She slipped into Georges study and finally saw why he was holed up there so often.
Do you even hear me? Emma slammed her palm onto the desk, startling the teacups into a sharp clatter. Im talking to you, and youre lost in your own head again!
George jerked upright, his eyes snapping away from the glowing screen of his mobile.
What? he muttered. Sorry, I was drifting off.
Drifting off! Youre always drifting! Emmas voice trembled with hurt. Ive told you three times that Claire is inviting us to the cottage on Saturday. Are you coming, or will you be at work again?
Darling, I cant now Ive got important business, George said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Can we push it to the next weekend?
What business? Emma asked, exhaustion seeping into her tone. Youre sixtytwo, George. Youve spent thirty years at the factory, youre retired. What could possibly be more important than family?
George fell silent, staring off to the side. A tight knot rose in Emmas chest. He never used to be quiet; they used to talk for hours about anything and everything.
Fine, she said, rising from the table and beginning to clear the dishes. Ill go alone, as usual.
George opened his mouth as if to protest, then simply nodded and sank back into his phone. Emma carried the plates to the kitchen, feeling tears prickle at the back of her throat. Forty years together, two grown children, three grandchildren, and now they felt like strangers.
It had all begun three months earlier. Georges retirement should have been a celebrationa chance to finally spend more time together. They had plans to visit the sea, tidy up the cottage, see Claire in York. Instead, George began sealing himself in his study for days on end, offering vague excuses: Im finishing a project, Im consulting with former colleagues, Im just tired, need some time alone.
Emma endured. She had learned to weather storms over the years. But when George missed his granddaughters birthday, citing urgent work, her patience began to fray. When he forgot their wedding anniversary, Emmas anger finally boiled over.
She washed the last plate, glanced out the kitchen window at the budding spring leaves. She wanted to walk, breathe fresh air, enjoy life. Instead she stood there, trying to understand where her husband had gone. Physically present, emotionally absent.
The phone rang, flashing a picture of Claire.
Hello, Emma forced a bright tone. Yes, I asked. No, he cant make it. He says hes busy.
Busy? Claire snorted. Emma, this is absurd. Hes retiredwhat could he possibly be busy with?
I dont know, Emma sighed, sinking onto a stool. He sits in his study doing something. Im tired of prying.
Have you ever thought maybe he? Claire hesitated. You know, it happens. Men his age sometimes
What? Emmas breath caught. Claire, what are you implying? A lover? With George?
Whats wrong with that? Claire replied cautiously. Im not trying to upset you, but think about it. He disappears for whole days, gives no answers, seems secretive. Maybe hes seeing someone.
Emma fell silent. The idea that George could be unfaithful had never crossed her mind. Theyd weathered poverty, illness, childrens crises together. Could he now, after all this time, have found another?
I dont believe it, she finally said. George isnt that kind of man.
Emma, I wish I believed you too, Claire sighed. But the facts are there. Go into his study, see what hes doing. You have a right to know.
I cant, Emma shook her head, though Claire couldnt see her. It feels like an invasion.
Since when is a marriage a private secret? You shouldnt have secrets from each other.
They said their goodbyes, and Emma sat alone, replaying Claires words. A lover? No, that was absurd. Hed never stared at other womenat least shed never noticed. But what if Claire was right? What if all these months had been a lie?
She stood, resolve hardening, and walked to the study. The door was shut, as always. She raised her hand to knock, then paused. From inside came a rustlepapers shuffling, a low mutter, not a voice.
She knocked.
Yes? Georges voice answered, distant.
George, can I come in?
A pause, then a hurried shuffling sound.
Just a minute!
Emmas brow furrowed; he was definitely hiding something. Her heart thudded.
The door creaked open a crack, revealing Georges face.
What do you want? he asked.
George, you wont even let me into your study? she tried to smile. I just wanted to ask if youd be having dinner or if you were busy again.
Ill be, he forced a smile. Give me about twenty minutes.
Alright.
