The dew still clings to the grass, the mist slowly retreats to the opposite riverbank, and the sun peeks over the jagged treeline.
Thomas stands on the porch, admiring the beauty of the early morning and breathing in the crisp air. Behind him, he hears the soft slap of bare feet. A woman in a nightgown and a shawl draped over her shoulders steps out and stands beside him.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Thomas sighs deeply. “You should go inside—you’ll catch cold,” he says tenderly, adjusting the shawl slipping off her smooth shoulder.
The woman leans against him, wrapping her arms around his.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Thomas murmurs, his voice thick with affection.
“Then don’t,” she whispers, her voice honeyed and inviting, like a siren’s call. *Stay—but then what?* The thought snaps Thomas back to reality.
If it were that simple, he would’ve stayed long ago. But twenty-three years with his wife can’t just be erased, and the children… Emily is practically gone already, spending most nights at her fiancé’s place, soon to be married. And young Alfie is only fourteen, right in the middle of those difficult teenage years.
A lorry driver can find work anywhere, but here, the pay would be a fraction of what he earns now. Right now, he splashes cash on lavish gifts for Zoe. But if his wages drop—would she still love him the same? Doubtful.
“Don’t start, Zoe,” Thomas brushes her off.
“Why not? The kids are grown—it’s time to think of ourselves. You said yourself you and your wife are just going through the motions.” Zoe pulls away, hurt.
“Ah, if only I’d met you sooner…” Thomas exhales sharply. “Don’t be angry. I should go—I’m already running late.” He leans in for a kiss, but she turns her face away. “Zoe, I’ve got a load to deliver, a contract waiting.”
“Always promises. You come here, stir everything up, then rush back to her. I’m tired of waiting. Michael’s asked me to marry him for months now.”
“Then go.” Thomas shrugs.
He hesitates, wanting to say more but thinks better of it. Slowly, he steps off the porch, rounds the house, and heads toward the main road where his lorry waits. He always parks there, not wanting to disturb the village with the engine’s roar at dawn.
He climbs into the cab. Normally, Zoe walks him out, kisses him goodbye. But today she doesn’t follow—clearly upset. Settling in, he slams the door and hesitates before starting the engine, dialling his wife. He never calls her in front of Zoe. The line rings out—switched off. No missed calls either.
He pockets the phone, fires up the engine, listening to its deep, steady growl. The lorry shudders awake, lurches forward, rocking over the uneven road. A quick honk, then he accelerates.
On the porch, the woman shivers, listening to the engine fade before retreating inside.
The radio hums with Ed Sheeran’s voice: *”Darling, hold my hand…”* Thomas hums along, thinking of the woman he’s left behind. But soon, his mind shifts—something’s off. *Why hasn’t she answered in two days? When I get back, we’ll talk…*
Meanwhile, his wife, Claire, wakes from anaesthesia in a hospital bed—and remembers everything.
***
They’ve been married over twenty years—twenty-four, to be exact. Thomas is a long-haul driver, good pay, solid family, big house, two kids. Emily’s all grown up, about to marry and move out—qualified hairdresser now. Alfie’s fourteen, dreams of joining the navy.
Then the call came. At first, Claire thought it was a prank.
“Hello, Claire. Waiting for your husband? He’s delayed…” The voice was sweet, dripping like syrup.
“What’s happened?” she snapped, mind racing to accidents—long drive, valuable cargo, anything could go wrong.
“Oh, something *has* happened. He’s with his mistress,” the voice purred.
“Who *is* this?” Claire shouted.
“You just… *wait*, wait…” The line dissolved into laughter.
Claire hung up, but the laughter echoed in her ears. Panic set in—her thoughts tangled between images of crashes and another woman in Thomas’s arms. *Who else would know he’s away? Only her. How dare she call me, mock me!*
She dialled Thomas, then hung up instantly. *What if he’s driving? What would I even say?* Better to wait until he’s home. She tried to distract herself—housework, chores—but everything fell through her fingers. That mocking voice lingered.
Of course, neither Emily nor Alfie were home. Emily was out with her boyfriend, Alfie at a mate’s birthday sleepover.
She needed air. Pulling on a coat, she grabbed her bag and headed out—just a quick run to the shop for mayo, onions, and beer. Thomas liked a pint or two on his days off. No time tomorrow—she’d be cooking. He’d promised to be back for dinner. *Unless he isn’t…* She pushed the thought aside.
Walking might calm her nerves. But the supermarket’s a trek, so she cuts through an alley—concrete walls on one side, a row of garages on the other. Empty, dimming light, but half the distance. She quickens her pace.
Suddenly, her bag is ripped from her grip. She stumbles backward, nearly falling, then spins—a man’s retreating back. *No chance.* But she chases anyway—her wallet, cards, keys, phone, her *life* in that bag.
“Stop!” she shouts. He rounds a corner, gone. Her heel catches a loose stone—her ankle twists, and she crashes onto the asphalt. Pain shoots through her hip, her elbow splits open. She tries to stand, but white-hot agony lances up her spine. Tears blur her vision. Her ankle swells blue-black before her eyes.
Worse—no phone. No help. Panic smothers her. No one will hear her shouts past these walls. Only vagrants or troublemakers might stumble by.
Should she crawl? If she reaches the houses, someone might see her. But the image stops her—dragging herself, bloody-kneed, looking like a drunk. Who’d help her then? She sobs, slumped against a rusted garage door, afraid to move.
All because of that cursed call. Trouble never comes alone. She must’ve lost her mind, walking here in the dark. No one knows where she is. No way to call. For the first time in twenty years, she won’t be there when Thomas comes home…
Headlights cut through the gloom. A car stops. A man steps out, unlocks a garage. She screams: “Help!”
He turns. “Over here! Please!” Her voice cracks—she coughs—but he walks toward her.
Stopping just shy, he eyes her.
“Please—I was robbed. My ankle… Call an ambulance!”
He pulls out his phone—then hesitates. Her pulse spikes—what’s he planning? Her fingers scrabble for a rock, a stick.
He crouches. Even in the dark, her swollen ankle is obvious.
“Ambulance’ll take ages. I’ll carry you—hold onto my neck.”
She nods, weeping as he lifts her—one arm under her legs, the other bracing her back. He staggers to the car, breath ragged. At the door, he sets her down to open it. She balances on one foot, leaning against the hood.
Inside, he hands her wet wipes. “What happened?” he pants.
“I—I took a shortcut. A man stole my bag. I chased him. Thank you—I’d have been stuck all night.”
He passes her his phone. “Call your husband, family.”
*Husband’s away.* She dials Emily. Loud music drowns her out.
“Mum? What?”
“I—I think I broke my ankle! Going to hospital!”
“Can’t hear you! I’ll call back!” The line dies.
Her fingers shake as she tries Alfie. No answer.
“Bloody hell!” she snaps.
“No luck?” the man sympathises.
She shakes her head, sniffling.
“Nearly there. I’m James. You?”
“Claire.” And suddenly, she tells him everything.
***
Claire opens her eyes. Sunlight floods the ward. Her head throbs; her leg is numb, but pain flares when she shifts—duller now.
“You’re awake?” A nurse hovers. “Your husband’s here.”
“Husband?”
James steps in. He catches her disappointed look.
“Sorry—said I was your husband so they’d let me in. How are you?”
“Alright, I think.” She forces a smile.
“Brought you cherries.” He sets a bag on the bedside table. “WJames smiled gently, placing the phone on the table, and as Claire met his eyes, she realized—for the first time in years—someone truly saw her.
