She didn’t come home… because she couldn’t anymore.
He returned from his business trip earlier than usual—half past six in the evening. The flat was unnervingly silent. No sounds. No scent of dinner. No familiar call of, “You’re back? I’ll get you something to eat.” He wandered through every room, checked the bathroom, the loo. The stove was cold. The kettle empty. The fridge neatly stocked with containers of fresh, homemade food. But the woman who kept it all running was nowhere to be seen.
—Where is she gallivanting off to?— he thought bitterly and dialled her number. The line rang and rang. No answer.
—Fine. I’ll eat first. Then I’ll deal with her.— He tossed his mobile onto the sofa and sat at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. Still nothing. Suspicion gnawed at him.
—Has she taken up with some bloke? The ungrateful cow… I’m out there grinding away up north, bringing home the money, and here she is swanning about in the car I bloody bought her. Taught her to drive, didn’t I? Ferrying the kids, doing the shopping—now they’re grown, she must think it’s time for fun. Well, I’ll show her…
He remembered how he’d snap at her over every scratch on the car, how he dictated which shops to use, when to cut her hair, what colour to dye it. And she never worked—he’d insisted she focus on home and the kids.
—Now the wretched woman’s probably out carousing. I’ll put the fear in her, make sure she stays where she belongs.
The lift hummed. He lunged for the door, peeked through the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys on the hook. So she was home. Or had she gone out on foot? Even worse…
—Did she dare? Did she leave me?
He tore through the flat. Checked the wardrobe—all her things still there. But she still wouldn’t pick up.
—The little witch. Half nine, and she’s still missing.
He flicked on the telly to distract himself, but the images blurred as he sank into a restless sleep.
He jolted awake at half eleven. Still no wife. His chest tightened. Furious, he called again. This time, a woman answered.
—Hullo, good evening. This is Sister Jenkins from the surgical ward. Who am I speaking to?
He roared.
—What the bloody hell are you on about? Have you lost your mind?!
The line went dead. He dialled again. This time, a man’s voice.
—Please refrain from abusing our staff. Can you come to the hospital? Surgical ward?
—Why? What’s happened?
—There are papers to sign. We did everything we could. I’m afraid… our condolences. Your wife’s heart stopped.
His voice vanished.
—What nonsense? She never had a heart! She just doesn’t want to come home! Where is she?!
—Your wife has passed away,— the voice repeated.
That was it. His world shattered.
Later, they told him: a nurse from the clinic had rung with her screening results. Something had worried the doctors. They’d asked her to come in. After the appointment, she’d left the clinic but never reached the bus stop—her head spun, and she’d sat on a bench. She told herself it’d be fine. Her husband would come home—there’d be food, pressed shirts. She’d make sure of it. And of course, she’d manage—the operation was routine, people had them all the time…
But she didn’t make it. Didn’t come back.
He stood in the flat where everything bore her touch—her hands, her care. And he realised: he’d never known how much he needed her until it was too late.
On the table, a list remained: *”Buy apples. Make broth. Wash shirts. Talk to husband—maybe no more business trips?”*
But now, they’d never talk.
