If only he’d known how it would all turn out…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver swearing under his breath as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the opposite lane at times. Not many passengers rode at this hour—just the usual stragglers on their way home from work.
Trevor gazed out the window at the grimy, half-melted snow. A little longer, and it’d be gone completely—then summer would be just around the corner. Another bump, another colourful curse from the driver.
“Might as well lose the wheels at this rate.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond them.
Every visit left Trevor with the same heavy sense of life’s fragility, the same reluctant acceptance that one day, he’d rest here too. He didn’t come out of devotion—just duty. It was the done thing, visiting loved ones on certain dates. Guilt prickled at his detachment, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus shuddered to a halt. Doors hissed open, passengers stretching stiff legs as they stepped out, immediately heading for the stalls of plastic flowers lining the fence. Trevor lingered, scanning for real blooms instead. The garish wax-dipped petals made his eyes ache. At the far end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four, then passed through the gates. The paths were more puddle than pavement. He dodged where he could, but slush seeped into his worn-out winter boots all the same.
Near the treeline, he turned left. His wife’s grave was easy to spot—the wooden cross still stood where newer plots had upgraded to headstones. *Should’ve replaced it by now. Or wait—maybe our son will sort it later for both of us?*
He stepped over the low railing, boots sinking into the damp earth. Cold seeped through to his socks.
“Hello, Lydia.”
The faded photo in the frame propped against the cross showed her smiling. He loved that picture. To him, she’d always be that woman—even if she’d only been thirty-six when it was taken.
He remembered that birthday. He’d rushed out for flowers at dawn. When he returned, Lydia was already up, dressed in a new sundress. He gave her gold earrings; she’d put them on immediately, beaming. He’d snapped the photo right then. Felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He frowned at the sea of plastic blooms crammed into the frozen soil.
He tugged a brittle yellow stem from the snow near the cross, replanted it at the foot of the grave, and wedged his carnations in its place. The frozen earth wouldn’t take them. They’d topple when the melt came. Alive, but hopelessly plain next to the gaudy fake petals.
“Miss you. Can’t come often—sorry. Don’t be cross. *I* should be here, not you. But life’s got a twisted sense of humour…”
He talked for ages, updating her between glances at the portrait, until his toes went numb. Crows cawed intermittently, sharp and ominous in the quiet.
“Better go, love. Wore these old boots like an idiot. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Clean the place up, bring a fresh photo. You’re too pretty here. Forgive me.” A sigh, a step over the railing—he left without looking back.
At the bus stop, a handful of mourners waited. By the time he boarded, he’d lost all feeling in his feet.
Home at last, he peeled off sodden socks, boiled the kettle, and gulped two mugs of honeyed tea. Dry wool socks, telly on, sofa down—some film droned in the background. Warmth and exhaustion pulled him under…
***
Emma joined their construction crew fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine. Trevor couldn’t stop staring. He had a wife. A son in primary school. Yet there he was, hopelessly distracted. What was he meant to do—pretend she didn’t exist?
One pre-Christmas evening, they crossed paths at the bus stop. Emma burrowed into her coat collar, streetlights flickering in her wide eyes. When the bus arrived, he nudged through the crowd after her and slid into the adjacent seat.
“Evening, Emma. Heading home?”
“Yep. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got real ones—left it on the balcony till the 30th. Whole family decorated together. The smell! Made the flat feel like Christmas straight away.”
“Today *is* the 30th. Got a real pine waiting?”
She laughed—clear, bright. He was mesmerised.
“Parents live miles off now. Mine’s plastic. I’ll drag the box out tonight, slap it together, chuck on some tinsel. Might even hang sweets like Mum used to. Then tea and admiration.” Another laugh.
He pictured it: cramped flat, twinkling tree, Emma stretching to crown it with a bauble, kettle whistling cheerfully in the kitchen…
“Can I come? Help decorate?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
She blinked. “Why?”
“Tree assembly. Tea after.” He flushed at his own audacity. *What’s she thinking now?* He backpedalled fast: “You made it sound nice. My lot did ours weeks ago—wife and boy couldn’t wait. Feels routine now. Miss the… spark, y’know?”
She studied him, then shrugged. “Alright. Come on, then.”
They built the tree, draped it in garlands, jostling and giggling like old friends. Felt like they’d known each other forever. Felt like she enjoyed it, too. Then tea… and he left, though every fibre screamed to stay.
New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall the lie he’d fed Lydia—no, he remembered *exactly*: her sharp glance, the silent understanding. But he was powerless. Emma was a riptide. No fight left in him. Not that he wanted to resist.
Soon, he was a regular at her flat. Emma never asked questions, though sorrow sometimes flickered in her eyes. Same look Lydia wore when he returned from Emma’s.
One evening, he resolved to confess. Couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Lydia would cry, shout. Fine. Just don’t take his son. He stepped inside—and she rushed to him, weeping.
“What’s wrong?” *Did she guess?* Maybe it was for the best.
But it wasn’t about Emma. His mother was in hospital—critical. Suddenly, his sins didn’t matter.
Mum moved in afterward—too frail to live alone. Lydia agreed without hesitation, though the burden would fall on her. Now he was trapped. Hired a carer, but Lydia caught the woman drunk one afternoon and sacked her on the spot.
No more risks. Lydia quit her job, became Mum’s full-time nurse.
Trevor went to Emma to end it. Apologised for leading her on, ruining things. Said she deserved better—marriage, kids. Not an affair with a coward.
In the hallway, she hugged him tight. Held on a long time before shoving him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself. At work, they exchanged stiff nods. Then he saw her chatting with a young intern—wire-framed glasses, polite smile. Jealousy nearly split his ribs. Moped for days. Soon after, Emma married the glasses-wearing bloke.
Mum died three years later, just before New Year. After the funeral, Lydia rested a month, then returned to work. A routine medical flagged a tumour. Then came the whirlwind: surgery, chemo, more surgery, more chemo…
He ran into Emma at the bus stop.
“You look awful. Rough week?” Her gaze was worried.
“Mum first, now Lydia. All my fault. Funny—the day I planned to leave, Mum collapsed. Then before I’d even buried her, Lydia…” He laughed bitterly. “God’s punishing me for loving you. For wanting out.”
Emma paled.
“Then He punished me too,” she whispered.
“You? Why?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have kids. My husband wanted them. He left.”
“Christ. I’m sorry.”
They sat together on the bus, silent.
Lydia faded daily. Skin stretched thin over bones. She shuffled to the loo clinging to walls. He couldn’t meet her eyes. *Why her? Why not me?*
“Want anything? You’ve barely eaten.” He perched on the bed, engulfing her frail hand in his.
“Just sit with me.” Her breath laboured. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Kept waiting for you to go. Dreaded it. Hoped for it.”
“She’s gone. Long gone. Why’d you never say?”
“What good would it do? Loved you too much. StupidHe sat alone in the growing dark, wondering if happiness had ever truly been within reach or if it was always just another stop he’d missed along the way.
