Too Late to Realise…
When Nigel returned from his business trip to his hometown of Leeds, the clock struck half past six. The flat was unnervingly quiet.
“Odd… Where’s Emily?” he thought, tossing his bag onto the floor.
He wandered through the rooms, peeking into the bathroom, the kitchen, the nursery. Not a trace. The hob was cold, the kettle untouched, but the fridge was bursting with Tupperware filled with meals.
“Gone for a while… But where?”
He dialled his wife’s number—no answer. Shrugging, he grabbed a container of shepherd’s pie and sat down to eat. An hour later, he rang again—still nothing but the drone of the dial tone.
“Right then… out gallivanting, is she? Found herself a fancy man, has she?” His blood began to boil. “She’ll get an earful when she staggers in.”
By nine o’clock, Nigel was certain: she was cheating. Fragments of old arguments flickered in his mind—how he’d berated her for every scratch on the car, demanded receipts for every pound she spent.
“Doesn’t even work, does she? I pay for everything. Lives like a queen. And now she fancies a taste of freedom, eh?”
He prowled the flat, checked the wardrobe—everything in place. The car keys hung by the door.
“So she didn’t take the car? Then where the devil is she?”
By eleven, he was fit to burst. His pulse throbbed in his temples. He dialled again.
“Where the hell are you, you miserable cow?!” he bellowed as soon as the call connected.
“Hello… Good evening. This is Sister Patel from A&E at St. Thomas’. Who am I speaking to?”
“What do you mean, ‘A&E’? Have you lost the plot?”
The line went dead. Trembling with rage, Nigel redialled. A man’s voice answered this time.
“Stop harassing our staff. If you’re Mr. Emily Thompson’s husband, you need to come to the surgical ward immediately. There are papers to sign.”
“What papers? What’s this rubbish?”
“We did everything we could. Our condolences. Your wife’s heart stopped.”
Nigel slumped onto the sofa.
“Dead? She never had heart trouble… She couldn’t be…” he mumbled.
As it turned out, that afternoon, Emily had been called by a nurse from the GP’s office—her test results had come in, urgent review needed. While Nigel was off traipsing across the country, his wife went alone… and walked out of the building, reeling from what she’d heard.
She sat on a bench outside, still in shock. One thought hammered in her head: “Pull yourself together. Must cook Nigel’s meals for the week, so he doesn’t go hungry. And iron his shirts. The doctors said the surgery’s straightforward—she’ll be discharged soon…”
Except she wasn’t.
And Nigel never got to say “thank you,” “I’m sorry,” or “I love you.” Only anger, suspicion, and blame.
And now it was far too late to understand what it truly meant—to lose someone forever.
