A Careless Brush with the Past
Emma stirred a pot of fragrant mushroom soup in the kitchen. Michael enjoyed his dinner before settling on the sofa with the telly on. Then, the phone rang. He picked it up.
“Your father’s taken ill,” his mother’s anxious voice trembled. “They’re admitting him to hospital. You should come.”
Without hesitation, Michael packed his things and left that same evening for his hometown alone. Emma stayed behind with their daughter, Lily—the little one had a cold, and what use would they be at the hospital anyway?
Michael’s mother barely left his father’s side. Days crept by in solitude, and in the evenings, Michael wandered the familiar streets. After one hospital visit, he strolled home, savouring the crisp autumn air. Suddenly, a woman pushing a pram paused just ahead. Michael squinted, then froze. Standing before him was Christine—his first love from school.
He’d fallen for her the moment they met. Quiet, delicate, almost ethereal. At the Christmas disco, trembling with nerves, he’d asked her to dance. She’d felt untouchable then—his dream. But his parents had disapproved, especially his mother. *Too fragile, too otherworldly. Not a wife, just a mystery.*
They’d insisted he study abroad. He obeyed. In his dorm, he’d pinned an enlarged photo of Christine to the wall. But life moved on. Other girls, new emotions, growing up. Then came Emma—steady, easy, warm. They married, had Lily, and Michael adored this family, his anchor and joy.
And now Christine stood before him, still the same—sad, graceful. Only this time, with a child. Unmarried. He knew it instantly—from her tone, her gaze. His heart ached.
They talked as if no time had passed. He walked her home, helped carry the baby. She still lived in her parents’ flat. At the door, she invited him in.
The next morning, Michael drove his mother to the hospital, then bought a bouquet of roses and returned to Christine’s. She welcomed him quietly, arranged the flowers, offered tea. In the cramped kitchen, their eyes met. He leaned in—and their lips touched. She didn’t pull away. She held him. For a moment, everything else vanished.
Then the baby cried. Christine rushed out. Michael stood alone, uneasy.
“I should go,” he muttered, moving toward the door.
“She sleeps early… Come back after ten,” Christine whispered.
It sounded like an invitation. A chance. A danger. Outside, his thoughts raced. Once, he’d have longed to hear those words. Now, he knew—if he returned, everything would change. He was a grown man. He had a family. Guilt weighed heavier with each breath.
That evening, his mother assured him his father was improving, that he could go home. Michael kissed his father goodbye, promised to visit with the family soon, and left that night. On the train, sleep wouldn’t come. He pictured Christine at her window, waiting. But he lied to himself: *This isn’t betrayal. Just a memory of the boy who once loved her madly.*
At dawn, he arrived home. Emma was making porridge, surprised but happy to see him. Lily shrieked, “Daddy!” and lunged into his arms. And Michael knew—*this* was his real life.
At Christmas, they visited his parents. On a walk, they crossed paths with Christine again. Michael smiled, said hello—then hurried to catch up with his girls.
He couldn’t fathom now why he’d loved Christine so much. Why that schoolboy infatuation had burned so fiercely.
He only knew this: he was glad he hadn’t stayed that autumn. Hadn’t betrayed. Because Christine was just a ghost of youth. Real love waited at home, where he belonged.
