“You’ll be with me always…”
Mary turned the sizzling pieces of meat in the pan, covered it with a lid, and through the open window heard the hum of an engine and the crunch of tyres on the gravel drive. Victor had arrived, and she hadn’t finished supper. She checked the apple pie in the oven, pulled vegetables from the fridge, and began washing them.
“Mary, I’m home!” Victor called from the hall. “Smells wonderful,” he said, stepping into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.
“Hungry?” Mary shut off the tap and turned to him. “You’re early. Supper isn’t ready yet.”
“It’s fine, I’ll wait. And is there something sweet for tea?”
“Yes, I’ve baked an apple pie. Can you hold on a little longer?”
“Of course.” He disappeared into the living room while Mary began chopping vegetables for the salad. She never liked juggling tasks, let alone cooking several dishes at once. A distraction, and something would surely burn. But tonight, everything had gone smoothly—perfect, even. She laid the table and went to fetch Victor. He was sprawled on the sofa in front of the telly, eyes half-closed, the evening news murmuring in the background. Before she could decide whether to rouse him, his eyes opened.
“Tired? You look…” Mary shook her head, searching for the right word.
“A bit. Supper ready?” He pushed himself up.
They walked to the kitchen together.
“My, this looks lovely—and the smell!” Victor surveyed the table.
“Fancy some wine? There’s a bit left,” Mary offered.
“No. Not tonight.”
She loved watching him eat—hungry but careful, savouring every bite. Truth be told, she loved everything about him. Loved cooking for him, ironing his shirts, falling asleep against his shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, but she loved him as he was, flaws and all.
***
They had met when both already carried the weight of past marriages. In her first, Mary had never conceived, though doctors found no reason, only saying these things happened sometimes—patience and hope were all she needed.
But while she waited, her husband had found solace elsewhere. A friend spotted him at the shopping centre with a heavily pregnant woman, picking out baby clothes. Mary didn’t believe it at first. A mistake, surely. Their marriage had been good—he wouldn’t… But then the missing pieces fell into place.
Make a scene? What would that change? The child wasn’t to blame—it deserved a father. Heartbroken but resolved, Mary decided not to fight. She couldn’t bear the thought of him sneaking away to them. This wasn’t just an affair—it was love, if it had gone this far.
He came home late, as usual. She couldn’t cook, couldn’t bear the television. Her chest ached with grief and injustice.
“Are you ill?” he asked, finding her curled on the sofa in the dark.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Then what is it? Your parents? Just tell me.” He stood before her, baffled, concerned.
“It’s you. You have another family. A baby on the way. When were you going to tell me?”
“So you know.” He exhaled sharply, eyes dropping. “Should I leave now or—”
“Now,” Mary cut in, turning away. She fought back tears as rage and despair clawed at her.
He moved through the flat, gathering his things without looking at her. Part of her wanted him to fall to his knees, beg forgiveness. Another part longed for him to disappear.
The sound of suitcase wheels stopped beside the sofa.
“I’ll fetch the rest tomorrow, all right?” he asked.
Mary nodded without meeting his eyes.
The wheels rolled away. Minutes later, the door clicked shut. And that was that. Only then did it hit her—this was real. She was entirely alone. The sobs came then, violent and unstoppable. She wept as if her life had ended, as if nothing good would ever come again.
She didn’t sleep. Paced barefoot through the flat, cried into the pillow. Come morning, she dragged herself to work, eyes red, nose blocked. Colleagues sent her home, assuming she was ill. Walking into the flat, she noticed at once—his things were all gone. Even his toothbrush. Even the shirt left in the wash. As if eight years of marriage had never been.
She wasn’t sure if that was kindness or cruelty. Later, she decided it was kind. No lingering reminders to reopen the wound. Better to rip off the plaster than peel it slowly.
Yet still, she grieved.
A year later, she met Victor. He had come to the bank about a mortgage for a house. Afterwards, he asked her to celebrate over coffee.
“Who’s the big house for? Your children?” Mary ventured.
“For me. For my future wife. My future children.” He looked at her as if that future was already written.
Mary longed to say she dreamed of the same—home, family. But of course, she didn’t. Agreeing to coffee was bold enough.
Victor, in turn, confessed how fatherhood had changed his ex-wife—constant dissatisfaction, shouting fits if he forgot to call.
“I tried. Worked long hours, offered her breaks, even sent her off to visit her friend in Manchester. She came back… different. Said she’d rekindled things with an old flame. Took our daughter and left.”
He hadn’t fought it, though it shattered him. At first, he visited Manchester, bringing gifts. Then his daughter grew distant. “She has a new dad now,” his ex-wife said. “Don’t interfere.”
Two lost souls, then. But their love ignited fast. With Victor, Mary felt she’d known him forever. Within months, they married.
Yet children never came.
“Don’t fret,” he soothed. “I’ve done nappies and night feeds. Still, my marriage crumbled. You’d be exhausted, snapping at me. We’d argue… Aren’t we happy as we are?”
Their savings poured into the house. Now, at last, it was theirs—mortgage cleared, debts settled. Just one more year of alimony. Life could truly begin…
***
“Penny for your thoughts?” Victor asked.
Mary startled. How lost she’d been in memories.
“Nothing. Just thinking… You look pale.”
“Long day.” He stood, stretching.
“Go rest,” she sighed. “I’ll wash up.”
By the time she finished and entered the living room, Victor was dozing before the silent telly.
“Vic, bed,” she urged, shaking his shoulder.
He blinked awake. “Must’ve nodded off.”
“You did. Come on.”
He rubbed his eyes, kissed her cheek, and shuffled upstairs.
Mary checked the locks, turned off the lights, showered. In bed, Victor was already asleep. She slipped under the covers. He stirred but didn’t wake. Soon, she slept too.
Then—a choking gasp jolted her awake. Victor thrashed beside her.
“Vic! What’s wrong? Vic!”
She flicked on the lamp. His face was crimson, eyes bulging. He tried to rise, then collapsed. Silent.
Mary screamed, shook him, called his name. No response.
She scrambled for the phone, dialled 999. Engaged. Again. Again. Same result.
Her hands shook. She rang colleagues. Someone had to get through.
Barefoot in her dressing gown, she pounded on the neighbours’ door.
A dog barked. Lights flickered on.
“Mary? What’s happened?”
“I can’t—it’s Vic—the ambulance won’t—”
Her voice failed. The neighbour’s wife wrapped an arm around her.
“Get inside, love. I’ll fetch my husband.”
Mary sobbed incoherently—waking, his fall, the silence—
Finally, sirens wailed.
She dashed home just as they carried him out—covered, motionless.
A scream tore from her. Hands held her back.
“Easy now, love. He was gone before they came.”
She fought, howled. Needle prick—then darkness.
***
The next days blurred. Calls to his family. His daughter promised to come.
“Funeral’s when? Never mind—I’ll be there,” her mother said.
Mary moved numbly. Neighbours brought food, condolences. The doctor assured her: no one could’ve saved him. Not her fault.
At the graveside, she crumpled. That rigid, waxen face wasn’t Victor. How could flesh change so fast? She pressed her lips to his—cold, unyielding—then fainted.
Afterwards, the house emptied.
“Come home with me,” her mother urged.
“No. I need to stay.”
Alone, she wandered, touching his things—the hedge he’d trimmed, the path he’d laid, his car by the garage. Everywhere, his ghost.
She tilted her face to the leaden sky.
“You’re gone,” she said aloud. “If You were real, You wouldnAnd so she carried on, year after year, whispering to his memory in the quiet of their house, for as long as she breathed.
