Back To Her Again
Back to her again, are you?
Sarahs question didnt expect an answer. James nodded, eyes glued to the floor. He slipped on his coat, patted his pockets keys, phone, wallet. Everything in place. Time to go.
Sarah lingered, hoping for a word. Just a sorry or even Ill be back soon. But James merely opened the door and left. The lock clicked quietly, almost politely, as if apologising for its owner.
Sarah drifted to the window. The courtyard below glowed with weak lamplight, and she spotted his familiar figure at once. James walked quickly, purposefully, like a man who knows exactly where hes headed. To her. To Emily. To their seven-year-old daughter, Sophie.
Sarah pressed her forehead to the cold glass.
She had known, really right from the start, shed known what she was signing up for. When they met, James was still formally married. A name in the registry, a shared flat, a child. But he no longer lived with Emily was renting a room, only visiting for his girl.
She cheated on me, James had said back then. I couldnt forgive her. Filed for divorce.
And she believed him. God, how easily she believed. Because she wanted to, desperately, recklessly, like she was seventeen again. Coffee dates, long calls, their first kiss under the rain by her door. James looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world.
The divorce followed, then their wedding. A new flat, shared dreams, discussions about their future.
And then the calls began.
James, Sophies ill, can you bring her the medicine please, she needs it. James, the taps leaking, Ive no idea what to do. James, Sophies crying, wants to see you can you come right now?
He would drop everything, every time.
Sarah tried to understand. A child is sacred, after all Sophie wasnt at fault for her parents splitting. Of course, he had to be there, to help out, to be involved.
Sometimes, James listened to her, tried to draw boundaries with his ex-wife. But Emily just changed tactics.
Dont come this weekend. Sophie doesnt want to see you. Dont call, you upset her. She asked why Daddy left us. I didnt know what to tell her.
And each time, James caved. Whenever he tried to refuse some urgent request, Emily struck a nerve. Within a week, Sophie would repeat her mums words: You dont love us. You picked a different lady. I dont want you here.
A seven-year-old couldnt come up with that alone.
James came home after those calls shattered, guilty, the light gone from his eyes. Then, at Emilys summons, he dashed off again just to avoid his daughters cold, unfamiliar gaze.
Sarah understood. She truly did.
But she was tired.
James figure vanished behind the corner of the building. Sarah backed away from the window, rubbing her forehead a reddish mark remained from the cold glass.
The flat felt crushingly empty.
The clock read nearly midnight when a key turned in the lock.
Sarah sat at the kitchen table, untouched tea grown cold in front of her. She hadnt so much as sipped it just watched a shadow creep across its surface. Three hours. Three hours shed waited, listening for every creak on the stairwell.
James slipped in quietly, pulled off his coat, hung it up. He moved like someone hoping not to be noticed.
What was it this time?
The calmness in her voice surprised her. All evening, shed rehearsed those words, and now, by midnight, all emotion seemed burned away.
James paused.
The boiler broke. Had to fix it.
Sarah lifted her gaze slowly. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitant to enter, eyes averted, fixed on the darkness behind her.
You dont know how to fix boilers.
I called a plumber.
And you had to wait there? Sarah pushed the cup aside. Couldnt you have called from here? Sorted it out over the phone?
James scowled, arms folded. The silence thickened, almost suffocating.
Do you still love her?
Now, he looked at her sharply, angrily, wounded.
What rubbish are you talking? Everything I do is for my daughter. For Sophie! Emilys nothing to do with it.
He stepped into the kitchen. Sarah unconsciously pulled her chair back, further away.
You knew when you got involved with me that I’d have to go round there sometimes. You knew I had a child. What now? Are you going to kick off every time I go to see my girl?
Her throat tightened. Sarah wanted to respond, with dignity and bite, but instead her vision blurred, and the first tear rolled down her cheek.
I thought… She faltered, swallowing hard. I thought youd at least try to show you loved me. Even pretend, if you had to.
Sarah, just stop…
Im exhausted! Her voice broke into a shout, startling even herself. Exhausted being not just second best! But third! After her whims, after midnight plumbing emergencies!
James struck the doorframe with his palm.
What do you want from me?! To ditch my daughter? Not see her at all?
I want you to choose me, just once! Sarah leapt up, the cup rattled, tea spilled across the table. Just once say no! Not to me to her! To Emily!
Im sick of your tantrums!
James whipped around, snatched his coat off the hook.
Where are you going?
The door slammed in reply.
Sarah stood in the middle of the kitchen, tea dripping onto the linoleum, her ears ringing. She grabbed her phone and dialled. Ring, ring, ring. The person you are calling is unavailable.
Again, and again.
Nothing.
She slumped onto the chair, clutching her phone to her chest. Where had he gone? Back to her? Was he wandering the night streets, angry and upset? She didnt know, and the not knowing made everything worse.
The night dragged on endlessly.
Sarah sat on the bed, phone in hand the screen flickered on and off. Ring, listen to the tone, hang up. Text: Where are you? Another: Please, reply. And another: Im scared. Send and watch each message display a solitary grey tick. Not delivered. Or delivered, but unread. Did it even matter anymore.
By four in the morning, shed stopped crying. The tears had run dry, leaving only an aching emptiness inside. Sarah rose, turned on the bedroom light, and opened the wardrobe.
Enough.
Shed had enough.
The suitcase was stashed on the top shelf, dusty, the tag torn off from some old trip. Sarah tossed it onto the bed and began packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. No sorting, no choosing simply grabbed what she could reach and shoved it in. If he didnt care neither did she. Hed come home to an empty flat, call and message and get nothing in response.
Let him find out what it felt like.
By six, Sarah was in the hallway. Two suitcases, shoulder bag, coat done up wrong one side longer than the other. She stared at her keys. She needed to take her one off, leave it on the table.
Her fingers werent cooperating.
She tugged at the ring, tried with her nail, but the key was stuck, hands trembling, eyes filling again even though she thought the tears were all gone…
Oh for goodness sake!
She threw the whole bunch to the ground; it clattered against the tiles. Sarah looked down at it for another moment then sat on her suitcase, wrapped her arms around herself and burst into tears. Loud, messy, with gasping sobs like when she broke her mums favourite vase as a child and thought her world had ended.
She didnt hear the door open.
Sarah…
James knelt down in front of her, right on the cold hallway floor. He smelt of smoke and the city night.
Sarah, forgive me. Please, Im so sorry.
She raised her head. Her face was swollen and streaked, mascara smeared. James gently enclosed her hands in his.
Ive been at my mums. All night. She set me straight… He gave a crooked smile. Knocked some sense into me, really.
Sarah said nothing, just stared at him, unable to tell if she should believe him.
Ill take Emily to court, he said. Get a proper schedule for seeing Sophie. Officially through solicitors, like it should be. She wont be able to… manipulate things, turn Sophie against me, not anymore.
He squeezed Sarahs hands a little tighter.
Im choosing you, Sarah. Do you hear me? You. Youre my family.
Something inside her fluttered, fragile and stubborn a tiny sprig of hope shed tried all night to rip out.
Really?
Really.
Sarah closed her eyes. She would trust James. One last time. After that, whatever happens happens.
And the truth is, I learned through that long, painful night: love is choosing. Sometimes again, and again and sometimes, at last, its choosing yourself.