Emma stepped back to the kitchen, the tension in the house thick as fog. Something was being concealed.
Dinner passed in strained silence. George ate quickly, then retreated to his study. Emma sat before the television, but the program never held her focus. Her thoughts raced, each one darker than the last.
She went to bed early, but sleep eluded her. George returned late, slipping into bed carefully so as not to wake her. She lay still, pretending to be asleep. Once, they used to talk before sleep, share the days details, plan together. That habit had vanished.
Morning found her awakened by the smell of coffee. George was already at the kitchen table, scrolling on his iPad.
Morning, Emma said.
Morning, he replied, looking up. Want a cup?
Ill pour it myself.
She took a seat opposite him, watching his tired eyes, the new grey at his temples. When had he aged so much?
George, she began gently. We need to talk.
About what? he didnt look up.
About us. About whats happening between us.
Nothings happening, he shrugged. Everythings as usual.
No, its not as usual! Emmas voice cracked. You avoid me. You spend whole days in that study. You missed our anniversary. You didnt even come to your granddaughters birthday!
George finally met her gaze, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.
Im sorry, he whispered. Ive been working a lot.
On what? she leaned forward. Tell me, what are you working on? Why cant you explain?
Its complicated, he looked away. Later, okay? Youll see soon.
When? she pressed.
Very soon. Just hold on a bit longer.
She wanted to keep pressing, but the phone rang. George snatched it, disappearing down the hallway. Fragments of his conversation drifted out.
Yes, its ready No, she doesnt know Alright, Ill be there
Emmas stomach clenched. She didnt know what she didnt know. Who was he talking to?
George returned, now dressed.
Ive got to go, he said, pulling on his coat. Back by lunch.
Where are you off to?
Business, he tossed back, and was gone.
Emma lingered at the empty kitchen chair, staring at the untouched mug. Business, she muttered. The word echoed Claires warning. What if it was true? What if someone else occupied his thoughts?
The day dragged on in a haze of chores and restless thoughts. She kept circling back to the study door, wanting to peek inside but holding back. Each step felt like a betrayal of trust, yet the silence was crushing.
Evening brought a call from their daughter, Lucy.
Mum, how are things? Lucys voice wavered. Dads gone mad with his projects?
Do you know what hes up to? Emma asked.
He says its important, but he wont say more, Lucy stammered. Hes become a mystery lately.
Thanks, love, Emma replied, a knot tightening.
After the call, the anxiety only deepened. Was he keeping a secret from Lucy too?
That night, sleep refused her. She lay awake listening to Georges steady breathing. Forty years togethercould it all crumble in a single evening?
The next morning, George announced he would be late again.
Dont wait up for dinner, he said. Ive got more errands.
Again? Emmas voice was low, determined. Thats enough.
When the door shut behind him, she walked resolutely to the study. The knob turned easily; the door was unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled of paper and something faintly familiar. On the desk lay folders, stacks of photographs, an open laptop. Her heart hammered as she approached.
The first thing she saw was a framed wedding photograph: a young George in a crisp suit, Emma in a white gown, smiling. Beside it, a picture of a baby she held, then one of their son James, then a family shot at the seaside.
She opened a folder, revealing printed photos ordered by date, each accompanied by handwritten notes. She began to read.
1992. We were barely out of our cramped flat, no money, but love overflowing. You greeted me every night after work, and I felt the luckiest man alive.
The next entry showed their first car, a battered old Rover.
Three years saving for this Rover. You gave up a new coat to afford it. When I finally brought it home, you cried tears of joy. We drove through town handinhand.
Page after page chronicled birthdays, first steps, school recitals, moves to a bigger house, trips to Cornwall, promotions, Lucys wedding. Each photo was paired with a vivid anecdote, a memory only George seemed to have recorded.
Her hands trembled; tears blurred the ink. She turned another page and found a thick notebook. Inside were more personal reflections.
