Back to Her Again — Are you going to her again? Mary asked the question, already knowing the answer. David nodded without looking up. He pulled on his jacket, checked his pockets—keys, phone, wallet. Everything was there. Time to leave. Mary waited. For a word. At least a “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But David just opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked quietly, almost politely. As if apologising for its owner. Mary walked to the window. The street below was lit by dull lamplight, and she easily spotted the familiar figure. David strode quickly, purposefully, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old Sophie. Mary pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She knew. She’d always known what she was getting herself into. When they first met, David was still technically married. A marriage certificate, a shared flat, a kid. But he wasn’t living with Anna anymore—he’d rented a room, only visiting for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” David had said back then. “I couldn’t forgive her. I filed for divorce.” And Mary believed him. God, how easily she believed him. Because she wanted to believe. Because she’d fallen in love—foolishly, desperately, like she was seventeen again. Dates in coffee shops, long phone calls, their first kiss beneath her porch in the rain. David looked at her like she was the only woman on earth. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, shared plans, talk of the future. And then it started. First the phone calls. “Dave, bring medicine for Sophie, she’s ill.” “Dave, our tap’s leaking, I’ve no idea what to do.” “Dave, your daughter’s crying, wants you here right now.” David would drop everything and go. Every single time. Mary tried to understand. A child is sacred. Their daughter wasn’t at fault for her parents’ split, of course he ought to help, to be involved. Sometimes David listened to her, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna just shifted tactics. “Don’t come at weekends. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, you upset her.” “She asked me why Daddy abandoned us. I didn’t know what to say.” And David would crack. Every time. Every time he tried to say “no” to another “urgent” request, Anna hit where it hurt. Within a week Sophie was parroting her mother’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want you here.” A seven-year-old couldn’t come up with that alone. David would return from these talks shattered, guilty, eyes dulled. And again run at Anna’s beck and call—if only to stop his daughter turning away, freezing him out. Mary understood. Really understood. But she was exhausted. David’s figure disappeared around the corner. Mary peeled herself from the glass, absently rubbed her forehead—the skin was flushed from the cold window. The empty flat suffocated her. It was close to midnight when the key turned in the lock. Mary was sitting in the kitchen, a cup of tea long gone cold in front of her. She hadn’t touched it—just watched the dark film spread across the surface. Three hours. Three hours listening for every sound in the stairwell. David entered quietly, slipped off his coat, hung it. Moved gingerly, like a man hoping to slip by unseen. “What was it this time?” Mary surprised herself with how calm her voice sounded. She’d rehearsed that phrase for three hours, and by midnight she felt burned out inside. David paused for a second. “The boiler broke. Had to fix it.” Mary raised her eyes slowly. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitating to cross the threshold, gazing past her at the dark window behind. “You don’t know how to fix boilers.” “I called a plumber.” “And you had to wait there? Couldn’t call him from here? On the phone?” David frowned, crossed his arms. A thick, uneasy silence dragged on. “Maybe you still love her?” This time he looked at her. Sharply, angrily, wounded. “That’s rubbish! I do everything for my daughter. For Sophie! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen, and Mary instinctively moved back, nudging the chair. “You knew, when you got with me, I’d have to go there sometimes. You knew I had a child. What now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I go to see my daughter?” Mary’s throat tightened. She wanted to answer sharply, proudly, but instead her eyes stung and a tear trailed down her cheek. “I thought…” She stumbled, swallowed, choking on the words. “I thought you’d at least pretend you loved me. You could at least act like it.” “Mary, don’t—” “I’m tired!” Her voice broke into a shout, and she startled herself with the sound. “Tired of being not even second place! I’m third! After your ex, her whims, her broken boilers at midnight!” David slammed his palm against the doorframe. “What do you want from me?! To abandon my daughter? Stop seeing her?” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Mary jumped up, the cup wobbled, tea splashed onto the table. “Just once say ‘no!’ Not to me—to her! To Anna!” “I’m tired of your tantrums!” David spun around, grabbed his coat off the hook. “Where are you going?” The only answer was the slam of the door. Mary stood in the kitchen, tea dripping from the table onto the linoleum, her ears ringing. She grabbed her phone, dialled his number. Ring, ring, ring. “This number is not available.” Again. Again. Silence. Mary slowly sat down, clutching the phone. Where had he gone? To her? Again, to her? Or just wandering the night-time streets, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. And not knowing made it worse. The night crawled by. Mary sat on the bed, phone in hand—the screen flickered on and off. Dial the number, listen to the rings, hang up. Write a message: “Where are you?” Then: “Please answer.” And: “I’m scared.” Send it—watch each grey tick appear. Undelivered. Or delivered but unread. What difference did it make? By four a.m., Mary had run out of tears. They dried out somewhere inside, leaving nothing but a ringing emptiness. She got up, turned on the bedroom light, and opened the wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. A dusty suitcase with a snapped tag from some old trip appeared atop the wardrobe. Mary tossed it on the bed and began stuffing clothes inside. Jumpers, jeans, underwear—she packed it all indiscriminately. If he didn’t care, neither did she. Let him come home to an empty flat. Let him worry, call, send texts she’d never read. Let him know how it felt. By six in the morning, Mary stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, a crossbody bag, coat buttoned wrong—one side longer than the other. She looked at the keys in her hand. Had to remove hers, leave it on the table. Her fingers wouldn’t co-operate. Mary tugged at the ring, trying to hook it with her nail, but the key wouldn’t budge and her hands shook, tears were rising again—how could there be any left? “Oh, for God’s sake!” The keyring clattered to the floor. Mary stared for a second, then slumped onto the suitcase, hugged herself, and sobbed. Loud, messy, hiccupping, like a child who’d smashed her mum’s favourite vase and thought the world was ending. She didn’t hear the door open. “Mary…” David knelt before her, right on the cold hall tiles. He smelled of smoke and the night air. “Mary, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” She raised her head. Her face was wet, swollen, mascara streaked in black smudges. David gently took her hands in his. “I spent the night at my mum’s. She gave me a talking-to… Sorted my head out, basically.” Mary said nothing. She just looked at him, unsure whether to trust or not. “I’m going to take Anna to court. Demand an official schedule for seeing Sophie. Properly, through the legal system, as it should be. She won’t be able to manipulate me, or turn my daughter against me anymore.” His fingers gripped Mary’s hands tighter. “I choose you, Mary. Do you hear me? You. You—are my family.” Something inside her trembled. A tiny stubborn sprout of hope she’d tried to tear out all night. “Really?” “Really.” Mary closed her eyes. She would believe David. One last time. After that—let fate decide…

