A Conversation with Conscience
Our marriage with Emily was crumbling before my eyes. It wasn’t that we fought every day—just exhaustion, the grind of daily life, a constant lack of time and attention. Work, children, cooking, cleaning, school, clubs… It was as though we lived in parallel: under one roof but in separate worlds. I returned late; she fell asleep with a book or her phone in hand. In the morning, a brief “Good morning,” and we each rushed off to our duties. More and more, a thought haunted me: “Is this really life?”
That’s when Laura arrived at the office—bright, young, full of spark. Effortless company. She laughed at my jokes, thanked me with a playful smile when I helped with the printer. There was admiration in her gaze, something I hadn’t felt from my wife in years. I began to court her: coffees, compliments, lunches away from the desk. At home, I lied—stuck in meetings, fixing a mate’s laptop. Claimed I was burnt out from work. Looked Emily in the eye and lied. All for Laura, who promised me intimacy the following Saturday.
I was over the moon with anticipation. We arranged it—she’d wait at her flat, I’d slip free of “family obligations.” I returned home late on Friday, giddy, a foolish grin plastered on my face.
Emily was there to meet me. Tired, shadows under her eyes, wrapped in an old dressing gown. The children were already asleep. She studied me like an airport scanner—immediately understood something was off. But she said nothing. Warmed up dinner, set a plate before me, sighed:
“Leave the dishes. Too tired.”
Then she vanished into the bedroom. I ate, washed up, and peeked in quietly. My wife was asleep in her clothes, hair still tangled. On the bedside table—an old photo album. She must’ve been leafing through it before bed.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Restlessness gnawed at me. To pass the time, I picked up the album.
Photo by photo, the past dragged me back. Our first meeting. Walks in the park. Emily, young and bright, laughter in her cheeks. Us on holiday by the sea, arms around each other, sipping cocktails, grinning. And me… happy. Utterly, foolishly in love.
It hit me like a bolt of lightning.
Where had it all gone? Why had I stopped seeing the woman I’d once fought for? *I* was the one who’d buried her under chores, exhaustion, monotony. *I* had stopped looking her way, surprising her, speaking kindness.
The album lay open in my hands, one thought spinning: “Why chase affection elsewhere when it’s already at home?”
By five, I was at the all-night florist. Phoned Mum, begged her to take the children for the weekend. Rushed back—breakfast, sandwiches, coffee in her favourite mug, carefully arranged on a tray. Emily woke to the scent and sound of movement. Stared at me, wary, even afraid.
I knelt by the bed. “Forgive me. I’ve been an idiot. Give me another chance.”
Then the flowers—so many her hands shook. We laughed, clung to each other, and for the first time in years, I felt alive.
With Laura, I cut ties. Shame curdled in my gut. Blocked her number. No more lies. That same day, I sent Emily to the salon—manicure, massage, a fresh blow-dry. In the evening, we dined at the restaurant where we’d celebrated our engagement. The next day: cinema, strolls through Hyde Park, coffee on a bench.
And suddenly, there they were—her eyes, just like before. Soft makeup, that lively glint, that spark. My girl. My wife. My heart.
Since then, I’ve done everything to make Emily feel cherished. Helped, listened, surprised her. And you know what? She gives back warmth, tenderness, passion—no young “Lauras” could ever compare.
So listen, lads. If you’re craving fire, don’t chase affairs. Look at your wife. Maybe all it takes is courting her again—yes, like at the start. Then you won’t get a fling lasting months, but happiness lasting a lifetime. I know. I’ve lived it.
