After a long day at work, all I wanted was to get home, hug my daughter, and cook something nice. But at the last minute, I decided to stop by my friend Emily’s place—we’d been close since secondary school, and I hadn’t seen her in ages. A year ago, Emily had gone through a nasty divorce and took ages to recover. I’d done my best to support her, and at the time, I thought it was my encouragement that helped her pull through and smile again.
Lately, though, I’d noticed something off about her. She’d grown distant, her gaze vacant, avoiding meet-ups. I put it down to exhaustion—maybe even a new fling. But the truth was far closer than I ever imagined.
When she opened the door, her smile was tight.
“Come in,” she said flatly, turning straight for the kitchen.
I knew that look. My visit wasn’t welcome. I hung up my coat, perched on the edge of the sofa, and inhaled the rich aroma filling the air.
“Smells amazing! Expecting someone?”
“No… just fancied cooking,” she mumbled, avoiding my eyes.
“Right, a full roast just for one,” I said pointedly.
Emily gave an awkward laugh and hurried to check the oven. Just then, my phone rang—my husband. He’d already told me he’d be late due to a last-minute meeting. I tucked my phone away just as hers buzzed from the armrest.
His face flashed on the screen.
My hands trembled. Without thinking, I answered.
“Em, love, I’m on my way. Be there soon,” came the voice I knew too well.
A second later, Emily walked in. Our eyes met. No words were needed—she saw it all in my face.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t lose my temper. Didn’t hurl the phone at the wall.
I just exhaled and said calmly, “He’s not perfect. You’ll figure that out soon enough. But if you want him—take him. Just don’t expect me to fight. Pack his things. He’s yours now. I’m done.”
Emily didn’t argue. Didn’t even try to explain.
Leaving her flat, my heart pounded like it might burst. Two people I’d trusted most had betrayed me. It took an hour to get home, but at some point, it struck me: there was nowhere left to rush to.
My daughter was at her gran’s. No need to cook for my husband—his dinner was already in Emily’s oven.
I hadn’t lied. He was far from perfect. Useless around the house, barely lifting a finger. Came home, flopped on the sofa with a beer—night after night. His wages were peanuts, his help nonexistent. I’d begged, argued, even gone silent. Nothing changed.
The next day, he packed his things and left. For Emily’s.
I remember wondering how long she’d last.
Six months later, I got my answer. Realising what she’d signed up for, Emily kicked him out. And there he stood on my doorstep again—dull, dishevelled, with a guilty grin.
“Maybe we could start over?”
“No,” I said firmly. “There’s no going back. I’ve learned how good life is without you.”
Emily and I don’t speak anymore. No calls, no texts. Sometimes I spot her in town. Once, we bumped into each other at the supermarket. She stopped, met my eyes, and suddenly said,
“I’m sorry. Shame we’re not friends anymore.”
I just smiled. Walked right past.