Back to Her Again

Are you going to her again?

Mary already knew the answer before she asked. David nodded, keeping his gaze down. He pulled on his jacket, patted his pockets keys, phone, wallet checking he had everything. Ready to leave.

Mary waited. She hoped for a word, maybe Sorry, or Ill be back soon. But David simply opened the door and stepped out. The lock clicked softly behind him, almost apologetic, quietly guilty.

Mary walked over to the window. The street outside was dimly lit by old streetlamps, and she easily picked out Davids silhouette. He hurried along, determined and sure, just as someone does when he knows exactly where hes going. To her. To Emily. To their seven-year-old Sophie.

Mary pressed her forehead to the cold glass.

She knew, really. From the start, shed known exactly what she was signing up for. When she met David, he was still married. Officially. Name still on the mortgage, a family home, a child. But he no longer lived with Emily he rented a room elsewhere, only coming round to see his daughter.

She cheated on me, David had explained back then. I couldnt forgive her. Im getting divorced.

And Mary believed him. God, just how quickly shed believed him. She wanted to believe. She fell hopelessly, recklessly, in love, like a teenager. Dates in coffee shops, hours on the phone, their first kiss under the wet London sky at her front door. David had looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.

The divorce happened. They married. Moved into their own flat. New dreams, talk of the future.
And then it changed.

The calls started. Dave, could you pick up some medicine for Sophie? Shes poorly. Dave, the taps leaking. I havent a clue what to do. Dave, Sophies crying, she wants to see you please come now.

David dropped everything and went. Every single time.

Mary tried to understand. A child comes first, and Sophie wasnt to blame for her parents breakup. Of course he had to help out, be there, do his part.
Sometimes David listened to Mary and tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife.
But Emily always found a new way in.

Dont come this weekend. Sophie doesnt want to see you.
Dont ring; it upsets her.
She asked me why Daddy left us. I didnt know how to answer.
And David caved. Every time. If he refused her urgent requests, Emily twisted the knife. Soon, Sophie started repeating her mothers words: You dont love us. You picked the other lady. I dont want to see you.

A seven-year-old couldnt think up such things on her own.

David would return shattered, guilty, eyes dulled and spirit broken. And at the next call, hed rush over, desperate to see his daughter, to make sure she didnt turn away or glare at him with icy eyes.
Mary understood. Truly, she did.

But she was exhausted.

David disappeared around the corner. Mary stepped away from the window, rubbing her forehead a faint red mark left from the glass.
The empty flat pressed in around her.

