My Ex-Husband Showed Up to Apologise After He Heard About My Promotion

Congratulations, Emily! Youre now the regional director. The chairs still warm from the previous boss, and you already look right at home in it. Honestly, Emily, Im thrilled you got the role instead of that posh bloke from London.

Susan Clarke, head of HR and a longtime friend, clatters a hefty folder onto the polished oak desk and plops into the visitors armchair. She beams as if the promotion were her own.

Emily smiles, running a hand over the smooth tabletop. It feels odd. Shes been grinding at this company for fifteen years, starting as a junior admin, fielding client whims, staying late to finish reports, fixing other peoples mistakes. Now she has a private office with a panoramic view of the city, a company car, and a salary she once dared not even whisper about.

Thanks, Sue. If it werent for your support when I wanted to quit three years ago, none of this would have happened.

Oh, stop it! Susan waves it off. You would never have walked out. Youve got ironclad resolve. Remember how fragile you felt then? Divorce, a slump, Oliver making a fuss, your nerves frayed. You clenched your teeth and threw yourself into work. This is your reward for stubbornness. Speaking of Oliver, you wont believe who I saw in the supermarket yesterday.

Emily tenses. The name of her exhusband still sends a chill down her spine, even after three quiet, restorative years. He had methodically eroded her selfesteem throughout their tenyear marriage.

Who? Was it him?

Him, himself. And he looks lets just say hes no longer the dashing poet he pretended to be. Remember how he strutted around, calling himself a creative soul on a quest that apparently left you behind? Now his quest has him stuck in the discountgoods department, wearing that battered jacket you both bought once. Hes buying the cheapest dumplings and grabbing sale beers.

Maybe hes just having a rough patch, Emily shrugs, a faint, smug satisfaction flickering inside.

His rough patch began when he decided his new fling would fund him the way you once did, Susan snorts. Anyway, enough gloom. Drinks tonight?

Absolutely. But lets do it tomorrow. Tonight I just want to get home, run a bath, and soak in the fact that Im now the boss.

Emily doesnt lie. She craves quiet. That evening she pulls her brandnew crossover into the driveway of the upscale block where she bought a mortgagefinanced flat a year ago, almost paid off. The concierge nods politely as she steps inside.

She heads to her floor, eager for a night with a book, but pauses as the elevator doors open. Someone is standing at her door, shifting weight, clutching a ridiculous bouquet of three halfwilting roses.

Her heart skips. Its Oliver.

Hes older. The first thing you notice are the bags under his eyes, the thinning hair, the loss of the shine he once bragged about. When he sees Emily, his smile widensonce hypnotic, now awkward and pitiful.

Emily! Hey! I thought Id surprise you. I rang the intercom, no one opened, so I slipped in when the neighbour stepped out. I figured Id wait.

Emily steps toward the door, keys still in her hand. She wants to turn and leave, but curiosity and a newfound confidence keep her rooted.

Hello, Oliver. What brings you here? We havent spoken in three years, and if I recall, you asked me to disappear forever after the divorce so you wouldnt have to hear my whining and groundedness.

Oliver chuckles nervously, fiddling with the cellophane around the roses.

Ah, that old thing I was a mess then, didnt know what I was doing. Midlife crisis, you know? Emily, you look stunning! That suit pricey, I bet? It really suits you.

Oliver, cut to the chase. Why are you here?

Maybe youll let me in? Its awkward chatting on the landing. Weve shared a decade, thats not nothing.

Emily hesitates. Letting him into her meticulously renovated sanctuary, where theres no room for his socks or his complaints, feels wrong. Yet leaving him on the doorstep to guard her tomorrow would be even sillier.

Come in, but not long. I have plans.

She opens the door and Oliver steps inside, eyeing the space greedily.

Her flat is a pride of hers: bright tones, designer furniture, pricey artwork, uncluttered elegance. Oliver slips off his shoes, his boots dirty, and Emily winces as he steps on the light carpet.

