «Hey, Emily. Hows life? Still single?» I replied, «Take your time, marriage will come when it does. What brings you here?» He sighed, «Grace left me.»
I felt sorry for the abandoned husband and we talked through the night. By morning wed fallen into each others arms. David stayed with me for six months, and I thought Id finally found happiness. How could Grace have turned down such a perfect man? Yet David never asked me to marry him. He left as abruptly as hed arrived, having found a new colleagueseven years his senior, with a teenage daughter. They wed, and have been together for twenty years.
Grace eventually married Danny, and they say they have a love thats written in bold letters. I dont buy the notion that stolen happiness goes unpunished; two families suffered because of that forbidden passion.
I havent seen Grace in over twenty years.
You might wonder what became of me. I spent my days mending broken, bruised wings, feeling sorry for everyone, while the men drifted back to their wives. Time kept slipping away.
As my grandmother used to say, «Every girl has her season, and when it passes, she fades.»
My season came and went. The carousel of my life screeched to a halt. Princes no longer knocked at my window. I got a pedigree cat for company, someone to talk to when the house was quiet. Still single, childless, I never quite made it work.
