She didn’t come home… Because she no longer could.
He returned from his business trip a bit earlier than usual—just past half six in the evening. The flat was eerily silent, an unsettling quiet hanging in the air. No sounds. No smell of dinner. No familiar call of, “You’re back? I’ll get you something to eat.” He moved through every room, checking the bathroom, the loo. The hob was cold. The kettle empty. In the fridge, neatly arranged containers held fresh, homemade meals. But the woman who made them wasn’t there.
“Where the hell is she?” he thought bitterly, dialling her number. The line rang, but no one picked up.
“Fine, I’ll eat first. Then we’ll sort this out,” he muttered, tossing his phone onto the sofa before sitting at the kitchen table.
An hour passed. Half seven. He called again. Still no answer. Suspicion gnawed at him.
“Has she found herself a bloody lover? Here I am, breaking my back up north, bringing money home, and she’s off gallivanting in the car *I* bought. I even taught her to drive, the daft cow! Used to ferry the kids, haul groceries, and now they’re grown, she’s off enjoying herself? I’ll show her…”
He remembered how he’d scolded her for every scratch on the car, dictated which shops to use, when to cut her hair, even what colour to dye it. And she’d never worked—*he* had insisted she focus solely on home and family.
“Ungrateful wretch, probably out having a laugh. I’ll beat some sense into her. She’ll stay home where she belongs.”
The lift hummed. He rushed to the door, peered through the peephole—not her. Then he spotted the car keys still on the hook. So she *was* home. Had she gone somewhere on foot? Even worse…
“Did she actually leave me?”
He tore through the flat. The wardrobe—her clothes still there. Yet the calls kept going unanswered.
“Bloody bitch. Half nine, still no sign of her.”
He turned on the telly to distract himself but, barely registering the programme, sank into a restless sleep.
He woke at half eleven. Still no wife. His chest tightened. Furious, he dialled again. This time, a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, good evening. I’m a nurse from the surgical A&E. Who am I speaking with?”
He barked, “What the hell’s this about A&E? Have you lost your mind?!”
The line cut. He redialled. Now a man answered.
“Please stop insulting our staff. Can you come to the hospital? The surgical ward?”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“You need to sign some documents. We did everything we could. Unfortunately… our condolences. Your wife’s heart stopped.”
He froze.
“What rubbish! She’s got no heart—she’s just refusing to come home! Where is she?”
“Your wife has passed away,” the voice repeated.
Just like that. His world shattered.
Later, they explained: the GP’s nurse had called with test results. Something had alarmed the doctors. Asked her to come in. After the appointment, she left the surgery but never made it to the bus stop—dizziness forced her onto a bench. She told herself it would be fine. Her husband would return to hot meals and ironed shirts. She’d manage—after all, the operation was routine, done all the time…
But she ran out of time. Never made it back.
Alone in the flat—every corner shaped by her hands, her care—he realised too late just how much he’d needed her.
And on the table, a list remained: *”Buy apples. Make broth. Wash shirts. Talk to husband—enough with the trips?”*
But now, no talk would come.