It was nearly midnight when the lock rattled again.
Mary sat in the kitchen, before a long-cold cup of tea. She hadnt touched it just watched the thin film form across the surface. Three hours. Shed spent three hours listening to every creak on the landing, waiting.

David entered quietly, slipped off his coat, hung it up. He walked softly, hoping not to disturb her.

What was it this time?

Even Mary was surprised by how calm her voice sounded. Shed rehearsed the line for three hours, and by midnight, emotion had burnt out.

David paused, then answered.

The boiler broke. I had to fix it.

Mary slowly looked up. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitant to come in, eyes focusing somewhere beyond her, out at the black window behind.

You dont know how to fix boilers.
I called the engineer.
And you had to sit there and wait? Why not call from here? On the phone?

David frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened, tense and heavy.

Maybe you still love her?

This got his attention. Suddenly, sharply, irritation in his eyes.

What nonsense are you talking about? I do everything for Sophie! For my daughter! Emily has nothing to do with it.

He came further into the kitchen, and Mary instinctively shifted away, scraping her chair backward.

You knew, when you got involved with me, that Id have to go there. You knew about my daughter. What do you want? Will you throw a fit every time I visit her?

Her throat tightened. Mary wanted to snap back, say something dignified, but her eyes stung and a tear escaped down her cheek.

I just thought she faltered, swallowing the lump, I just thought youd at least pretend to love me. At least try.

Mary, please
Im tired. Her voice fell apart, becoming a shout. She startled herself. Tired of being not even second place! Third place! After your ex-wife, her demands, and broken boilers at midnight!

David slammed his palm against the doorframe.

What do you expect from me? To abandon my own child? To stop seeing her?

I wish, just once, youd choose me! Mary leapt up, the cup rocking, tea splashing onto the table. Just once, youd say No! Not to me to her! To Emily!

I cant handle your tantrums anymore!

David turned, grabbing his coat from the hook.

Where are you going?

A door slammed in reply.

Mary stood frozen in the kitchen, tea still dripping off the table, her ears ringing. She grabbed her phone and dialed his number. One ring, then another, and another. Number unavailable.

Again. And again.

Silence.

Mary sank onto the chair, clutching the phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Back to her again? Or wandering the night, angry and hurt?
She couldnt tell. Uncertainty ached even more.

Their night seemed endless.

Mary sat on the bed, phone in hand the screen flickering on and off. Shed dial his number, hear the ring, then hang up. She typed messages: Where are you? Then, Please answer. Then, Im scared. Sent each one, watching the grey tick, alone under each text. Not delivered. Or delivered, never read. What did it matter.

By four AM, the tears stopped. Perhaps shed run dry, no more left to spill. Emptiness echoed inside her. She switched on the bedroom light and opened the wardrobe.

Enough.

Shed had enough.

The suitcase emerged out of the top cupboard, dusty, missing a tag from some old trip. She thumped it on the bed and began packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. No sorting, just stuffed in. If he didnt care neither did she. Let him come home to an empty flat, to unanswered calls and unread messages.

Let him learn what it felt like.

By six she stood in the hallway. Two cases, a shoulder bag, jacket buttoned askew. She stared at the bunch of keys in her hand, knowing she should remove hers and leave it on the table.

Her fingers wouldnt work.

She tugged the ring, tried to prise it free, but the key stuck, and her hands shook, and her eyes prickled again how, after all this, were there still tears left?

For goodness sake!

The keys clattered to the floor, ringing on the tiles. Mary watched them for a second, then sank onto her suitcase, wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed. Loud, ragged, gulping breaths, like a child who believes the world is crashing down after smashing Mums favourite vase.

She didnt hear the door open.

Mary

David knelt on the cold hallway tiles before her. His clothes smelled of cigarettes and the night air.

Mary, Im sorry. Forgive me, please.

She lifted her face. It was red and swollen, streaked with mascara. David gently took her hands in his.

I was at my mothers. All night. She gave me a proper talking to He gave a crooked smile. Knocked some sense into me, you might say.

Mary stayed silent, staring at him unsure if she could trust him anymore.

Ill take Emily to court. Set up an official schedule for seeing Sophie. Proper and fair, through the solicitors. She wont be able to mess me about or use Sophie to hurt me.

He squeezed her hands tightly.

I choose you, Mary. Can you hear me? Im choosing you. You are my family.

Hope flickered in her chest. A small, stubborn hope, the sort shed tried so hard to pull out and destroy in the night.

Really?
Really.

Mary closed her eyes. She would believe David. One last time. After that whatever might come, shed be ready.

Sometimes life teaches you that loving someone means drawing boundaries, not just giving and giving. Only when you put yourself first can you truly be part of someone elses story.