STARING INTO THE VOID
Tom and Emily married at nineteen, madly in love, utterly inseparablethe kind of passion that made their parents hastily arrange the wedding before anything *improper* could happen. The ceremony was lavish: a car decked with ribbons, enough flowers to drown a small village, fireworks, a banquet hall, and the obligatory drunken shouts of “Kiss the bride!”
Emilys parents couldnt contributetheir earnings barely covered their modest meals and, well, the local pubs profits. The entire bill fell to the grooms mother, Alexandra Alexandra (or “Sandra Sandy,” as she preferred, since her full name was a tongue-twister).
Sandra had warned Tom against Emily, given her parents fondness for the bottle. But what did love care for genetics? Tom swore Emily was different, that their devotion would outshine any “family tendencies.” Sandra sighed, “Tom, love, apples dont fall far from the tree. And mark my words, this romance might be shorter than a sparrows attention span.”
For a while, life was golden. Sandra and her husband gifted them a flat”Live and be happy, dears!”and Emily soon gave birth to two girls, Lucy and Sophie. Tom adored them, proud as a peacock in his role as family man.
Then, five years in, Emily started vanishing. When she returned, the stench of gin clung to her like cheap perfume. At first, she dodged questions, then dropped the bomb: shed never loved Tom. Just a silly schoolgirl crush. Now shed found her *true* soulmatea married man with three daughtersand off she went, declaring, “With the right bloke, a shacks a palace. With the wrong, even a mansions cramped.”
The children? Left behind.
Sandra, sharp as a tack and twice as quick, swooped in and took the girls. Tom, heartbroken and lost, joined a dubious religious cult (a mates suggestion). They promptly remarried him to a widow with two sons. His new wife, Brenda, piled her problems onto him. If he dared mention Lucy and Sophie, shed snap, “Tom, theyve got a mother! Focus on *my* boys.”
Tom obeyed, still pining for Emily, though he knew that ship had sailed.
Seven years later, Emily turned up on Sandras doorstep, clutching a four-year-old, Molly. Sandra eyed her. “Lifes roughed you up, hasnt it? This yours?” Emily nodded. “Can we stay? My husband drinks, hits meI couldnt take it.” Sandra scoffed, “Chose him yourself, didnt you? Why not crawl back to your parents?”
“I missed the girls,” Emily pleaded. Sandra relentedshe wasnt heartless. But a month later, Emily vanished again, back to her “sweet tormentor,” abandoning Molly too. Now Sandra had *three* granddaughters. The house brimmed with love, though the girls never forgave their mother.
Years flew. Sandra passed, then her husband. Lucy married but remained childless. Sophie embraced spinsterhood with a grey plait and quiet contentment. Molly, at seventeen, had a baby (father unknown) and bolted to join Emily in the countryside.
Emilys “soulmate” was eventually hauled off by his daughters, now his carers, leaving her alone. The village branded her a shameless drunk”walls have ears, and hers are full of gossip.”
Tom finally fled Brenda and the cult, a shell of a man, holed up in his mothers flat with three cats for company. A sad punchline to what mightve been.
Happiness had knocked. Theyd just forgotten to answer.
