Charlotte didn’t hear the squeak of the hospital trolley wheels against the linoleum or the hurried footsteps rushing down the corridor. Her head swayed slightly from side to side with the motion. She didn’t see the fluorescent lights flashing above her, didn’t hear Edward calling: “Charlotte! Charlotte!” She didn’t notice the doctor blocking his path.
“You can’t go in. Wait here.”
Edward slumped onto the plastic chairs near the intensive care unit door, elbows resting on his knees, face buried in his hands. She didn’t see any of it. She was flying in a blinding stream of light, wanting only for it to stop, for the peace to come.
***
She had been in a comedy sketch at a university party, playing a student who hadn’t studied for her exam and was desperately improvising. The audience laughed and applauded. Afterward, there was dancing, and Edward asked her.
“You were brilliant—like a real actress,” he said, gazing at her with admiration.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be in it. Emily backed out last minute. I was so nervous I forgot my lines and made things up. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.” Charlotte’s eyes still sparkled with excitement.
“Could’ve fooled me. You were smooth, confident. Hilarious, too. You picked the wrong career.”
When the night ended, he walked her to the dormitory and awkwardly kissed her cheek. Edward still lived with his parents. They started dating, and a month later, they rented a tiny room from an elderly widow near the university. Edward had to argue fiercely with his parents, but eventually, they relented, agreeing to help the young couple.
The old woman next door was hard of hearing, but just in case, they played their music loud. Looking back, Charlotte remembered those days as the happiest of her life.
“I love you,” Edward would whisper, breathless beside her.
“No, I love you more,” she’d murmur, pressing her cheek to his damp chest.
“Impossible. I love you even more…”
They played the game fondly, then dreamed of graduating, finding jobs, buying a proper house, and having children—a boy and a girl.
“No, a girl first, then a boy,” Charlotte clarified.
“And then another boy,” Edward added, kissing her.
They were certain no one had ever loved each other as deeply as they did.
Their happiness made their classmates envious. Professors smiled wistfully, remembering their own youth—how many couples like them had they seen? How many had they once been, before time turned them into lecturers, drilling medicine into careless students?
After graduation, Edward and Charlotte worked in a city dental clinic for two years before moving to a private practice run by Edward’s father’s friend. Two years later, the friend opened a second branch and made Edward its manager.
They earned well. His parents helped cover most of the mortgage. Just as planned, Charlotte had a daughter first, then, three years later without leaving maternity leave, a son.
Weekends were for grandparents, giving Edward and Charlotte time to rest and be alone. A picture-perfect, happy family. What more could anyone want?
When their son was older, Charlotte wanted to return to work. She was tired of being at home, worried about losing her professional edge.
“Why? I earn enough. Stay home with the kids,” Edward suddenly protested. “Let’s have another son. We’ll manage. My parents adore the grandkids—they’ll help.”
But this time, Charlotte didn’t fall pregnant. She blamed herself, spiraling into anxiety, visiting doctors who found nothing wrong.
“Stop worrying. If we had no children, I’d understand. But we have two—perfect ones. Relax, just live,” Edward reassured her.
She tried. Yet she kept pleading to work.
“I won’t hire you at my clinic,” he said flatly one day. “Spouses shouldn’t work together. Besides, it’s been seven years—you’ve lost your skills. No clinic would take you.”
The quarrels began. Charlotte busied herself with the house and children, but when they were at Edward’s parents’, she climbed the walls with boredom. One evening, she drank wine to soothe her nerves. It helped—the weight lifted. She fell asleep on the sofa, only to wake in the morning and realize Edward hadn’t come home. He answered on her third call.
“You didn’t come back—”
“I did. You were too drunk to notice.” His voice was cold, almost disgusted.
“One glass! What else am I supposed to do? You won’t let me work, the children are gone—”
“I’ll call my parents to bring them back. I’ve got to go.” He hung up.
Charlotte hurled her phone against the wall, watching it shatter.
When had it all gone wrong? Everything had been perfect. When did their love crack, their life shatter like that phone? She paced, rearranging things, fighting the urge to drink. The children would be back soon—no one could see her like this. Yet as hours passed and darkness fell, she drank again, collapsing onto the sofa.
Later, she heard Edward return. His polished, rested appearance shocked her—she felt haggard by comparison.
“You look fresh. Doesn’t seem like you’ve been working double shifts or sleeping at the office. New shirt, too. I don’t recognize it.” She watched for his reaction.
He ignored her. Then, as if pushed, she blurted:
“Are you cheating on me? Is that why you wouldn’t let me work? So I wouldn’t notice?”
“Don’t be absurd. Are you drunk again?”
“One glass, and suddenly I’m an alcoholic?” Her voice rose.
The fight escalated. When Edward admitted there was another woman, that he dreaded coming home, Charlotte slapped him. He raised his hand.
“Go on, hit me. Half the council gets their teeth done by you—they’ll cover for you. Marry her, then.”
She didn’t even process the blow. Pain exploded in her jaw. Worse was the humiliation, the betrayal.
He hit her. The man who’d once been so tender. She remembered their tiny rented room, the music, their playful arguments over who loved the other more. They had the house, the children—so why had the love vanished? As if contentment had replaced it.
She tore off her wedding ring, hurled it out the window. Waited for him to do the same. Then she noticed—his finger was bare.
“You—” The realization choked her.
“You—” She couldn’t speak.
“I’m tired of you. Look at yourself. What are you now? A drunken, hysterical mess. I wouldn’t trust you with the kids—”
The words knocked the breath from her. The room tilted. Darkness swallowed her.
***
She woke to antiseptic smells, distant beeping. Something pressed against her ribs, forcing her to breathe. She tried opening her eyes—the beeping quickened. *Did I leave the fridge open?* The thought flickered. *The food will spoil. The children—* Light seared her vision.
“You’re awake. Charlotte, can you hear me?” Edward’s voice reached her as if from far away.
She tried to speak—lips stuck, throat dry.
His face hovered above her, frightened yet relieved. “You’re in hospital. You collapsed. Your heart stopped.”
She blinked at the white ceiling. *Not dead, then.*
“You’re safe now.” He squeezed her hand—and darkness took her again.
The next time she woke, breathing hurt, as if an anvil lay on her chest.
“Edward,” she rasped, her voice unfamiliar.
“I’m here.” His grip tightened.
Memories flooded back—the shattered phone, the fight, the ring flung into the night, his strike—
“The ring,” she whispered.
“What ring?”
“Mine.”
“You threw it away. Don’t worry—I’ll buy a new one.”
“Yours.”
“Mine?” He sounded genuinely puzzled before lifting his hand—the gold band glinted.
“Enough. She needs rest. Leave.” A needle pricked her arm.
As she recovered, she pieced together her life like a puzzle. A week later, Edward brought her home—thin, frail—to their spacious house.
“Mummy! You’re back!” The children clung to her. She held them tight, relieved they remembered her.
At dinner, she barely touched her food, watching Edward and the kids.
“Who cooked?” she asked suddenly.
“Mum. She brought the children and made lunch. Tired? Kids, go play.”
Alone, silence stretched between them. She wondered—could their love be saved? The house was in his name. She had no job, no prospects. He held all the power. Could she accept that? Or walk away, leaving everything behind—even the memories? Not yet.
Would he cheat again? Regret the fight? Could they fix this, or was it better to burn it all and start anew? She studied his face, recalling when he swore he loved her more. Did she still love him that fiercely? No. But a spark remained.She looked into his eyes and realized that love, no matter how broken, could still be mended, but only if both were willing to rebuild it—together.
