12October2025
Today I finally understood why Emma has been so upset. She walked into my study, slammed her hand onto the desk and the china cups clattered. You never hear me! she cried. Im talking to you and youre lost in your thoughts again!
I jumped, eyes flicking away from my phone. What? Sorry, I was daydreaming.
The same old thing! Emmas voice trembled with hurt. Ive told you three times that Clare is inviting us to the cottage this Saturday. Are you coming, or will you be in the office again?
Darling, I cant now, I have important matters, I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Can we push it to the next weekend?
What matters? she asked, weary. Youre sixtytwo, Victor. Youve spent thirty years at the factory, youre retired. What could possibly be more important than family?
I fell silent, staring off. I could feel something tightening inside her. She was used to me talking, to us chatting for hours about everything under the sun.
Fine, she said, pushing away from the desk and beginning to clear the dishes. Ill go alone, as usual.
I opened my mouth, then shut it, simply nodding and diving back into my phone. Emma carried the plates to the kitchen, tears gathering at the back of her throat. Forty years together, two grown children, three grandchildren, and now it felt as if we were strangers.
It all began about three months ago, when I finally retired. Emma had been thrilled at the thought of us finally having time for each othertrips to the seaside, fixing up the cottage, visiting my sister in York. Instead, I locked myself away in the study for hours on end, offering vague answers whenever she asked what I was doing: Just finishing a project, Helping an old colleague, Im tired, need some alone time.
She endured it. Shed put up with me for decades, but when I missed our granddaughters birthday, citing urgent work, her patience cracked. And when I completely forgot our wedding anniversary, Emma was, for the first time in years, genuinely angry.
She washed the dishes and looked out the window. Spring was in full swing, fresh buds sprouting on the trees. She wanted to stroll, breathe the fresh air, enjoy life. Instead she stood in the kitchen, trying to grasp where her husband had vanished. Physically I was there, but my spirit seemed elsewhere.
The phone rang and a photo of Clare popped up.
Hi, Emma tried to sound cheerful. Yes, I asked. No, he cant come. He says hes busy.
Busy? Clare huffed. Emma, this is starting to feel like a farce. What could a retired man be busy with?
I dont know, Emma sighed, sinking onto a stool. Hes in his study, doing something. Im tired of prying.
Did you ever consider that maybe Clare hesitated, then continued, you never know. Some men, even at our age
What? Emmas eyes widened. What are you getting at? A lover? Victor?
Whats wrong with that? Clare replied cautiously. I dont want to upset you, but think about it. He spends whole days disappearing, doesnt answer, has become secretive. Maybe hes really seeing someone.
Emma fell silent. The idea that Victor could be unfaithful never crossed her mind after all those yearshard times, no money, illnesses, childrens troubles. Could he now, when life finally settled, have found another?
I dont believe it, she finally said. Victor isnt like that.
Emma, I dont want to believe either, Clare sighed. But the facts are there. Go to his study, see what hes up to. You have a right to know.
I cant, Emma shook her head. That would be invading his privacy.
What privacy? Youre husband and wife! There should be no secrets between us.
We talked a bit longer, then said goodbye. Emma sat at the kitchen table, replaying Clares words. A lover? No, that sounded absurd. Hed never looked at another womanat least she hadnt noticed.
Yet what if Clare was right? What if for months hed been lying?
She stood, resolved, and headed to the study. The door was shut, as always. She raised her hand to knock, then paused. From inside came a rustlepaper shuffling, low muttering, not a voice.
She knocked.
Yes? I called out.
Victor, may I come in?
A pause, then the sound of something being hurriedly put away.
Just a minute!
Emma frowned. Something was definitely being hidden. My heart beat faster. Could there really be secrets?
The door cracked open, revealing my face.
What do you want?
Victor, you dont even let me into your study? she tried a smile. Just wanted to know if youll be at dinner or are you busy again?
Ill be, of course, I forced a grin. Give me about twenty minutes.
She stepped back, returned to the kitchen. Inside, something was brewing. I was clearly keeping something from her. Maybe Clare had a point after all.
We ate in silence. I swallowed my food quickly and retreated to the study. Emma was left alone in front of the television, but she couldnt focus on any programme. Thoughts raced, each more frightening than the last.
