James pulled up to the old five-storey block of flats and parked so the number plate wouldn’t draw attention. He frowned at the peeling, unglazed balconies and the lifeless windows. The modern double-glazed units stood out like fresh patches. The whole place looked like a tramp—dressed in whatever it could scavenge.
Tucked among scrawny trees and identical buildings, the block had outlived shifts in power and politics, just like its ageing residents.
For James, it brought back childhood memories—boredom so thick it made his teeth ache. He’d grown up in a place just like this, desperate to escape. And he had. Top of his class, the right degree, then economics—because you can’t build a proper business without it.
Once he’d made it, he moved his parents to a smarter part of town. Bought them a modest but modern house with a garden—neat shrubs out front, his mother growing vegetables in the back. She’d never sit idle.
Women didn’t just love James for his money. He was handsome, generous, knew how to charm. A couple of times, he nearly married stunning women—carefully sculpted, thanks to cosmetic surgeons. Then he pictured introducing some long-legged bride to his plain-speaking mum, watching her shrink beside all that silicone glamour, and changed his mind.
Emily won him over with her quiet, natural beauty and warm smile. Of course, he fell hard. Within a month, he introduced her to his parents. His mother gave him an approving nod.
Who could resist that kind of unforced grace? Undemanding, modest—Emily was used to making do. Her father had died young, then cancer took her mother. James wrapped her in care and tenderness. Even a year after the wedding, he still got butterflies around her.
Then his business partner and mate mentioned spotting Emily in that dismal neighbourhood, near that very same peeling block of flats. What was she doing there? No reason for her to be around.
*”And what were you doing there?”* James shot back.
*”Took a shortcut. Got lost, ended up near the place.”*
*”Cheating? Emily? No way.”* But an ugly chill slithered down his spine, fists clenching.
*”Might’ve been someone else,”* his friend backtracked, seeing his reaction. *”Pretty, sure, but not one of a kind. Sorry.”*
At home, Emily smiled, acted normal, curled up against him. Surely a guilty wife would avoid affection? But she leaned in closer, soft and trusting.
Something wasn’t right. Either she was a brilliant actress, his mate was mistaken, or this wasn’t about an affair.
The mystery gnawed at him. At lunch—the time his friend had seen her—James parked near the flats and waited. To distract himself, he turned on the radio.
Just as he was about to leave, Emily appeared. Hurried to a stairwell, unlocked the graffiti-covered door, glanced around, and slipped inside.
*”She’s got a key.”* His heart thudded like a bloodhound on a scent. He nearly followed, then remembered—no key. By the time he buzzed random flats, she’d be long gone.
So he waited, drumming his fingers to Il Divo. Forty minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up. Emily climbed in and left.
Back at the office, he couldn’t focus. Left early, poured himself a stiff drink. Normally, he’d never risk drinking this early, but his brain needed it.
*”Emily, Emily. Why? What’s missing? Seemed so solid, so modest. Just like the rest…”* He prowled the house like a caged bear.
The front door clicked. Keys clattered onto the table. He downed another brandy, waiting.
*”Why are you sitting in the dark?”* Emily’s voice. He turned. *”You’re drinking? Did something happen?”*
Her eyes widened. Fear flickered.
*”I’m fine. Anything you’d like to tell me?”* he rasped.
*”I don’t understand.”*
*”Such convincing surprise. Bravo.”*
*”Where were you at lunch?”* He eyed the bottle.
*”Did you come by work? No one told me.”*
He watched her shoulders slump, colour drain from her face.
*”Lost for words? Go on, then—who’s the lucky man? At least pick someone with a decent flat.”*
*”Don’t lie to me,”* he said aloud.
*”I’ve been wanting to tell you…”* She sank onto the sofa.
*”Playing the victim now? Won’t work.”*
*”Why didn’t you?”* he asked coldly, grabbing the bottle. *”How long’ve you been lying?”*
*”I tried—I couldn’t. Then…”*
*”Keep going.”* He poured another.
*”Stop. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”*
*”My head’s already pounding. Worry about yours.”* He drank.
Fear flashed in her eyes again. She looked away.
*”No, I want to see your face.”*
He set the glass down, walked over, and spun the sofa—wheels screeching—to face him. Emily yelped, nearly toppling off. James returned to his drink. His pulse hammered. *”No more. Need control.”*
*”I was scared,”* she whispered, gripping the sofa. *”If you knew, you might’ve thrown me out.”*
*”So you’ve been cheating all along? Brilliant.”* He gave a drunk, mocking laugh. *”Still waters, eh?”*
*”Please, no more.”*
*”Start talking.”* He swayed on the stool.
*”I visit my father. There’s no lover.”*
*”Ah, Dad. Much better.”* Another dangerous tilt. *”Thought he was dead? Or did I imagine that?”*
*”I said he was. Too ashamed to tell the truth. I thought he was dead—until an old friend called.”* Emily clenched her hands. *”He drank. Mum suffered. One day, she kicked him out. Later, she got sick and died. I never knew he was alive—until after we married.”*
An old neighbour, now a hospital cleaner, had recognised him—a tramp hit by a car. Emily paid her to care for him. *”I couldn’t tell you. You’re successful—my father’s a drunk. I used my salary, never touched yours.”*
James looked away.
He remembered that night. Winter, blizzard, wind hurling snow at the windscreen. A shadow darted into the road. The car jolted. He got out, found a stinking, drunk tramp under the wheels. For a second, he considered driving off. Called an ambulance instead.
How was he to know it was Emily’s father? He’d never mentioned it.
He sat beside her. *”I’m sorry.”* Took her hands.
*”You were visiting your dad. What else can we do? Does he need surgery?”*
She stared. *”His liver’s shot. Doctors say surgery would kill him.”*
*”The cottage is empty. Move him here. Hire a carer. Bring your friend too, if you like.”* He hardly believed his own words.
*”You’re not angry?”*
*”No. He’s family.”*
*”James, you’re the best!”* She threw her arms around him.
*”If only you knew.”* He’d tell her one day. Not now.
*”Just spare me meeting him,”* he said, wincing.
*”Of course. Thank you.”*
Later, he’d see a plump woman wheeling a frail man onto the cottage veranda, tucking a blanket around him. James never approached. Ashamed? Maybe. The man wouldn’t recognise him anyway.
A month later, Emily said she was pregnant. For a second, he feared it wasn’t his. Then he saw her glowing face.
*”A son! I’m having a son!”* He spun her around, laughing.
When her belly swelled, her father died. James exhaled. So did Emily, he thought.
No man, no guilt.
Fate tangles lives long before people meet. Skeletons in closets? Common enough. But secrets don’t stay buried. What then?
Maybe the one who forgives will be forgiven. In time.
