For three hours now, Emily and James had been arguing. James was leaning towards divorce—not that he didn’t have a reason. Even though they’d married eleven years ago, they had no children. But now, divorce felt closer than ever. James already knew there was no fixing things.
Emily desperately wanted a baby, but it just wasn’t happening. Each time, she’d slowly uncurl her fingers from the white pregnancy test, staring at that tiny window with hope bordering on despair. The doctor had told her, *”You have to keep believing,”* but she’d stopped believing a long time ago.
After seven years of marriage, Emily and James started fighting constantly. Any little thing could set them off, and soon, all the built-up resentment and pain would spill out. Then, silence—long, heavy silence.
Lately, they barely spoke, barely looked at each other, just drifting through the flat like ghosts. That’s when Emily decided to cheat.
*”I can’t take this anymore, Sophie,”* she complained to her friend. *”I don’t even want to look at him—he’s like a zombie. Just sits there glued to his laptop. What kind of life is this?”*
*”Em, if I were you, I’d quietly find someone else. Who knows, maybe you’ll even get pregnant if you switch men,”* Sophie suggested.
*”Wait, does that actually happen?”* Emily asked, surprised.
*”No idea, maybe?”* Sophie shrugged. She didn’t have to worry—she already had a daughter, though she’d divorced her husband ages ago.
Emily stayed quiet, but the idea gnawed at her. *Why not? All James and I do is argue. If I mentioned divorce now, he’d probably agree in a heartbeat.*
*”Alright, listen—tonight, we’re going to the pub. I’m meeting Tom, and he’s bringing a mate. We’ll introduce you. Your life needs some colour.”*
That “colour” turned out to be Oliver. Emily never thought she’d cheat—angry as she was at James—but somehow, it just happened. One thing led to another, and before she knew it, life *did* feel brighter.
She came home late, sneaking around, until one day, James snapped.
*”Emily, I’m leaving. Let’s just end this like adults. Quietly, cleanly. No kids, nothing to split—the flat’s yours anyway.”* His voice was firm. She could tell he’d made up his mind long ago.
Truthfully, James had been good for her financially—he earned well. Oliver, on the other hand, was increasingly dependent on her, always promising big money *just around the corner.* He had a way with words, especially when women were listening—charming, handsome, full of sweet talk.
*”Wait, James, let’s talk about this—”* She didn’t actually want a divorce.
*”No, Emily. I won’t forgive cheating.”*
*”Cheating? Where’d you get that idea?”* She was sure he had no clue—he was always buried in his code, being a programmer.
But she didn’t know his mate, Paul, had spotted her in the pub with another man—more than once—acting way too cozy. And really, how could he *not* notice when she was coming home at all hours?
*”Don’t bother lying. You’re good at that too, apparently. I know everything. So, I’m out. File for divorce, live how you want. I doubt you’ll be bored—Sophie’ll see to that.”* Emily stared, shocked. *How does he know about Sophie?*
*”That’s it. I’m gone.”* He grabbed his suitcase and bag—already packed the night she’d stayed out late—and left the keys on the side table.
He tossed his things in the boot and sped off.
**To the Countryside, With a Hitchhiker**
*”Well, that’s that. It happens. I’ll get over it—honestly, I’m sick of it all.”* James stared at the road ahead. *”I’ll go to the cottage, fix it up. Funny, I never sold it—had buyers, but something told me I’d need it. Mum and Dad left too soon… I’ll tidy the place, go fishing, maybe even get some chickens. Thirty-three—Christ’s age. Not bad.”* He smirked. *”Guess we’ll see. At least I’ve got remote work sorted.”*
The drive to the village took about two hours. His thoughts about country life were cut short when hunger hit. Spotting a small shop off the main road, he pulled over.
Inside, he grabbed a couple of pasties, some sausages, and juice. Stepping back out, he noticed two cats watching him intently. *”Hungry, huh?”*
He broke the sausages into pieces and set them on the step. The cats pounced—but then he spotted a tiny kitten sitting off to the side, not moving.
*”Scared, are you?”* James frowned. The little grey tabby with green eyes was painfully thin, though its fluffy fur hid some of it. It wasn’t running away—because it *couldn’t.*
James crouched down—then froze. *”Bloody hell… You’re the *spitting image* of Whiskers!”* His grandma’s cat, Whiskers, had been clever, loyal—always at her feet, following her everywhere. When she died, Whiskers had trailed the funeral procession to the grave… and then vanished. Some said he’d died of grief.
This kitten was identical. James tore off a bit of pasty and offered it. The kitten devoured it, then looked up with those round green eyes. James stroked its head—then gasped.
*”What the—?”* Someone had tied its back legs together with fishing line. *”Who does that?”* Furious, he freed the kitten and carried it to the car.
Whiskers (the name stuck) slept curled up on the passenger seat as James drove on. *”Well, Whiskers, guess we’re in this together now.”*
Back at the cottage, James set his bags down and let Whiskers inside first. *”Go on, mate. You’re the boss here now.”*
**A Year Later**
Whiskers had grown into a sleek, handsome cat, shadowing James everywhere. The cottage was thriving—chickens in the yard, potatoes and carrots in the garden.
One winter morning, James was out cross-country skiing when he spotted a figure in a green beanie coming his way.
*”Sarah? *Sarah!*”* He grinned, recognising his old schoolmate.
*”James! Knew it was you!”*
*”What are you doing here? Parents still around?”*
*”Mum’s ill,”* Sarah said, her smile fading. *”I’m all she’s got, so I moved back. Working remotely—boss agreed. Local lad, Jack, told me about this trail.”*
James explained he’d been living there a year—just him and Whiskers. No wife, no kids.
*”Me neither,”* Sarah admitted. *”Tried marriage once—didn’t stick. Got into painting instead. The countryside’s perfect for it.”*
They agreed to meet that evening. Over tea and old school photos, they laughed, reminisced—Whiskers blinking sleepily between them.
*”Your place is so cosy,”* Sarah said. *”You did all this yourself?”*
*”Yeah. That wall needs a painting, though.”*
*”I’ll give you one. Too big to carry alone.”*
*”I’ll come by tomorrow—check on your mum, too.”*
From then on, they were inseparable—skiing, shopping in the nearby town, picking up cat food and medicine for Sarah’s mum.
Four months later, her mother passed. James handled the funeral, the wake. Sarah was heartbroken.
*”You’ll get used to it,”* James said gently. *”I talk to mine sometimes. Ask for advice. We can’t bring them back… but I’ll help you through it. Unless you’re going back to the city?”*
*”No. I don’t want to leave. I’ve gotten used to you, James.”*
He took her hand. *”Then let’s get married. Before I lose you again.”*
She smiled. *”Not yet… but yes.”*
Time passed. James took up beekeeping, setting up hives near the cottage. With Sarah and their three-year-old son, Oliver, they built a “tea shed,” selling honey, mead, and herbal teas. Word spread—people came from miles away.
Whiskers, now a majestic tom, strutted around like he *knew* he’d brought them luck. Oliver adored him (though the cat tolerated the toddler’s antics with dignity).
And now, James and Sarah were thinking about a little girl…
