Oh man, let me tell you this story about Emily and James…
“Emily, sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“Wife called? Fine, go ahead. I’m used to it.”
Every time James left to go back to his wife, it stung. Emily wished he’d stay the night—just once. They could’ve gone to a cosy café, curled up under a blanket watching a film, sipping proper coffee she’d made. But no. Just dreams.
James never hid that he was married with a son. Claimed he didn’t love his wife, just stayed for the kid’s sake. Once the boy finished school, he’d leave—that’s what he promised.
Emily couldn’t care less about his wife. Why should she worry about some other woman’s happiness? If a marriage was dead, it was dead. James was just being a decent dad, not wanting to uproot his son. Fine. Two more years, then the boy would be off to uni, and *then*… blankets, films, their own little family. Emily fantasised about a daughter—a mini-her.
Two years flew by. But every time she pressed him, there was an excuse.
“Look, Lisa’s mum’s really poorly. She’s moved in with us. I just can’t right now—you get it, yeah?”
Emily sighed and nodded. How long was she supposed to wait? Till retirement?
Then—late. A test. Two lines. Maybe… maybe this was good? She booked a doctor’s appointment.
Sat at the clinic, waiting her turn. A heavily pregnant woman stepped out, arm in arm with—wait. *James?* What the—?
They walked right past her. The doctor confirmed Emily’s pregnancy, cheerfully adding,
“Bit late for a first at 35, but you’ll manage! Had a lady earlier—40, her son’s off to uni, and she’s having a baby with her husband! Solid family, why not?”
Emily forced a smile. Her head spun. All those lies—*”I’ll leave her”*—while he knocked up his so-called *unloved* wife? How long had he planned to string her along?
“Fox, can’t make it tonight, sorry—”
“Yeah, me neither. Busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Clubbing with Sarah. Sick of waiting around.”
“*Clubbing?* You’re how old? That’s a terrible idea—”
“Not your call. You’re *someone else’s husband*. No right to tell me what to do.”
She hung up. Oh, *now* he cared? She was supposed to sit like a loyal pup while he played happy families?
Finally, it hit her—the pathetic role she’d played for years. Wife got the best of him; Emily got scraps. And he didn’t care that her clock was ticking. Well, too bad. She’d have her own child now.
James showed up unannounced, drunk, weeping. His wife’s baby—a girl—died during birth. His wife’s grief had tipped into madness. He didn’t know what to do.
“Do the bare minimum—*be there for her*. It’s *your* shared grief. Why lie to me all this time if things were ‘fine’?”
“God’s punishing me—took my daughter because of *you*—”
“Don’t spin this. *You* lied to everyone—your wife, me, yourself. Grow up. Go home.”
She slammed the door, crying—for herself, for his wife. Soon, she’d be a mum too. She *got* that pain now.
James called, turned up wasted—she sent him packing. He never knew she had *his* son. Little Mark, his spitting image. She gave the boy her name, left “father” blank on the birth cert.
Stats say 10% of men leave wives for mistresses. Half crawl back. How many women waste years waiting for promises that never come?
