**A Son, But Not a Wife, Worth Sparing**
“Have you lost your mind? You spent the money we saved for five years on a flat for your pregnant mistress? My money toogone on some I cant even find the words! How could you”
Thirteen years, Emily had been married to James. She adored him hopelessly, simply because he existed. She loved his perpetually tousled chestnut hair and that particular, slightly weary smile that always appeared when he looked at their eight-year-old son, Oliver. Life in their quiet town of Wellingford drifted along predictably, unchanged for years.
James arrived home at exactly half past nine. Lately, hed been working late often, though Emily hadnt paid it much minduntil recently. He was providing for the family, after all. The door slammed as he shrugged off his jacket, which carried an unfamiliar scentsomething sweet, floral. Not his usual cologne. Emily noticed immediately.
“Hello,” he muttered, kissing the top of her head. “Dead on my feet. Rotten day.”
“Hello. Hungry? Come on, Ill fix you a plate.”
“No, thanks. Just need a shower.”
He walked past, and Emily felt a sudden, creeping unease. Refusing food again. Was there someone else? James had been coming home later, his phone always on him now. It used to sit on the nightstand, but lately, he kept it in his pocketor worse, face-down, locked. Even brushing against it made him tense.
“Youre late,” she said, standing to clear a cup. “Busy at work?”
James paused in the bathroom doorway.
“Yeah, love. You know how it isend of the quarter. Reports. Endless red tape.”
“Why do you smell like that?” The question came sharper than she intended.
He froze. Emily knew shed caught him off guard.
“Smell like what?” He tried to sound casual, but his shoulders stiffened.
“Flowers. Something sweet, perfumed. Not your aftershave.”
“Oh, mustve been one of the lasses at the office. Sarah in accounting was showing off new perfume. Reeked of it.” He waved a hand. “Dont keep me, Em. Im knackered.”
“Sarah in accounting,” Emily thought, returning to the veranda. “Right. Of course.”
That scent had haunted her for two weeks. At first, she told herself it was coincidencehis colleagues wore perfume too…
The dream of their family had lived in a Barclays savings account, opened five years ago. A dream of a flat for Oliversomething to give him when he came of age. Theyd scrimped every spare penny. James, from his engineers salary at the local plant; Emily, from her modest earnings sewing bespoke dresses. No seaside holidays for five years, no new car, pinching penniesexcept for Olivers future. By now, there shouldve been nearly £30,000a fortune in Wellingford, enough for uni halls in Manchester, not some dingy student digs.
The storm broke without warning. A client paid Emilyextra, for her quick work. She went straight to the bank to deposit it, though she couldnt say why she didnt just transfer it online. Maybe she just wanted air. The day was glorious.
The teller, a young woman named Lucy whom shed known for years, flashed a polite smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Whitmore. How can I help?”
“Hello, Lucy. Id like to check our savings balance. And deposit a bit, if I may.”
“Of course. May I see your ID?”
Emily handed it over. Lucys fingers clattered over the keyboard.
“Right” Lucy frowned. “Mrs. Whitmore, its empty.”
“Empty?” Emily didnt understand.
She thought Lucy mustve made a mistake.
“Completely. Zero pounds, zero pence.”
The floor tilted. Emily gripped the counter hard.
“Lucy, thats impossible. Are you sure? Check the dateswe opened it five years ago, under James Edward Whitmore. I deposit monthly!”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitmore.” Lucy lowered her voice, sympathetic now. “The last large withdrawal was two weeks ago. Cash. A substantial sum.”
“How much?” Emily barely forced the words out.
“Twenty-nine thousand eight hundred pounds. Withdrawn the Tuesday before last. The accounts been closed.”
The Tuesday before last James had come home late that night, said thered been a meeting.
“Thank you, Lucy. I need a full statementevery transaction this month. Now.”
Emily left the bank unsteadily. She didnt remember the drive home. £30,000. James had taken it all.
***
When James returned, Emily sat at the kitchen table, the printed statement folded neatly before her. No tearsjust icy calm, the kind that comes before disaster.
James tossed his keys on the shelf, rubbing his temples.
“Hi. Everything alright?”
“Sit down, James,” Emily said. Her voice was low, evennothing like her usual tone.
He looked at her, puzzled. Then he saw the papers. Understanding dawned slowly on his face.
“Whats this?” He didnt sit.
“Sit. We need to talk.”
He sank into the chair opposite.
“Em, I dont know what this is about.”
“Dont lie, James. You know.” She tapped the statement. “I went to the bank today. The savings are gone. Twenty-nine thousand eight hundred. Vanished two Tuesdays ago.”
James stared at his hands. He didnt deny it.
“How did you find out?”
“Does it matter? What did you do with the money, James?”
“II bought a flat.”
“A flat? Where? For whom?”
He took a deep breath. When he looked up, there was no remorsejust irritation and bitter resolve.
“For her.”
“Whos her?” Emily didnt shout. She spoke as if discussing the rain.
“James. Say her name.”
“Sophie. Sophia…”
Emily stared. James shrank under her gaze but kept talking.
“Em, I dont know how it happened Remember that team-building weekend last year? When the boss practically forced us all to go? Thats where I met Sophie…”
He trailed off. Emilys voice was flat.
“Go on.”
“Well I fancied her straight off. She wasdifferent. Youre steady, cosy, safe. Sophies a whirlwind. Made me feel young again. She was only nineteen when we met. Rides a motorbike, tattoos everywhere, piercings I lost my head, Em. With you, its like were mates. After all these years…”
Emilys throat locked. She wanted to scream, slap him, smash every dish in the kitchen. But she held still. She wouldnt give him the satisfaction.
“Keep talking.”
“We didnt speak for a while. She dumped me, said I bored her. I was wrecked, Em. Called her, begged just to see her. Then she took up with some lad. I was getting over ithonest. Remember that weekend in Brighton seven months ago? Then she rang me out of the blue, and” His voice cracked. “Shes pregnant, Em. I couldnt leave her. Her mum kicked her out. I couldnt let my daughter sleep rough!”
Emily stood and walked to the window.
“So youll save your mistresss child, but not your wifes son? Well done. Heres what happens now: tomorrow, you sign your half of our house over to Oliver. When hes older, Ill sell it, and my boy will have his own place. What happens to you? I dont care. Ill file for divorce in the morningand if you fight me, James, Ill ruin you. Ill make sure all of Wellingford knows.”
Of course, James tried to win her backlingering outside the house, calling daily, sending pleading texts. None were answered. They divorced. His mistress didnt want him either. The baby, born right on time, wasnt histhe almond-shaped eyes made that perfectly clear.
And that was that.
