The dim streets of Manchester escorted Andrew home after a long day’s work. Heavy with thought, he walked, anxiety tightening around his heart. The windows of their fourth-floor flat were dark. “Where has she gone this time?” flickered through his mind. Stepping into the empty house, silence struck his nerves like a blow. Before he could even remove his shoes, the doorbell rang. Their neighbour, her face etched with worry, spoke words that shattered his world: “Your wife, Margaret, was taken by an ambulance.” Andrew froze, disbelief clouding his senses. His life, filled with mistakes and missed chances, collapsed in an instant, leaving only pain and regret.
The thought struck Andrew like thunder even before he’d reached the door. He paused, the ground seeming to shift beneath him. “How could I have been so blind?” he wondered, a bitter smile twisting his lips. It had all been so obvious, yet he’d refused to see. At home waited Margaret—the woman he’d once loved but long since taken for granted. He imagined their usual reunion: her cold “You’re back, then?” before retreating to the kitchen without so much as a glance. “Will you want supper?” she’d ask, not a trace of warmth in her voice.
Once, Margaret had cooked with love—baked pies, collected recipes, preserved jars of pickles. But in recent years, everything had changed. For the children, when they visited, she still made an effort, but for Andrew—nothing. Her food tasted of duty, as though she resented every stir of the spoon. When patience failed him, he’d fry potatoes or boil dumplings in silence, without complaint. She ate but never thanked. Her indifference cut deep, yet he held his tongue, avoiding arguments.
There had been a time when Margaret was different. Her tenderness, her care, the way she’d press close as if sharing the warmth of her heart. But those days were long gone. Now, her affection felt mechanical, like an obligation she despised. When had it begun? Perhaps when Andrew stayed out with friends while she waited alone. Or when he failed to fetch her from the hospital after their youngest was born, too busy celebrating with mates. “It’s just a night out,” he’d reasoned. Yet the look in her eyes—full of hurt—still haunted him.
Margaret had withdrawn, growing quiet and distant. She took offence at his remarks, shutting herself away as though avoiding him. Anger flared in Andrew: “I’ve a right to speak my mind!” But her silence was worse than shouting. When the children visited, she came alive—bustling, cooking, smiling. With him, only coldness remained. “Who’s she trying to fool?” he wondered. Life slipped away, their marriage reduced to empty routine.
Andrew had long since stopped his nights out. He worked as an engineer, earned well, never glanced at other women. Yet Margaret seemed not to care. She made her own way, bold and independent. Why hadn’t she left? For the children? They were grown now. Andrew didn’t understand her. Once, he’d tried—then given up. “If this is how she wants it, so be it.” But deep down, he yearned for warmth, for a wife who greeted him with joy, not duty. For love that had long since faded.
And now, the crushing thought: she hadn’t loved him. Perhaps never had. Andrew remembered wondering why a clever, educated woman like Margaret had chosen him. Had it just been time, and he—tall, decent-looking—a convenient choice? “Knew the bairns would be bonny,” he thought bitterly.
He entered the dark flat, the silence deafening. “Where is she?” Dread coiled tighter. The doorbell rang. Their neighbour, eyes averted, murmured:
“Andrew, love… the ambulance took Margaret an hour ago…”
He ran through the streets, breath ragged with tears. For the first time in his life, he prayed:
“Lord, don’t take her from me—how can I go on? Please, save her! If she lives, I’ll mend my ways, I swear it! I’ll go to church, I’ll do anything—just let her live!”
But Margaret was already gone. At the hospital, they told him her heart had stopped in the ambulance. His world crumbled. Days passed in a haze. Children, friends, relatives spoke, but he heard nothing. One thought pounded in his skull: “I never said I was sorry.”
Now Andrew lives alone. The children begged him to join them, but he refused. He often visits the nearby chapel. There, in the quiet and scent of incense, he sometimes feels Margaret near. The ancient walls seem to cradle his grief. He gazes at the stained glass and whispers, “Forgive me for not treasuring you.” But there’s no reply—only the silence that has become his constant companion.
