The Weight of a Single Wish
Polly threw back the duvet, flipped her damp pillow to the cooler side, and lay down again. The room had cooled slightly, but sleep still eluded her. The distant hum of tyres on wet tarmac outside mingled with her thoughts—those relentless, suffocating thoughts. “Where’s that late-night driver rushing to? Home? Or is he fleeing from something—someone—into the dark? Who waits for a man in such a hurry?… Blasted heat…”
With a sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She knew the flat like the back of her hand; no need for lights. In the kitchen, she approached the window. Across the road, two windows glowed in the neighbouring house. “Are they waiting for their wanderer… or mourning his absence?”
Young leaves rustled in the breeze, obscuring any figures behind those lit panes. She flicked on the nightlight, filled a glass from the kettle, and turned it off again. One window across the way had darkened. Sipping slowly, she felt the chill of the water seep into her body, her bare feet pressing against the cool linoleum.
The empty glass clinked against the sill as she set it down. Back in the bedroom, she couldn’t bear the thought of the crumpled, sweat-damp sheets. Instead, she retreated to the narrow sofa in the spare room, sinking into its unforgiving cushions, stuffed with God-knows-what.
And then, inexplicably, sleep took her.
***
“Bitter! Bitter!” the wedding guests chanted, champagne flutes aloft.
Ethan stood, pulling Polly up by the hand. In her heels, she matched his height, meeting his gaze directly for once—no more tilting her chin up. His eyes gleamed with admiration, love, and something hungrier. She leaned in, her veil shielding their kiss from prying eyes.
“One, two, three—” the guests slurred in unison.
Her mother had taught her: a woman makes or breaks a marriage. So Polly threw herself into building their happiness.
At first, they did everything together—groceries, dinners, laughing over burnt potatoes left forgotten on the stove. They were in love. It felt eternal.
Two years later, little Sophie arrived. Her mother helped at first.
“I’m exhausted,” Polly confessed, resentful of Ethan’s absence.
“Men work. They tire. A woman’s duty is the home,” her mother said. “Sleep when the baby sleeps. But if he’s exhausted, what good is he at work?”
Polly learned to nap in stolen moments—even dozing on park benches during pram walks. When Sophie turned two, Polly returned to work.
“Once I retire in five years, we’ll take Sophie, and you can have another,” her mother mused.
But back in her career, Polly couldn’t fathom a second child. Ethan never pressed. It never happened.
“Why do men stray? Because mistresses are always polished. Wives grow lazy,” her mother warned.
So Polly made sure Ethan never saw her unkempt. She rose early to perfect herself before he woke.
Yet it wasn’t enough. Sophie grew, left the nest, and Polly noticed Ethan swapping suits for joggers, taking up running despite already being fit.
“Keeping up with the times,” he said.
When she found lipstick on his collar, she confronted him. Caught, he stumbled over excuses before confessing. He asked her to let him go.
“Am I stopping you? Go. But don’t come back.”
She gathered his things herself, dry-eyed. In the hallway, he dawdled, stealing glances, hoping she’d beg.
Polly stood arms crossed. *Not a chance.*
He left. She collapsed onto the sofa, buried her face in that godforsaken cushion, and howled. Life felt hollow. By dawn, she uncapped a pill bottle—then called her best friend instead.
“Don’t you dare,” her friend snapped. “You’d just make him a legend. ‘Oh, what a man, to drive women to madness!’ Don’t give him that.”
Polly didn’t take the pills. Slowly, she rebuilt. Solitude had its perks—sleeping in, bare-faced weekends, no elaborate meals. She shed weight, bought new clothes. Retail therapy, as they say.
Then Sophie had a baby, and Polly found purpose again. She adored being Granny—lullabies, storybooks, sandcastles in the park.
She fantasised about Ethan seeing her now, realising what he’d lost. Did his new wife make porridge? Or did he bring *her* coffee in bed? The images stung: him in a floral apron, grocery bags in hand…
One afternoon, a man her age joined her on the bench.
“Lovely weather for April! That your grandson? Handsome lad. Mine’s the girl there—Katie. A proper little angel.”
He didn’t need replies, just an ear.
“When my wife and I had kids, she kept me at arm’s length. Didn’t trust me with them. I let her. Missed their first steps, first words… but with Katie?” He sighed. “I finally get it. Wish I’d known sooner. My Elsie’s gone now. Widower.”
Polly thought of Ethan. *Does he dote on a new child too?* The injustice burned.
She stormed home, ignoring her grandson’s tears.
Next day, the man returned. This time, Polly boasted about three-year-old Danny’s milestones.
Eventually, he confessed loneliness. “Katie’ll grow up. I’m not old yet. Could start over…” His gaze lingered.
Polly considered it. He seemed decent. But no—strangers came with baggage. She avoided that bench thereafter.
***
Morning brought a throbbing headache. As she brewed tea, the doorbell rang.
“Sophie’s early today,” she muttered.
But on the doorstep stood Ethan. Time had gutted him—deep wrinkles, thinning hair, a jacket hanging off gaunt shoulders. His eyes were hollow.
“Polly… Thought I’d visit.” He shrank under her stare.
No luggage. *Scouting the terrain*, she thought bitterly. “What do you want?”
As he removed his coat, she spotted a grimy collar. Pity stirred. *Look what she’s done to him.*
“Ethan?”
“I’m not well,” he rasped.
“I can see.”
“She’s lovely, but young. Needs excitement. I’m exhausted. My stomach…” He inhaled shakily. “Can I stay?”
“On my terms.”
“Anything.”
She pitied him—like a stray cat. They had decades, a daughter, a grandson.
“Hungry?” She reheated soup silently.
That night, his restless sighs filled the house. At dawn, she made porridge. When he didn’t emerge, she checked.
Cold. Still.
She stifled a scream. *He came home to die.*
The doctors called it a clot. Quick. Painless.
Polly buried him properly.
A week later, a woman in a tartan holdall waited outside.
“Polly?”
She knew.
“I brought Ethan’s things.”
Polly recoiled.
“Where’s he buried? I didn’t want to intrude…”
“You took him. Now you want directions?”
“I just wanted to be happy,” the woman whispered. “Sorry. My daughter’s due home.”
She hurried off, the holdall swinging.
Polly watched, resentment fading like embers in rain.
*But I’m happy. Alive. Sophie. Danny. We all chose our paths.*
She took Danny’s hand, leading him to the sandpit, chattering about the grandest castle they’d build.
