“You’ll be with me always…”
Lucy flipped the sizzling pieces of meat in the pan, covered it with a lid, and heard the familiar hum of an engine outside the open window, followed by the crunch of tyres on the gravel path. Victor was home, and she hadn’t finished dinner. She checked the apple pie in the oven, then pulled fresh vegetables from the fridge and began washing them.
“Lu, I’m home!” Victor called from the hallway. “Something smells amazing,” he said, inhaling deeply as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Hungry?” Lucy turned off the tap and faced him. “You’re early. I haven’t quite finished.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll wait. Any dessert to go with tea?”
“Yes, baking a pie. Can you hold on a bit?”
“Course.” He wandered off to the living room while Lucy started chopping vegetables for the salad. She hated multitasking—especially cooking multiple dishes at once. If she got distracted, something always burned. But tonight, everything turned out perfect. She set the table and went to fetch Victor. He was lounging on the sofa in front of the telly, eyes half-closed as the news played. Before she could decide whether to wake him, he blinked awake.
“Tired? You look…” Lucy shook her head, searching for the right word.
“A bit. Dinner ready?” He pushed himself up, and they headed to the kitchen together.
“Wow. Looks brilliant,” Victor remarked, scanning the spread.
“Fancy some wine? We’ve a bit left,” Lucy offered.
“Not tonight.”
She loved watching him eat—hungrily, yet neatly. Truth be told, she loved everything about him—cooking for him, ironing his shirts, falling asleep against his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she loved him just as he was, flaws and all.
***
They’d met when both had already been through failed marriages. Lucy hadn’t managed to conceive in her first marriage, though doctors found nothing wrong. “These things happen,” they said. “Just be patient.”
While she waited, her husband hadn’t. A friend spotted him at a shopping centre with a heavily pregnant woman, picking out baby clothes. Lucy refused to believe it at first. They had a good marriage—he wouldn’t—until the pieces fell into place.
Make a scene? Would it change anything? The baby wasn’t at fault; it deserved a father. Heartbroken, Lucy decided not to fight. She couldn’t bear him sneaking off—or worse, doing it openly. This wasn’t a fling. If he’d got her pregnant, then love for Lucy was long gone.
When he came home late that evening, she couldn’t cook, couldn’t even watch telly. Her chest ached with betrayal.
“You ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa in the dark.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Your parents, then? Spit it out.” He stood there, frowning.
“It’s you. You’ve got another family. She’s pregnant. When were you going to tell me?”
“So you know.” He exhaled sharply, avoiding her eyes. “Should I leave now, or—”
“Now.” Lucy turned away, fighting tears as anger and despair clawed at her.
He packed in silence, never looking at her. Part of her wanted him on his knees, begging to stay. The other just wanted him gone.
The suitcase wheels stopped near the sofa.
“Mind if I get the rest tomorrow?”
She nodded without turning.
The wheels rolled away. The door clicked shut. And just like that, it hit her—she was truly alone. Then came the sobs. She felt like her life was over—no more love, no more happiness.
She didn’t sleep. Paced barefoot till dawn, cried into pillows. By morning, she dragged herself to work, puffy-eyed and sniffly. Her colleagues sent her home, assuming she was ill. When she returned, every trace of him was gone—even his toothbrush, even the shirt in the wash. As if their eight years had never happened.
She couldn’t decide if that was cruel or kind. Eventually, she settled on kind. No reminders meant faster healing. Funny—he’d always been messy, leaving clothes and dishes everywhere. Maybe this was his one act of mercy.
A year later, she met Victor. He came to the bank for a mortgage, then asked her out for coffee.
“Building a big house—for kids?” she asked.
“For me, my future wife, future kids,” he said, looking at her like he meant *their* future.
She nearly admitted she wanted all that—home, family—but stopped herself. Coffee was enough.
Victor confessed his ex-wife had changed after their daughter was born—always shouting, never satisfied. He’d suggested she visit a friend in London to relax. She’d returned cheerful, then dropped the bomb: she’d reconnected with an old flame. She left with their daughter.
“I didn’t stop her,” Victor said. “But it gutted me.”
Two lonely souls. Their love burned fast and bright. Six months later, they married.
Yet, no children came.
“Don’t fret,” Victor reassured her. “I’ve done nappies and sleepless nights. They don’t guarantee happiness. We’re good as we are, yeah?”
And they were. Their house was finally done, debts paid. Life was sweet.
***
“You miles away?” Victor’s voice snapped her back.
“Just thinking. You look peaky.”
“Long day.” He stood, stretching.
“Go rest. I’ll clean up.”
By the time she finished, Victor was dozing on the sofa. She shook him gently.
“Vic, bed.”
He blinked. “Must’ve nodded off.”
She checked the doors, turned off the lights, showered. When she slipped into bed, he was already asleep.
Then, in the dead of night—a rasping gasp. Victor thrashed beside her.
“Vic? *Vic!*”
She flicked the lamp on. His face was red, eyes bulging. He tried to rise, then collapsed. Lucy shook him, screamed. Nothing.
She scrambled for the phone. Dialled 999. Busy. Again. Again.
“For God’s sake!”
She called colleagues, begged them to try. Someone *had* to get through.
Barefoot in her dressing gown, she ran to the neighbours, hammered on their door. A dog barked. Lights flickered on. John stepped out.
“Who’s—Lucy? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t—the ambulance—Vic’s—”
His wife appeared. “I’ll call again. John, go!”
John sprinted next door in his pyjamas.
Then—sirens. Lucy dashed back inside just as they carried Victor out, a sheet over him. She screamed, lunged. Someone held her back.
“Easy now,” John murmured, hugging her tight as she fought. “He was gone before they came.”
“That’s *not* true!” She broke free, but a needle pricked her arm. The world blurred.
The ambulance drove away.
“Come inside, love. You’ll freeze,” John said, steadying her.
She let him guide her to the sofa—the same one Victor had napped on hours ago.
“Leave me,” she whispered.
She buried her face in her hands and wept.
Dawn came grey and cold. The neighbour’s dog howled. The path Victor had laid gleamed with dew. His car sat in the drive. Everywhere—*him*.
She glared at the leaden sky.
“You’re not there. If you were, you wouldn’t have taken him.”
She called his family, his daughter. Arranged the funeral mechanically. Let her mother handle the rest.
At the hospital, she asked the doctor: “Could he have been saved?”
“No. Instant. Don’t blame yourself.”
At the cemetery, she touched his face—cold, unfamiliar. Then fainted.
Days blurred. The house emptied.
“Mum, you should go home. Dad needs you.”
Her mother hesitated. “Come with me.”
“No. I’ll manage.”
(Lie. She wasn’t sure she would. But she needed to remember—every second with Victor. While she remembered, he lived. He’d *always* be with her.)
She had nothing left but memories.
And love.