Emma, youve always been my rock. When we couldnt afford my mothers medication, you sold your wedding ring. You said the metal meant nothing; love lived in our hearts. I promised to buy you a new one and kept that promise five years later. That day I realized I love you even more than on our wedding day.
Emma clutched the notebook to her chest, fighting the sobs. She remembered that night, the ring, the quiet resolve in his voice. She had never imagined it meant so much to him.
She stared at the laptop screen, where a document titled Our Story was open, dated just days ago.
Soon our fortyfirst anniversary will arrive. I want to give Emma this booka chronicle of our life, our love. She thinks Ive drifted away, that Im bored. The truth is I love her more now than ever. These forty years are the best of my life. I want our children and grandchildren to see that true love exists, even when its not always bright or easy.
Tears fell unchecked as she read his words, feeling his love pulse through each line. He had remembered every detailher love of lilacs, the summer she saved for a seaside trip, the fear she felt when they lost a childs toy in the park. He had captured it all.
A soft footstep entered the room. George stood in the doorway, a small parcel in his hand, eyes wide with dread.
Emma
She whispered, Im sorry I just
No, I should be the one apologising, he said, dropping to his knees beside her chair. I got so caught up in this book that I forgot you were right here, living, needing me now, not just in ink.
She reached up, smoothing his hair. I read it, George. I thought youd left me for someone else.
What? You think I have a lover? he stared, bewildered. Never, never. Only you.
Hes become distant, secretive
I wanted to surprise you for our anniversary. I thought the book would be the perfect gift, but I ended up pushing you away. Please forgive this old fool.
She wrapped her arms around him, and they sat together amid the photographs, the years laid out like a tapestry.
Why did you do it? she asked, after a moment. Why write all this?
George stood, pulling another thick folder from the bag. Remember Aunt Veras diary? When we sorted through her things last year, I found her husbands journal. Hed recorded every milestone of his life. I realised wed never left such a record for our grandchildren. I decided to create one, to keep our story alive.
I thought you were having an affair, Emma laughed through tears.
No, love. Im a retired factory foreman, not some secret lover. My only love is you.
He kissed her forehead; warmth spread through her, the same warmth theyd felt on their wedding day.
Will you show me everything? she whispered. I want to read it all.
Not yet finished, he admitted, smiling shyly. Ive arranged for it to be printed professionally for the anniversary.
Thatll be the best present I could ever hope for, she said, sincerity shining.
They stayed in the study long after the sun set, flipping through old albums, laughing at childhood mishaps, weeping at lost moments. George recounted how hed recorded even the times Emma sang to him when he was ill, how theyd danced to a scratchy record in the kitchen, how theyd dreamed of a future while sitting on a park bench.
Do you know what Ive realised while writing this? George mused. Happiness isnt in grand events or anniversaries. Its in the small thingsyour morning smile, our tea together, you always being there.
Emma pressed her head against his shoulder, grateful for the truth shed been missing.
That night they curled up on the sofa, the newly printed book resting on the coffee table. Their children arrived with grandchildren, the house buzzing with laughter. George presented Emma with the leatherbound volume, its cover a glossy wedding photo. Inside, page after page traced their lives, each chapter a testament to endurance.
Lucy wept while reading, James stared silently, his eyes glossy. The youngest grandchild, Lily, asked, Granddad, is it true you gave Grandma a hundred roses for your fiftyfirst wedding?
Indeed, George grinned. She always wanted a massive bouquet.
Thats so romantic! Lily sighed dreamily. I hope my husband will be like that someday.
When the guests finally left, Emma and George lingered, the house quiet once more. She flipped through the book again, whispering, Thank you for everything.
And thank you, George replied, pulling her close. For your patience, your love, for walking this whole life with me.
In that quiet moment, they both understood that this wasnt an ending but a fresh start. They had learned to value each day, each shared glance, to speak before silence grew. They had found, at last, the balance between remembering the past and living in the present.
She had walked into his study and finally grasped why hed been working so hard. That understanding brought her a peace she never imagined she could feel again.