Wow, this place he mutters. You live alone?

Yes.

I heard you moved up the ladder. Director, huh? Must be a massive salary.

Emily walks to the kitchen, not inviting him to follow, but he trails anyway, settling at the table, hands resting on the artificialstone countertop.

Oliver, where did you get all this intel? Are you spying on me?

Why would I? This citys small; gossip spreads fast. A mutual friend mentioned, Emilys now a highflyer. I was genuinely happy for you! Remember when I told you you had potential?

Emily nearly chokes on the water shes pouring.

You told me for ten years that I was a grey mouse, that my career was just shuffling papers, and that I should be grateful to have someone as talented as you living with me. You called my job office slavery.

I was motivating you! Oliver fumbles. By the reverse psychology, you know? To make you angry and prove me wrong. Look, it worked!

He eyes her expectantly, as if waiting for a grateful outburst. Emily sees a stranger, not the man she once adored. The proud, confident man has been replaced by a petty loser clinging to her success.

Tea? she asks, flatly.

Yes, and maybe something to eat. Im starving.

Where do you work now?

Temporary gig driving cabs. The crypto startup I launched stalled; partners bailed. Im scrabbling for a new direction. And Natalie she didnt get me. She wanted money, not me. She left. Its all on me.

Emily places a mug and a plate of biscuits before him.

So Natalie dumped you?

We split amicably! he blazes, then drops his tone. She called me a failure. Can you believe? Me, with two degrees! I offered her a fur coat, Maldives wheres the soul? Wheres the support? You, Emily, you always understood, you waited.

He reaches across the table, trying to lay his hand over hers. She pulls it back sharply.

I never waited, Oliver. I worked. While you lounged and searched for yourself, I took side jobs, studied English at night, endured your jokes. When I got my first promotion, you threw a fit about not spending enough time with me, then packed your bags and left for Natalie because she was light and inspiring.

I was wrong, Emily! Oliver slams his fist on the table, eyes wide. I was a fool, blinded by youth and passion. Its all nonsense now. Ive realized true love was ours. Ive thought about you every day these three years.

Really? Especially when you cleared out our flat, took the tech, even my laptop with work files?

Im not being cruel. I needed cash to start Emily, lets start over. Look at usperfect pair. Youre successful, strong. You need a man whos proud of you. Ive changed. Ill carry you, run the house while you work. Im ready!

Emily sees not a repentant husband but a shark smelling bloodmore precisely, the scent of money. He scans the apartment, noting the renovation, the new car, the director title, and thinks: Heres a quiet harbour where he can eat, sleep, do nothing.

You want to come back? To me?

To us! he corrects, enthused. I left a few things in the car, just the essentials. If you forgive me, I can stay. Why wait? Were adults. Being alone is miserable, Emily. A woman needs a man at hometo fix shelves, mend taps.

Emily bursts into laughterloud, genuine.

A shelf? I have an app called ManforanHour. Need a shelf fixed? A trained guy shows up, does it in twenty minutes, cleans up, and it costs a thousand pounds. No need to feed him for years, wash his socks, listen to his selfproclaimed brilliance.

Olivers face hardens.

Youve become cynical. Moneys ruined you. Im offering a family, warmth, and you talk about a man for an hour.

Im being realistic. Youre not offering a family, Oliver. Youre looking for a sponsor. Natalie dumped you, youve got no home, no cash. Then you see your former grey mouse now a directorBingo! Come back, throw a few compliments, hand over a bouquet, and get back on my neck.

Thats not true! he exclaims, eyes darting. I love you!

His phone buzzes loudly. He glances at the screen, grimaces, but answers.

Who is it? Emily asks.

Just work.

The phone rings again.

Answer it, she says. Might be urgent.

Oliver reluctantly hits speaker, his voice cracking.

Hello!

