The morning sun barely peeked through the curtains as Emily nudged her husband awake.
“Tom, you’re going to be late! What time are you leaving?” Her voice was edged with irritation as she shook his shoulder. Tom groaned, rolling away, his silence screaming that he had no intention of getting up just yet.
Emily checked her phone—7 a.m.
*Why did I even wake up this early on a Saturday? His bag’s been packed since yesterday.* She almost crawled back under the duvet when it hit her again—that gnawing, inexplicable dread creeping into her chest. Lately, it came more often, lingering like unwanted fog.
There was no reason for it. They had everything: a flat in central London, a sleek modern renovation, designer furniture, top-of-the-line appliances. Tom had his Audi; she had her Mini. They’d even bought a countryside cottage last summer. By all accounts, life was perfect.
Most people would kill for this. Try living paycheck to paycheck in a cramped rental, cramming into the Tube every morning, juggling kids’ homework, dinner, mortgage payments. At least *she* didn’t have to worry about *that.*
So why this heaviness in her chest?
She’d learned to recognize it—this hollow, creeping fear that something vital was slipping away. It came without warning, vanished just as suddenly, only to return when she least expected it.
Emily forced herself out of bed and into the kitchen. Tom was leaving for another business trip today. They’d become relentless since his new boss took over eighteen months ago. The pay was excellent, the company prestigious, Tom a department head. But the hours were brutal, and now these weekend trips.
She made breakfast, then returned to wake him properly.
“Tom, get up. You’ll miss your train.”
He groaned, finally dragging himself upright. “Yeah… afternoon meeting.”
“Come on, I made breakfast.”
At the table, he barely glanced up from his phone. Lately, conversation between them had dwindled to nothing. They weren’t fighting. Everything was *fine.* He still brought flowers sometimes, agreed to dinners out when she insisted. They went to the cinema, met friends, strolled through Hyde Park. But it wasn’t the same.
“Tom, take me with you.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
“Hmm?” He didn’t look up.
“Seriously, why not? You’re staying in a hotel, right? You’ll be at meetings all day—we’d have evenings together.”
Tom blinked, finally tearing his gaze from his phone. “What? No! Why would you even—?”
“I’ve never been to Manchester! I could explore, shop, visit museums—”
“It’s a *bleeding* business trip, Em! Not a holiday!”
“But I’m *bored* here!”
“So book a spa weekend! Christ, you’re acting like we never go anywhere!”
“We don’t! Not *together!*”
Tom exhaled sharply. “You know how insane work is right now. If the boss wants us in on weekends, what am I supposed to do?”
“Funny how it’s *always* you. Last weekend, I saw Andrew from your team *with his family* at Westfield. But *you* were ‘working.’”
Tom shoved his chair back. “Cheers for breakfast.”
She cleaned up in silence as he showered and dressed. Packed sandwiches, filled a thermos.
“Em, where’s my bag?” Tom called from the hallway.
“On the dresser.”
“Right. Look—Manchester’s rubbish anyway. Back Monday or Tuesday.”
“Sure.”
The door clicked shut.
Now what? Call the girls? Dinner somewhere nice?
Except—who was left? Jess had two kids and a husband who barely lifted a finger. Sarah and Mark were all about their new cottage now. And Hannah? Ghosted everyone after moving to New York.
Thirty-eight. No kids.
A mistake in their twenties—back when they were barely scraping by in a shoebox flat, drowning in student debt. *Not the right time,* Tom had said. And she’d agreed.
Now? Now it *would* have been the right time. A child might have filled this emptiness. Given her days meaning.
She could’ve had a fourteen-year-old by now.
*What would they have been like?* The thought choked her.
In the bathroom mirror, her reflection stared back—red-eyed, weary.
*Enough.*
She snatched her phone. “Vicky? Fancy coffee?”
A pause. “Oh—hi, Em. Can’t, sorry. Bit under the weather.”
“Flu?”
“Something like that.”
Shopping alone was dull. Then it struck her—visit Vicky. Surprise her with tea, pastries, medicine. Cheer her up.
An hour later, laden with bags, Emily knocked on Vicky’s door.
It swung open.
Tom stood there.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
“Tom… what are you doing here?” Her voice cracked.
Behind him, Vicky appeared, wrapped in a robe.
Silence.
“Courier,” Emily whispered, thrusting the bags at Tom. “Feel better, *Vicky.*”
She fled downstairs, called a cab. Moments later, Tom followed.
“Let’s go home. We need to talk.”
“Why? *She’s* upstairs waiting!” Emily spat. “How long’s this been going on?”
The cab arrived.
“Don’t bother coming back to the flat.”
The driver stopped at the Thames. Emily walked.
This was it—the dread she’d ignored. The truth she’d refused to see.
“Sorry!” A man bumped her shoulder.
“Rob?”
“Emily? Bloody hell!”
Rob. Childhood best mate. Primary school, letters when he enlisted. Then she’d met Tom, Rob had settled up north, married. They’d lost touch.
“God, how long’s it been?”
“Years! Is this your daughter?” A girl, maybe nine, peered up at her.
“Kate. Say hello, love.”
“Hi,” Kate mumbled.
“Told you she’s shy. We’re grabbing lunch—join us?”
The café was warm, bustling.
“After Lisa died, I realized there was nothing keeping me there,” Rob admitted. “Mum and Dad are here. Help with Kate.”
Emily stirred her tea. “And you? Married? Kids?”
“Divorced now. No kids.”
“But you *were* married?”
“Didn’t work out. Different people.”
That night, Tom came for his things.
“Should’ve told you about Vicky.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Dunno.”
Divorce was quick. No kids. They split assets cleanly—cottage for him, flat for her.
Six months later, Emily was healing.
“Em, Mum’s poorly—can you fetch Kate from school?” Rob asked.
“Course!”
She picked Kate up, brought her home. They’d grown close.
Homework was interrupted by the doorbell.
“That’ll be your dad,” Emily said.
But it was Tom.
“What do you want?”
“I miss you. Let’s try again. Vicky and I—it was nothing. We’re already divorced.”
“No, Tom.”
“Who’s *that*?” Tom frowned as Kate wandered in.
Rob appeared then, flowers in hand.
“Dad!” Kate beamed.
Tom took one look and left.
Rob handed Emily the bouquet. “Thanks for today.”
“Tia Em helped with maths,” Kate chimed in. “She cooks like Mum used to.”
A year later, Emily and Rob married. Kate started calling her *Mum.*
Tom? Still alone.
Well—not *completely* alone.
He had his work.
And his *business trips.*
