Emily stood by the window, watching the thick London snow blanket the city. The phone call with her husband was winding downjust another routine conversation, one of countless over their fifteen years of marriage. James, as usual, was updating her about his “business trip” in Manchester: everything was fine, meetings were on schedule, hed be back in three days.
“Alright, love. Talk soon,” Emily said, moving the phone away to end the call. But something stopped her. On the other end, she heard a womans voicebright, youthful, and unmistakably intimate:
“Jamie, are you coming? Ive run the bath”
Emilys hand froze mid-air. Her heart skipped, then hammered violently, as if trying to escape her chest. She pressed the phone back to her ear, but all she heard was the sharp tone of a disconnected call.
She sank into the armchair, legs giving way beneath her. Her mind raced: *Jamie A bath What bath on a business trip?* Fragments of the past few months flashed before herhis frequent trips, late-night calls taken on the balcony, the unfamiliar perfume lingering in his car.
With trembling hands, she opened her laptop. Logging into his email was easyshe knew the password from a time when trust between them had been unshakable. Tickets, hotel bookings A “honeymoon suite” in a five-star Manchester hotel. For two.
Then she found the messages. *Chloe.* Twenty-six. Fitness instructor. *Darling, I cant do this anymore. You promised youd leave her three months ago. How much longer do I have to wait?*
Emily felt sick. Memories flooded hertheir first date, when James was just a junior manager and she a trainee accountant. Theyd saved for their wedding, renting a tiny flat, celebrating small victories, weathering setbacks together. Now he was a successful commercial director, she the companys head of financeand between them stretched a chasm fifteen years wide, bridged by a girl named Chloe.
In the hotel room, James paced furiously.
“What were you thinking?” His voice shook with anger.
Chloe lounged on the bed, wrapped lazily in a silk robe, her blonde hair spilling across the pillow.
“Whats the big deal?” She stretched like a contented cat. “You said you were going to leave her anyway.”
“That was *my* decision to make! Do you have any idea what youve done? Emily isnt stupidshell have figured it out!”
“Good!” Chloe sat up sharply. “Im tired of being your dirty little secret. I want to go to restaurants with you, meet your friends, *be* your wife!”
“Youre being childish,” he hissed.
“And youre a coward!” She marched up to him. “Look at me! Im young, beautifulI could give you children. What does *she* offer? Just counting your money?”
James grabbed her shoulders. “Dont you dare talk about her like that! You know *nothing* about us!”
“I know enough,” she spat, wrenching free. “I know youre miserable. That shes buried in work and chores. When was the last time you even touched her? Or took a holiday together?”
James turned to the window. Somewhere in snow-covered London, his life with Emily was crumbling. Fifteen years, collapsing like a house of cards over one careless remark from a spoiled girl.
Emily sat in the dark kitchen, cradling a cold cup of tea. Dozens of missed calls from James lit up her phone. She couldnt answer. What was there to say? *”Darling, I heard your girlfriend calling you to her bath?”*
Her memory taunted her: James proposing in a crowded restaurant; moving into their first flat, a cramped two-bed in the suburbs; him holding her when her mother died; celebrating his promotion
Then came the endless overtime, the mortgages, the renovations
When had they last talked properly? Watched a film curled up on the sofa? Made plans?
Her phone buzzed. A text: *Em, we need to talk. I can explain.*
Explain *what*? That shed aged? That shed drowned in routine? That a fitness trainer understood him better?
Emily studied herself in the mirror. Forty-two. Wrinkles, greys she dyed each month. When had the exhaustion crept in? The endless chase for stability?
“Where have you *been*?” Chloe glared when James returned to the room after another failed call.
“Not now.” He loosened his tie, collapsing into a chair.
“No, *now*!” She planted her hands on her hips. “What happens next? You know this changes everything!”
James studied herconfident, radiant, full of life. Emily had been like that fifteen years ago. *God, how could I do this to her?*
“Chloe” He rubbed his face. “Youre right. Its time to decide.”
She beamed, flinging herself at him. “Darling! I knew youd see sense!”
“Yes.” He gently pushed her away. “This ends now.”
Her face fell. “*What?*”
“It was a mistake. I love my wife. Weve got problemsweve drifted apart. But I wont throw away fifteen years.”
“Youyou *coward*!” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“No. I was the coward when I started this. When I lied to the woman whos stood by me through everything. Youre rightIm unhappy. But happiness isnt something you find on the side. Its something you *build*.”
The knock came just past midnight. Emily knew it was himhed taken the first flight back.
“Em, please,” came his muffled voice through the door.
She opened it. James stood thereunshaven, crumpled suit, eyes full of guilt.
“Can I come in?”
Silently, she stepped aside. They moved to the kitchenthe place where theyd once dreamed together.
“Em”
“Dont.” She held up a hand. “I know everything. Chloe, twenty-six, fitness instructor. I read your emails.”
He nodded, speechless.
“Why, James?”
He stared out at the city.
“Because Im weak. Because I panicked when we grew apart. Because she reminded me of *you*the way you used to be, full of fire and plans.”
“And now?”
“Now” He faced her. “Now I want to fix this. If youll let me.”
“What about her?”
“Its over. I cant lose you. Em, I dont deserve forgiveness. But lets trycouples therapy, more time together, *us* again”
Emily studied himolder, greyer, achingly familiar. Fifteen years wasnt just a number. It was shared memories, private jokes, the comfort of silence. It was learning to forgive.
“I dont know, James.” For the first time that night, she cried.
He pulled her close, and she didnt resist. Outside, snow softened the city.
Somewhere in Manchester, a girl wept, facing a brutal truth: real love wasnt passion or romance. It was a choicemade every single day.
And here, in this kitchen, two weary people began picking up the pieces. Ahead lay resentment, therapy, painful conversations. But they both knew: sometimes you have to lose something to understand its worth.