I went to bed early, but sleep eluded me. I came back late, slipping into bed carefully, trying not to wake her. She lay still, pretending to sleep. We used to talk before turning in, sharing the days events, planning ahead. Those moments were gone.
Morning found me in the kitchen, coffee steaming, scrolling on my tablet.
Morning, Emma said.
Morning, I replied, pulling a mug. Do you want some?
Ill pour it myself.
She sat opposite, watching me. Fatigue showed in the shadows under my eyes, silver at my temples. When had I aged so much?
Victor, she began gently. We need to talk.
About what? I kept my eyes on the screen.
About us. About whats happening between us.
Nothings happening, I shrugged. Everythings as usual.
No, its not usual! Emma snapped. You avoid me. You hide in that study all day. You forgot our anniversary. You missed our granddaughters birthday!
I finally met her gaze. Guilt flickered across my face.
Im sorry, I whispered. I really have been working a lot lately.
On what? she leaned forward. Tell me, what are you working on? Why cant you explain?
Its complicated, I looked away. Later, okay? Youll see soon.
When is soon? she asked, her voice tight.
Very soon. Just a bit more patience.
I wanted to answer, but the phone rang. I grabbed it and hurried out into the hallway. Snippets of conversation drifted back to Emma.
Yes, its ready No, she doesnt know Fine, Ill be there
My stomach clenched. She didnt know? What didnt she know? Who was on the other end of that call?
I returned, jacket on, and announced, Ive got to step out.
Where to?
Business, I said, and vanished through the door.
Emma stayed at the table, staring at an empty mug. Business, she muttered. Clares words echoed again. Could the friend be right? Could there truly be someone else?
The whole day I drifted in a haze of worry, tidying the house, preparing lunch, but my mind kept pulling me back to that study door. I knew I should look, but each time I approached, something held me back. Was I being unfair? After everything wed been through?
Evening saw me back in the study, shuffling papers, making small noises, once even a faint laughsomething I hadnt done in years.
My daughter Olivia called.
Mum, how are things? her voice trembled. Dads gone off the deep end with his projects?
Do you know what hes working on? Emma asked, a hint of desperation.
Uh he mentioned something important, but hes vague, Olivia admitted. Hes been very secretive lately.
The conversation only deepened my anxiety. If even Olivia was in the dark, what else was I keeping concealed?
Night fell, and sleep again slipped through my fingers. I lay awake, listening to Emmas steady breathing. Forty years togethercould it all crumble like this?
The next morning I announced, Ill be late tonight. Dont wait for me for dinner.
Where are you off to now? Emma asked.
Just errands, love. Bear with me a little longer.
When the door shut behind me, I felt a resolve harden. I turned the knob of the study. The door was unlocked.
The room smelled of paper and something familiar. On the desk lay folders, stacks of photographs, an open laptop. My heart hammered as I stepped closer.
The first thing that caught my eye was a framed wedding photome in a suit, Emma in a white dress, beaming. Beside it, pictures of our children: little Olivia in my arms, then Sergey, then family holidays at the seaside.
I opened a folder. Inside were printed photos, each taped to a date, with handwritten notes beside them.
1992 We moved into that tiny flat in Camden. No money, but love overflowed. Emma would greet me every night after work, and I felt the luckiest man alive.
The next page showed our first car, a battered old Austin Metro.
We saved three years for this. Emma gave up a coat shed wanted because the old one was worn out. When I finally parked it in the driveway, she wept with joy. We drove around the city, hand in hand.
Page after page chronicled every milestone: births, first steps, school days, moving to a larger house, holidays in Cornwall, my promotion at the factory, Olivias wedding. Each picture was accompanied by a paragraph Id written, recalling the emotions, the laughter, the tears.
My hands shook. Tears blurred my vision as I read on. In another thick folder, I found pages of my own words, written years ago.
Emma is my rock. When we couldnt afford medicine for my mother, she sold her wedding ring. I wept, but she said, Its just metal; our bond is in our hearts. Five years later I bought her a new ring, more beautiful than the first.
I pressed a finger to my throat, fighting the sobs. I realized I had been working on a bookour life story, a chronicle of us.
