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 drop by my friend Emily’s—we’d been close since secondary school, and I hadn’t visited in ages. A year ago, Emily had gone through a messy divorce and took a long time to recover. I’d been there for her, doing what I could to help. Back then, I thought my support had pulled her out of that dark place.
Lately, though, I’d noticed something off about her. Distant. Like she was looking right through me. She dodged meet-ups, made excuses. I put it down to exhaustion—maybe a new fling. But the truth was far simpler, and far worse.
When she opened the door, her smile was stiff.
“Come in,” she said flatly, then turned straight to the kitchen.
I knew that look. My visit wasn’t welcome. I hung up my coat, perched on the edge of the sofa, and breathed in the rich scent.
“Smells amazing! Expecting company?”
“Oh, no—just fancied cooking,” she mumbled, avoiding my eyes.
“Right. For three people, just because,” I said before I could stop myself.
Emily laughed awkwardly and hurried to check the oven. Just then, my phone rang—my husband. He’d texted earlier about a last-minute meeting running late. I dropped my phone back into my bag—just as hers buzzed on the armrest.
His face flashed on the screen.
My hands shook. Without thinking, I answered.
“Em, love, on my way now. Be there soon,” said the voice I knew too well.
Emily walked in a second later. Our eyes locked. She didn’t need to ask—my face said it all.
I didn’t shout. Didn’t throw anything. Just exhaled and said, cool as anything:
“He’s no prize. You’ll figure that out soon enough. If you want him, take him. Just don’t expect me to fight for him. Pack his stuff—he’s yours now. I’m done.”
Emily didn’t say a word. Didn’t even try to explain.
As I left her flat, my heart pounded like it wanted out. The two people I trusted most had betrayed me. The walk home took an hour. But at some point, it hit me: I had nowhere to rush to now.
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 to her. My husband *wasn’t* a prize. Useless around the house, lazy, never lifted a finger. Came home, cracked open a lager, and that was his evening. His salary barely covered his habits, and his help? Nonexistent. I’d begged, argued, given up. Nothing changed.
The next day, he packed his things and left. For Emily’s.
I wondered how long she’d last.
Six months later, I got my answer. Once she realized what she’d signed up for, Emily kicked him out. And there he was—standing on my doorstep, scruffy and sheepish:
“Maybe we try again?”
“No,” I said firmly. “There’s no going back. Life’s better without you.”
Emily and I don’t speak. No calls, no texts. Sometimes I spot her around town. Once, we passed each other at the shops. She stopped, met my eyes, and suddenly said:
“I’m sorry. Shame we’re not friends anymore.”
I just smiled. And walked right past her.
Funny how you miss the people you *thought* they were—not who they really are. But some lessons are worth the heartache.
