**Nothing Can Be Undone**
Life has a way of dividing itself into chapters. For me, it was before Emily and after. But now, standing outside my own locked front door, I realised there was a third chapterafter the after. And it was hollow.
At thirty-seven, I, James Whitmore, was a well-known figure in the beauty industry. I owned a house, a flat, and money was never an issue. Yet none of it saved my marriage.
We met when I was twenty-two. Emma was just seventeenfresh out of school, timid dreams of university still forming. She was breathtaking, and I fancied her instantly. But when, a year later, she told me she was pregnant, my first reaction was fear.
*”Maybe not now?”* I asked carefully, avoiding her eyes. *”Youve barely started your studies.”*
*”Ill think about it,”* she said softly.
Turns out, there was nothing to think about. Whether from inexperience or intent, Emma had missed every possible deadline. Her parents came to meet the father of their grandchildpolite but cold, demanding nothing. Only as they left, her father muttered through gritted teeth, *”Dont worry, well manage.”*
Guilt and some dormant sense of duty pushed me to propose. I married her without joy, without excitement. Just a dull certainty that it was the right thing to do.
The first years were a struggle. I was still finishing my training; she stayed home with the baby. Money was tightgrandparents helped where they could. Emma never complained. Before even graduating, she found odd jobs.
*”Why bother?”* I asked, genuinely puzzled. *”What you earn wouldnt even cover mascara! Our daughters only twoshes in nursery, with grandparents half the time, barely seeing her own mother.”*
*”Then earn more!”* she snapped back, steel in her voice for the first time. *”Get into private practice!”*
*”With my experience? They wouldnt even hire me as a cleaner!”* I shot back.
Emma never asked for anything for herself, but her criticisms grew constantI didnt help at home, didnt spend time with our daughter, didnt earn enough. Classic young family strife, surviving in London.
After graduating, she landed a full-time job and rocketed up the career ladder. Late nights, business trips, office parties. The house grew quiet. Meanwhile, I spent more time with our daughter, consoling myself: *”Its just a phaseshell slow down, things will settle.”* But they never did. Emma seemed to avoid home deliberately.
One evening, arms around her as she cooked, I whispered:
*”Lets have another. A son.”*
She stilled for a second, then gently pulled away.
*”Start earning properly first. Then well talk.”*
That was when, in the midst of a frosty marriage, Emily entered my life. Young, cheerful, undemandingan assistant from a neighbouring department. She looked at me with adoration, laughed at my jokes, was light and warm. She became my escape. I seriously considered leaving, held back only by thoughts of my daughter.
Then, years later, when I was finally earning well, the unbelievable happened. My wife brought up a second child herself.
*”One condition,”* I said firmly, confident in my finances. *”Family comes first. Work second. Ill provide.”*
Emma agreed. She got pregnant almost instantly and transformed. The house smelled of baking again; there was warmth, softness. I was relievedbut it didnt stop me from taking Emily to the coast, pretending it was a work trip. Emily knew nothing of the pregnancy. Classic lies: *”We sleep in separate rooms.”*
Then Emily started acting strangetoo much perfume, random tears, glaring at my phone.
*”How are things at home?”* she asked once, feigning casualness.
*”Same as always,”* I brushed her off.
Then came the visit. Emma turned up at my officefirst time in yearsto drop off forgotten paperwork. Emily saw the bump. The moment Emma left, the storm hit.
*”You knew! You knew and said nothing!”* she screamed, loud enough for three floors.
*”What? Calm down!”*
*”I wrote to your wife! A month ago! I told her everything!”*
I didnt believe her. Demanded proof. She refused, but I grabbed her phone. The messages were there, clear as day. Emily had written: *”James and I love each other He deserves real love Dont stand in our way.”*
Emmas reply: *”Alright, Emily.”*
That was all.
Now I understood Emilys recent behaviourshed been waiting for fallout I knew nothing about. Because Emma hadnt reacted. Not a hint, not a word. Shed lived with a cheating husband for over a month, utterly unfazed.
I was stunned. Ended things with Emily on the spot, even suggested she find another jobI hadnt expected such betrayal. She wept, begged, but it was over. The man she loved wouldnt abandon his family.
That night, I confessed. Emma sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea.
*”You knew?”* I asked directly, heart pounding.
She looked up, surprised. *”Knew what? About that girl? You were actually involved? I thought she was just infatuatedor scamming you. Had no idea it was serious. If it is, youre free to leave.”*
She asked me to move out. I refused*”Were having a baby!”*swore it was over with Emily. Stayed in the spare room. Emma never pressed further but never fully reconciled eitherjust brief, practical exchanges. She gave birth prematurely, complications followed. I took leave to help, showered her with gifts, devoted myself to the family afterward. Adored our son.
A year and a half passed. I thought the nightmare was over, that shed forgiven me. Then she announced she was returning to work.
*”We agreed!”* I snapped. *”Family first! Olivers still tinywait till hes three! Weve got the money!”*
*”That agreement,”* she said coldly, *”belonged to the life before Emily.”*
I faltered. Gave in. Emma went back to work. A nanny appeared. Life became a blur of calls, petty arguments, brief truces.
Then last year, I bumped into Emily. Memories flooded back; we grabbed coffee. Still single, still sweet. Guilt and stupid pride made me offer her a joba friend needed an assistant. She accepted.
A week later, we were back where we started.
The end came six months after. At a birthday party, my drunk friend raved about his new hire:
*”Emilys brilliant! Hardworking, cheerfulhow did I manage without her? Cheers, James, for the recommendation!”*
He had no clue about us. The praise flowed freelyright in front of Emma. She smiled, nodded, said nothing. A week later, she handed me a stack of printoutsmessages, screenshots, photos.
*”Move out,”* she said simply. *”If you dont, Ill take the children and go.”*
I left. Within a week, I knew Id give anything to return. I bring toys for the kids, huge bouquets for Emma. She accepts the gifts for them with chilly politeness; the flowers go in a vase by the door, like a forgotten umbrella.
One night, I caught her alone. The children were asleep.
*”Just tell me what to do to fix this. Ill make it right. No one else matters. Emilys gone.”*
She looked at me, empty. *”You still dont get it, do you? Emilys irrelevant. You broke us the moment you asked if I wanted an abortion. You married me out of guilt, endured mewhile I kept trying to be enough. Pretty enough, successful enough, domestic enough. But you only ever wanted someone easy, warm, undemanding. Im done trying. Go.”*
I stepped outside, and it hit me. She hadnt been stewing in resentment all these years. Emma had simply fallen out of love long ago. Her silence after Emilys letter wasnt forgiveness. It was a verdictquiet, final. Shed been waiting for me to read it.
**Lesson learned too late:** Some mistakes cant be undone. And silence isnt always peacesometimes, its just the end.