On the laptop, a document titled Our Story For Our 41st Anniversary was open.
Soon our fortyfirst anniversary will be here. I want to give Emma this bookour history, our love. She thinks Ive drifted, that Im bored, but the truth is I love her more now than ever. These forty years have been the best of my life. I want our children and grandchildren to see that real love exists. It isnt always easy or flashy, but its genuine and lasts a lifetime.
Tears fell freely as I read my own words, seeing through my own eyes the depth of my feeling. I remembered every lilac she loved, every spring I brought her a bunch, the dream of the sea that I saved for, her fears and hopes.
The door opened and Emma stood there, a look of surprise on her face, a small bag in her hand.
Victor she began.
I didnt mean to Im sorry, she whispered, tears spilling.
No, its me who should apologise, I said, dropping to my knees beside the chair. I got so caught up in this book that I forgot you were right here, alive, needing my attention now, not just in ink.
Victor, its beautiful, she said, smoothing my hair. I read it and thought youd stopped loving me. I thought there was someone else.
What? Emma, how could you think that? Ive never had anyone else, not now, not ever. Only you.
Youve been distant, secretive
I wanted to surprise you for our anniversary. I wanted to give you this book, to show how much these years mean to me. Instead I hurt you, I took her hands. Forgive this old fool.
She embraced me, and we sat amid the photographs, surrounded by the decades wed shared.
Why did you do it? I asked, after we settled.
I pulled another folder from the desk. Do you remember Aunt Veras diary I found last year? Her husband, Uncle Colin, kept a journal of their life. I realized wed never left a record for our grandchildren. I started writing, collecting photos, notes. I even arranged for a printer to produce a proper book.
Emma laughed through tears. Clare even suggested I had a lover.
A lover? Me? Im just an old pensioner with one love you.
He kissed my forehead, and warmth spread through me, the same warmth we felt forty years ago.
Will you show me everything? I asked. I want to read it all.
Its not finished yet, he said, sheepish. I hoped to have it ready by the anniversary, even got a print shop to take it on.
Itll be the best gift I could ever receive, I replied, feeling sincere.
We spent the evening in the study, flipping through old albums, laughing at silly moments, crying at tender ones. He told me about things Id forgottenhow I sang to you when you were ill, how we danced in the kitchen to the old record player, how we imagined a future while sitting on a park bench.
He paused, thoughtful. You know, Ive learned that happiness isnt in big eventsweddings, anniversaries. Its in the little things: your smile over morning tea, us sharing a cuppa in the kitchen, you always being there.
I leaned into his shoulder, realizing how wrong Id been to think hed drifted away. Hed been close all along, just expressing love in his own quiet way.
Later, after the children and grandchildren had left, I called Clare.
Did you get to the bottom of it? she asked, relieved.
No lover, I said, smiling. He was writing a book about us. Can you imagine?
Thats romantic! she exclaimed. Youre lucky, Victor.
Ive always known, I replied, glancing at Victor tinkering with the coffee machine. I just forget sometimes.
Our anniversary passed in a small family gathering. The kids arrived with their children, and Victor presented me with the beautifully bound book, the cover bearing our wedding photo. Inside lay our life, year after year.
Olivia wept as she turned the pages. Sergey stared silently, wiping away tears. The grandchildren peppered us with questions about the old photographs.
Granddad, did you really give Grandma a hundred roses for your fiftieth? the eldest asked.
Indeed, Victor grinned. She always dreamed of a massive bouquet.
How romantic! the little girl sighed. I want my husband to be like that.
When everyone had gone, Victor and I were alone again. I thumbed through the book once more, whispering, Thank you, for everything. For this book. For still being here.
Its I who should thank you, he replied, pulling me close. For your patience, your love, for standing by me all these years.
We realised that this isnt an ending but a fresh start. We now know how crucial it is to cherish every day, every moment together, not to postpone attention and care, not to stay silent when we could speak, and to show our affection openly.
Entering his study that day finally showed me why hed been working so muchit was his way of preserving us. That understanding has given me more happiness than I ever imagined.
A lesson learned: love thrives not on grand gestures alone, but on the everyday presence, honesty, and the willingness to share both our thoughts and our memories.
