“Why are you looking at me like that? Fine, I don’t want children. For now. Aren’t we happy just the two of us?” asked Emma, turning to her husband.
The first ray of sunlight slipped through the kitchen window, painting stripes of light and shadow across the floor, the wall, and the table. It reached William’s face, cutting across his bloodshot eyes. He flinched, shielding them with his hand, but the brightness still burned through his eyelids. He dragged the stool back, retreating into the dimness where the light couldn’t touch him.
As though offended, the sun ducked behind the block of flats across the street, plunging the kitchen into gloom. Then—the long-awaited click of the front door. William tensed, listening to the hushed footsteps in the hallway, holding his breath.
Bare feet padded softly, paused in the living room, then crept toward the kitchen.
“William? You’re still up?” Her voice sounded startled, uncertain.
“Where were you?” he rasped, his lips dry and cracked.
Emma hesitated. If she’d answered straight away, he might have believed her. But the pause stretched too long.
“I was at the pub with Sophie. Then… we went back to hers. Sorry, we had a bit too much. I lost track of time and fell asleep there,” she lied.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I told you, I was drunk. Didn’t want to wake you,” she said, her voice growing steadier.
“You hoped I wouldn’t notice you weren’t home.” William kept his eyes fixed on the wall.
“What’s the big deal? We had a laugh, let loose for once. Is that a crime?” Her voice sharpened, growing defensive.
“For *once*?” He turned to her.
Emma blinked and looked away.
“I’m tired. Let’s talk tomorrow,” she muttered, moving to leave, but William grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. She gasped, stumbling into his lap before scrambling up, wrenching her arm free.
“Let go! You’re hurting me,” she hissed.
But William only tightened his grip.
“You’ll break my wrist! Let go!” Her eyes burned with contempt and desperation.
“You were with him, weren’t you? Tell me.” He held fast, refusing to let her pull away.
“Yes! Yes!” she shouted into his face. “Happy now? I *hate* you. I *hate* how suffocating you are.” She yanked hard, and this time, he released her.
The sudden lack of resistance sent her stumbling back. Her elbow struck the doorframe, and she cried out in pain.
“Go,” William said flatly.
“William, just—”
“Get out. Go to him, for all I care. Come back for your things later.” He leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes, unwilling to look at her.
“Fine. I will.” Emma left the kitchen, rubbing her bruised elbow. “You’ll regret this,” she called from the hallway. “I’m *leaving* so I never have to see your miserable face again!”
“Good riddance,” William growled. He snatched a mug from the table and hurled it against the wall. The shards scattered across the floor with a sharp, hollow clatter.
The front door slammed. William turned back to the table, dropping his head into his hands.
The sun peeked out again, streaking the kitchen with gold through the blinds. The light brushed over William’s hunched shoulders as if trying to soothe him.
He sat like that for a long time before finally standing. He stepped on broken porcelain as he left, crunching it underfoot. He showered, shaved, brewed a cup of coffee. It was still early, so he walked to work instead of driving, hoping the crisp morning air would shake off his exhaustion.
All day, he waited for Emma to call. Hoping she’d say he’d forced her into a confession—that she really had been with Sophie, that everything could go back to normal. Yes, he still loved her. He’d forgive her. But the phone never rang.
When he left the office, he regretted not driving. The sky was heavy with clouds, a fine drizzle clinging to his skin. He trudged home, half-expecting—half-hoping—to find Emma waiting for him. But the flat was silent and empty.
He swept up the broken mug, pulled a half-finished bottle of whisky from the cupboard, and downed a glass. His stomach lurched in protest. He waited for it to settle, then dragged himself to the sofa and collapsed face-first into sleep.
***
They’d married three years ago. Bright, vivacious Emma had swept him off his feet with her careless charm. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but there was something about her—something that drew people in. At first, everything had been perfect. Life with her was effortless. The world seemed to revolve around her wherever she went.
She hated cooking. He didn’t mind. Making coffee and toast in the mornings didn’t take skill. He ate lunch at the café near work. In the evenings, friends came over, bringing takeaway or ordering pizza. Weekends were spent lazing in bed before heading out for brunch that bled into dinner.
For a while, William was content. Then, one by one, their friends drifted away—settling down, having children. He’d tried talking to Emma about it. What was a marriage without a family? She’d wave him off, laughing. *Too soon,* she’d say. *We’ll have plenty of time for nappies and tantrums later.*
“Why are you looking at me like that? I *don’t* want kids. Not yet. Aren’t we happy just the two of us?” Emma snapped.
The topic always set her off. She’d storm out, disappear for hours. William would pace, sick with worry, before going to search for her. Once, after a fight, he’d stopped at a café for coffee—and there she was, sitting with a young man. He’d approached. For just a second, panic flickered across her face before she smoothed it into a smile.
“This is an old schoolmate of mine. Ran into him by chance. And this is my husband,” she’d introduced them breezily.
The man extended a hand. William hesitated, then shook it. He sat with them, but the conversation stuttered. The man excused himself soon after, citing urgent business.
After that, Emma changed. She laughed less. They went out less. Some nights, she came home late, claiming she’d been out with the girls. But most of her friends had children now. And tonight—she hadn’t come home at all. He’d known she’d blame Sophie again. He hadn’t checked. Hadn’t even saved Sophie’s number. He’d trusted her.
***
William woke in the dead of night, half-convinced Emma had returned. He reached for his phone. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she *had* been with Sophie. No. He wouldn’t call first. His pride wouldn’t let him. He tossed the phone aside.
In the bathroom mirror, he looked haggard—unshaven, red-eyed, crumpled from sleep. *Pathetic,* he thought. He didn’t bother shaving, just drank straight from the tap, finished the whisky, and crawled back into bed.
Days blurred into weeks. He visited friends in the evenings, but their wives eyed him warily now. Without Emma, he was dull—his jokes fell flat, his presence awkward. His friends pitied him, dropping hints about Emma. *Someone saw something. Someone heard something.*
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he snapped.
“Would you have believed us?” came the reply.
Eventually, he stopped visiting them altogether.
He’d quit smoking years ago, but now the craving returned. He ducked into a corner shop, queuing behind a plump, middle-aged woman at the till.
“No little one with you today?” the cashier asked as they rang up her groceries.
“Tommy’s poorly. Left him at home while I dashed out.” She paid in cash, packed her bags, and shuffled toward the exit.
William bought cigarettes and hurried outside, lighting up as soon as he stepped into the cold. Ahead of him, the same woman struggled with her shopping, limping slightly. On impulse, he caught up and offered to help. She handed over the bags gratefully.
“Just round the corner,” she said, nodding toward a row of terraced houses.
He dropped them inside her flat, ready to leave, when a boy—no older than five—appeared in the doorway, peering up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Is this my dad?” Tommy asked his grandmother.
“No, love. This kind man just helped me carry the shopping. Come, let’s see what I got you.” She tried to steer him away, but the boy kept staring.
William couldn’t move either. If he’d ever imagined having a son, he’d have wanted one just like this—bright-eyed, delicate, dwarfed by his little shorts.
“Cuppa?” the woman asked, breaking the silenceWilliam hesitated, then nodded, and as he sat sipping tea with Tommy and his grandmother, he realized—for the first time in months—that the ache in his chest had faded, replaced by the quiet, unfamiliar warmth of hope.
