Emma had been happily married for thirteen years (an unlucky number, some might say), and never imagined anything could shake her peaceful life or the strong bond she shared with her husband, James.
This year, he was turning forty, and they’d planned to celebrate just the two of them—somewhere exotic by the sea, all romance and relaxation. But with only two months to go, James suddenly lost interest in the idea, refusing to even talk about it.
Emma tried bringing it up a few times, but he’d just clam up. Then, one day, he snapped. He told her she’d worn him out with her plans, clinging to him like a bad habit—was there really nothing else worth talking about?
A huge row erupted, leaving Emma in tears, locked in the bedroom, while James downed a couple glasses of whiskey and passed out on the sofa. After that, he was icy and distant. Emma was hurt, but too afraid to bring it up again, not wanting another fight. They’d never really argued much before—always found a way to work things out.
The next weekend, she met up with her best mate, Sarah, who noticed something was off straight away. Emma spilled—something wasn’t right with James. Sarah frowned, then dropped the obvious suspicion: *“You don’t think he’s seeing someone else, do you?”*
Emma froze. She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, but now it all came flooding back—the late nights at work, the sudden business trip, the cottage keys in his coat pocket even though they never went there this early in spring.
Her stomach sank. What was she supposed to do now? Confront him without sparking another blow-up?
But in the end, *he* brought it up. Maybe he’d finally noticed her quiet misery. Emma admitted she felt him pulling away, that things weren’t right, but she didn’t understand why.
*“What’s going on, Jamie?”* she asked softly.
*“I don’t know,”* he sighed. *“I just… need space. I’m going to stay at the cottage for a bit, clear my head. We’ll talk after.”*
And with that, he packed a bag and left, throwing over his shoulder, *“I just need to be alone.”*
Emma sat there, stunned, as the door clicked shut. No tears. Just numb silence. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her parents, who lived in another town, or their teenage daughter, Lily. For them, he was just *away on business.*
Sarah, though, wasted no time: *“Told you, didn’t I?”* She was convinced it had to be someone from work, but that only made Emma feel worse.
*“Drive up to the cottage late tonight—you’ll see for yourself. Want me to come with?”*
Emma refused. She wasn’t about to stalk her husband. If he wanted to leave, she couldn’t stop him, and making a scene wasn’t her style.
More sleepless nights followed. Tears soaked her pillow, while Lily eyed her with quiet questions. Not a word from James.
Then, ten days later, a call from his office—did she know when he’d be back? He’d taken personal leave and was due back two days ago, but no one could reach him.
Panic hit hard. Emma finally drove to the cottage.
No sign of James—just a letter, two pages long, waiting for her.
*“Emma, love. I don’t even know where to start… None of this is your fault. Maybe a bit of mine.*
*We’d been married nearly a decade when I found out I had another daughter—yes, another. From a woman I dated years before we met. We broke up, she moved to Scotland, then ten years later, she tracked me down to tell me about Charlotte.
*For three years, I buried it, tried to move on. And I did—until I got the message that Charlotte’s mum had died. She’d known she was ill when she first reached out, begged me not to abandon the girl when she was gone.
*I left to be with Charlotte. Sorting out custody now. Took leave from work. Changed my number so the office wouldn’t hound me.
*Call me. I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to say this to your face, to talk it through properly. Sorry, Em.
*I won’t leave Charlotte—she looks just like me. You should see her photo. Even a bit like our Lily. Though she’s two years older.
*When you’re ready to talk, we’ll figure it all out. I love you and Lily so much.*
*Yours, James.”*
Emma read it again and again, tears blurring the words, but beneath the shock, there was quiet relief. Her husband wasn’t a cheat. Wasn’t a villain. Just a man carrying too much alone.
She wiped her face, steadied herself, and called him.
*“Come home,”* she said. *“Both of you. There’s nothing to discuss.”*