Oliver! a familiar, sharp voice shouts from the speaker. Mum! Your mother, Zina! Are you there? Did you talk? Did she agree?

Oliver turns beetred, trying to mute the call, but his hands wont cooperate.

Mum, Im busy, Ill call back

Dont call back! Zinas voice roars. Tell her about the loan! Tell her the collectors are breathing down our necks. She has money now; she must help her exhusband! She gave you the best years of her life! And tell me I need a spot in the health resort, make her feel sorry for me. Women love that, you know

Oliver finally hangs up, his face a picture of a schoolboy caught with a cigarette.

Emily rises slowly.

So you want to play on her sympathy?

Its Mum shes old, she just worries about me. I really am in debt, huge debt. Natalie we took loans for trips, for the car we crashed. Im stuck, Emily. Help me, will you? You have the means! Dont you feel sorry? Ill pay you back! One day.

The knightly façade collapses. In front of her sits a pitiful beggar.

Oliver, three years ago when you left, I asked you to at least leave the washing machine. Id just paid for your dental treatment and had not a penny left. You said, Earn. I owe you nothing. Remember?

I remember, he grumbles. But now the situations different! Youre rich!

The situation is the same. I owe you nothing. Your debts are your own. Your housing problems are the result of your choices.

So youre kicking me out? On the street? At night?

You have a car. Drive to Mum. Shes waiting, according to that call.

Emily, dont be a witch! Its cruel! Were family! Give me a chance! Ill work! I could be a driver, anything! A director always needs a trusted person, doesnt she?

Trust? You? Emily shakes her head. You betrayed me when I needed you. Now you try to cheat me when Im well off. What trust?

She walks to the hallway and throws open the front door.

Leave, Oliver. Take your wilted roses and go. Ill tell the concierge not to let you back in.

Oliver staggers into the corridor, breathing heavily, a mix of hatred and despair in his eyes.

Youll regret this! he spits. Money doesnt buy happiness! Youll die alone in your golden cage! Who needs you, old, childless career woman? You only ever needed me, and you

Out! Emily shouts, her voice steel, the voice of someone used to giving orders.

Oliver rushes out, nearly tripping on the threshold. Emily slams the door, doublelocks it, and leans against it, closing her eyes. She expects tears, sorrow, hurt. Instead a light, intoxicating rush of triumph wells up.

She did it. She didnt give in. She refused to let guilt and ghosts ruin her present.

She returns to the kitchen. A halfdrunk cup of tea and three wilted roses lie on the table. She picks up the flowers with two fingers and tosses them into the bin, pushes the cup into the dishwasher, wipes the surface with a disinfectant wipe as if erasing the memory of his visit.

Her phone buzzes. A message from Susan:

Ready for a bath with bubbles or a glass of champagne?

Emily grins and types back:

Champagne. And sushi. The most expensive. Im celebrating not just the promotion Im finally divorcing the past in my head.

Half an hour later she lounges on her plush sofa, watches the city lights flicker, and reflects on how oddly life works. Sometimes you need someone from your past to try pulling you back into the mud before you realise your wings are truly yours.

The next morning, stepping into her new office, Emily feels transformed. She greets the receptionist politely, leads the first briefing, hands out instructions. At one point the secretary, Lily, peeks in, eyes wide.

Emily, theres a man shouting at the door. He says hes your husband, has an urgent matter. Security wont let him in, hes causing a scene.

Emily doesnt even glance away from her screen.

I have no husband, Lily. Have security escort him out. If he resists, call the police.

Lily nods and disappears.

A few minutes later muffled shouts echo from the hallway, then silence. Emily walks to the window. From the tenth floor, the street below looks like a colony of ants. She sees a figure in a familiar worn jacket being led by two guards towards the buildings gates. He waves, tries to argue, but the gates close.

Emily turns from the window and returns to her work. She has too many tasks, too many plans, too vibrant a life to waste a minute on ghosts. She chose herself. And that has been the best decision of her fortyodd years.