**The Suitcase with the Broken Handle**
“Tom, don’t come over anymore. All right?” I said calmly.
“What do you mean? Not today?” he asked, confused.
It was early morning, and Tom was already in the hallway, rushing off to work.
“No, don’t come over at all,” I clarified.
“Hm… What’s wrong, Diana? I’ll call you later,” Tom said quickly, planting a kiss on my cheek before dashing out. I shut the door behind him and let out a sigh of relief.
I’d hesitated for a long time before saying those words. They didn’t come easily. Tom had been like family to me.
That night, I had been passionate, insatiable—saying goodbye. He hadn’t understood, hadn’t guessed. He’d only grinned and said, “Diana! You’re something else today. Absolute goddess! Stay just like this. Love you, darling.”
Once, we’d been family friends—me, my husband Rob, Tom, and his wife Bella (he’d always called her his “Little Squirrel”). Our youth had been loud, reckless, and carefree. Truth be told, I’d always fancied Tom. If I bought a dress, shoes, a handbag, I’d wonder—would Tom like it? Bella had been my closest friend.
We’d been through so much together—too much to tell. I knew Tom had feelings for me, but we’d always kept our distance. At gatherings, he’d hug me gently and whisper, “Dee, I’ve missed you.”
Honestly, I think when families are friends, there’s always some attraction—men to women, or the other way around. People are weak to temptation. Someone always fancies someone else, or falls for a friend’s wife. That’s why they stay close—until the moment comes. I don’t believe men and women can just be friends. Sooner or later, they’ll cross that line. It’s like lighting a fire near dry hay—eventually, it all burns. Maybe there are exceptions, but they’re rare.
My Rob would lick his lips and sneak glances at Bella. I’d noticed, and he’d get a playful slap for it.
“Don’t be daft, Dee! We’re mates!” he’d laugh, then add with a grin, “Only the dead don’t stray.”
I’d trusted Bella completely—she’d never cross that line. But Rob? He loved picking fruit from other orchards. That’s why, after twenty years, we divorced. He married one of those “ripe berries” when she started cooing about babies. By then, our own kids had grown and left. I packed Rob’s suitcase and wished him luck.
At first, I mourned the loneliness. Tom and Bella would visit, pitying me, though I wasn’t suffering. Still, I grew to hate holidays, pacing the flat like a ghost. There’s no ache sharper than solitude when the world celebrates.
Three years later, Tom was widowed. No prayer or charm could stop death. Bella had suffered a long illness, and in her final hours, she entrusted him to me.
“Diana, look after Tom. I don’t want some stranger taking him. He’s always fancied you—I knew. Live together.”
Tom grieved properly—set up a granite headstone, planted flowers. In time, he started dropping by. I welcomed him warmly, helping him through his loss, ready to drown him in care and love. We reminisced, laughed, and cried together.
We’d walked life’s road side by side, sharing every joy and sorrow. But as years passed, I grew restless. Tom began to grate on me—his endless chatter, his fussiness over food, his bland jokes. His voice, his scent, even the bed felt wrong. Maybe Bella loved him enough to endure it all, but I couldn’t.
My fondness for him vanished, leaving only irritation. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I suggested parting ways. I planned one unforgettable night—a final gift—then freedom.
But Tom? He adored me, blind to my distance. He’d smile through my jabs, kiss my hands, never argue.
“Don’t be cross, Dee. I’ll fix everything. You won’t get rid of me—who’d love you like I do?”
Who, indeed? His words melted me like wax.
Later, he called during his lunch break. “Diana, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Come home early—I’ve missed you,” I mumbled.
Well, I thought, you’re like a suitcase with a broken handle—too much trouble to carry, too dear to throw away.
Our paths had tangled for good.
What else could I do? Abandon a widower left in my care? He’d be lost without me…
*Sometimes love isn’t about passion—it’s about duty. And duty can be the heaviest weight of all.*
