**Shadows of Doubt: A Test of Love**
Saturday morning began like any other. We slept in and had a late breakfast. Emma was torn between visiting her friend, who’d been inviting her over for ages, or staying home to tidy up and cook a nice dinner. James was getting ready to meet his mate.
Undecided, she cleared the table while James pulled on his jeans, trainers, and a light jacket. Lean and fit, he looked younger than his years. Emma smiled at him, breathing in the scent of his expensive cologne, then saw him to the door. “Will you be back late?” she asked.
James shrugged vaguely, pecked her on the cheek, and hurried down the stairs. Emma shut the door and returned to the kitchen. Then, a chime rang out—a message had come through on James’s phone, left on the hallway shelf.
*Typical,* she thought. *In such a rush, he forgot it. Maybe I can catch him?*
She picked up the phone, and on the screen flashed: *”Why aren’t you calling? I miss you. I want to see you.”*
Emma froze. The words blurred before her eyes, their meaning seeping in slowly, like poison. They’d been married seven years. Their daughter, Sophie, a first-grader, had gone to her grandma’s for the weekend. Everything had been perfect—a cosy home, warmth between them. Was it all over? Was James cheating? Had he found someone else?
She collapsed onto the sofa, tears streaming. She couldn’t believe her world was crumbling. Who was this woman? Where had they met? What did she have that Emma didn’t? The questions swarmed, tearing at her heart. Wiping her face, she called her friend and sobbed out the story.
Her friend listened, then said calmly, “We always think it won’t happen to us, and when it does, we panic. Calm down, Emma. James loves you. Don’t jump to conclusions. Some girl texted, and you’re already spiralling.”
She invited Emma over, but couldn’t come herself—her kid was home, her husband at work. Pulling herself together, Emma stepped outside. Late September was mild, the sun shining, wisps of clouds drifting. Leaning tiredly against the bus stop, she felt hollow. She didn’t want to go to her friend’s, but being alone at home was unbearable.
“Good afternoon! Are you Lucy?” a kind voice asked. Emma looked up. A tall, handsome stranger smiled at her, warmth in his eyes.
“I imagined you just like this,” he continued.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Emma replied with the first thing that came to mind: “And I imagined you just like this.”
He held out his hand. “Fancy a walk?”
She agreed, unsure why. Answers eluded her. They strolled along the boulevard in the park near Sunnybrook, and he began to talk—unmarried, he’d found her on a dating site, thrilled to meet her. Emma nodded absently until he asked, “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Disappointed?”
She almost told him he’d mistaken her for someone else, but his phone rang. He answered, startled, then grinned.
“Sorry, I’m not Lucy,” Emma admitted.
“I gathered,” he chuckled. “Lucy just cancelled. So, what’s the matter?”
They sat in a café. Without quite knowing why, Emma told this stranger about the message. “Imagine it’s a mistake,” he said. “Or a prank. If a man’s living a double life, he’d never leave his phone behind. It’s the first thing he guards. Trust me.”
“Have *you* lived a double life?” she shot back.
He laughed. “No. But men swap stories. I’ve heard enough.”
They spent a couple of hours together. Dusk fell. Emma headed home, and he walked with her, urging her not to rush to judgment. “It’ll make sense, I’m sure.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Sorry for pretending. I’m not myself today. Do I look like Lucy?”
“No idea,” he replied. “I just wished you were. But don’t worry—it’ll all work out.”
He left without giving his name, just as she hadn’t. A fleeting encounter. Yet Emma felt lighter. At home, she called her friend, recounted the meeting, and they laughed.
James still wasn’t back. Emma curled up on the sofa and dozed off to a dreary film about doomed love. Her dreams tormented her—James embracing a stranger, whispering to her, then turning—it was the man from the café. Everything tangled in her mind, a suffocating nightmare. She longed to wake, to confirm it was just a bad dream, but the visions rolled on like reality.
Then, she felt arms around her and a whisper: “Em, I love you.”
She opened her eyes. James was there, slightly tipsy. He spoke of his mate, recently divorced, drowning in loneliness. James realised how lucky he was—his family, his wife.
“You left your phone. You got a message,” Emma interrupted.
He fetched it, read, then looked at her. “Only read one, or both?” he teased.
“One was enough,” she said coldly.
James handed her the phone. The second message read: *”Oops, wrong number! Mixed up a digit…”* —followed by a grinning emoji.
He sat beside her, and she clung to him. “I’m sorry, James,” she whispered.
He held her hands. “My jealous girl. I don’t need anyone but you. I’ll invite my mate for lunch tomorrow, yeah? He took photos at the pub—proof it was just us.”
How often we forget the simplest wisdom—to trust the ones we love, no matter what.
