Polly simply wanted to be happy.
She kicked off the duvet, flipped her damp pillow to the cooler side, and lay back down. It helped a little, but sleep wouldn’t come. The hiss of tyres from the occasional passing car outside didn’t help—nor did her thoughts. They were the worst. *Where’s that late-night driver rushing to? Home? Or is he running away from someone, vanishing into the dark? Who waits for him?* Bloody heat.
Polly sighed and rose. She knew every inch of the flat, so she didn’t bother with the light. In the kitchen, she leaned against the window. Across the road, two windows glowed. *Someone waiting—or mourning?*
Young leaves obscured the view of whoever might be standing there. She flicked on the nightlight, filled a glass from the kettle, then turned it off again. One window across the way had gone dark. She sipped slowly, the cool water chilling her from the inside. The lino was pleasantly cold under her bare feet.
Glass left on the sill, she returned to the bedroom—but couldn’t face the crumpled, damp sheets. Instead, she went to the other room and stretched out on the narrow, lumpy sofa, resting her head on a pillow stuffed with God-knows-what.
And then, suddenly, she was falling into sleep…
* * *
“Speech! Speech!” The wedding guests raised their champagne flutes, laughing.
James stood, pulling Polly up with him. In her heels, she was nearly his height—could meet his eyes properly, not just gaze up as usual. He looked at her with admiration, love, undisguised hunger. She tilted her head so her veil shielded them both from the crowd.
“One… two… three!” The guests counted.
Her mum had told her: *A woman makes the home. It’s on you to keep things steady for your husband.* So Polly had set about building her happiness like a dutiful architect.
At first, she and James did everything together—shopped, cooked, laughing between kisses. Until the day the chips nearly burnt because they’d forgotten them. They were in love. It felt eternal—like they’d stay young and happy forever.
Two years later, Polly gave birth to little Emily. In the early days, her mother helped.
“I’m exhausted,” Polly complained to James, who barely lifted a finger.
“Men work. They tire. A woman’s lot is to raise children and keep house,” her mother said. “You can nap when Emily does. But if he’s sleep-deprived, how will he function?”
Polly learned to snatch sleep where she could—even nodding off on park benches during pram walks. When Emily turned two, Polly went back to work.
“Once I retire in five years, we’ll take Emily off your hands, and you can have another,” her mother mused.
But returning to her career, Polly couldn’t fathom a second child. James didn’t push. It never happened.
“Why do men stray? Because mistresses are always dressed to impress, while wives let themselves go,” her mother warned.
So Polly made sure James only saw her polished—woke early to apply makeup before he stirred.
It didn’t save them. Emily grew up, left the nest, and Polly noticed James swapping suits for hoodies and joggers. He took up running, though he’d already been fit.
“It’s the trend,” he’d say. “Gotta keep up.”
When she found lipstick on his collar, she confronted him. Caught off guard, he mumbled, then confessed—begged her to let him go.
“Who’s stopping you? Go. But don’t come back.”
She packed his things dry-eyed. James lingered in the hallway, pretending to check for forgotten items, stealing glances—waiting for her to crumble, to beg.
Polly stood arms crossed, glaring. *Not a chance.*
He left. She collapsed onto the sofa, buried her face in that same lumpy pillow, and howled like a wounded animal. Life felt meaningless. She cried all night. By morning, she’d fetched the pills—ready to swallow them. But she rang her friend first, just to say goodbye.
Her friend sensed disaster and rushed over.
“Don’t you dare. Imagine the ego boost he’d get if you died for him. People would think he’s some prize worth losing your mind over. Don’t give him that.”
Polly didn’t take the pills. Slowly, she relearned how to live alone—discovered unexpected freedoms. Sleeping in, lounging in her knickers, skipping makeup, cooking less. She trimmed down, looked younger, spent grocery savings on new clothes. Retail therapy, the best cure.
Then Emily had a baby boy, and Polly found fresh purpose. She adored being a grandmother—sang lullabies, read stories, built sandcastles with him.
She longed for James to see her now—to realise what he’d lost. She pictured him with his new wife: did she make breakfast, or just slap together toast? Maybe he brought *her* coffee in bed. The image twisted—James in a floral apron, cooking supper, popping to Tesco after work…
The pain was unbearable. He was happy without her.
One day at the playground, a man her age sat beside her on the bench.
“Lovely weather, eh? Feels like summer, and it’s only April. Kids love that sandpit, don’t they? Is that your grandson? Spitting image. The little girl there’s my Katie. Proper sweetheart, isn’t she?”
He didn’t need replies—just wanted someone to listen.
“When mine were young, the wife wouldn’t let me near ’em. Thought I’d mess up. I didn’t mind. Missed ’em growing up, didn’t even know when they first walked or talked. But with Katie…” He sighed. “I see what I missed. Know more about her than her parents do.”
A pause. Then: “If I could go back… I’d do it all different. Didn’t lift a finger at home. Wife never complained. Lost her last year. Widower now.”
Polly thought of James. *What if he’s got a new kid too? Playing house, making lump-free porridge?* The bitterness choked her.
She stormed off, dragging a tearful Tommy home.
Next day, the man was there again. This time, Polly boasted about Tommy’s milestones.
Eventually, he sighed. “Lonely, this. Wife’s gone, kids are busy, Katie’ll grow up… I’m not old yet. Could start fresh.” His gaze lingered.
Polly considered it—he was decent, no bad habits. She wasn’t ancient either. But—*A stranger’s quirks, his memories… No. Never.* After that, she took Tommy to the next park over.
* * *
Morning came with a throbbing head. She was washing up when the doorbell rang.
“Emily’s early with Tommy today,” she muttered, shuffling to the door.
But it was James. She barely recognised him. Where was the polished, youthful man? Deep wrinkles, thinning hair, a jacket hanging off bony shoulders. His eyes were hollow—a beaten dog’s gaze.
“Poll… Thought I’d drop by,” he mumbled, shrinking under her stare.
No bag, no suitcase. *Scouting the terrain*, she thought smugly. “What’s wrong?”
As he peeled off his coat, she spotted a grubby collar. Pity pricked her. *The young wife ran him ragged. Look at him—half the man he was. No point twisting the knife.*
He caught her softening and pounced. “Poll, I’m in a bad way.”
“I see.”
“She’s lovely, but… young. Wants fun. Can’t keep up. Stomach’s a wreck.” He sucked air like a sob. “Can I stay? Just for a bit?”
“Fine. But my rules.”
“Anything, Poll. I can cook now—even porridge without lumps.”
She couldn’t turn him away like a stray cat. He was still family. Tommy was wonderful, but he wouldn’t gripe about pensions or politics with her.
“Hungry?” She reheated stew without waiting for an answer.
She made up the narrow sofa for him. That night, she heard him tossing. At dawn, she boiled the kettle, made porridge. When he didn’t emerge, she checked.
One glance told her he was gone. *Came home to die*, she realised, stifling a scream.
The doctor said it was a clot—quick, painless. She buried him properly.
A week later, stepping out with Tommy, she spotted a young woman by the bins, clutching a tartan shopping bag. Polly knew instantly.
“You’re Polly?”
Polly studied her—the other woman. Pretty, but not breathtaking.
“James’s things.” She held out the bag. “I didn’t dare come to the funeral. Where is he?”
“Don’t want them. He’s at the new cemetery.”
“I sent him to you. Saw how he missed you—”
“Why take him in the first placeShe watched the woman walk away, the weight of the past slipping off her shoulders like melting snow, and turned back to Tommy, ready to chase him down the path with a laugh—because life, in all its messy unfairness, was still hers to live.
