Sorry, Tanya, Don’t Be Mad at Me, But I Can’t Live With You Anymore

“Dont be cross with me, TanyaI wont be living with you.”

“Maybe we could try, Simon?” Tanyas cheeks flushed as she stared at him, barely blinking.

“Ive said all I need to say, Tanya.”

Emily Birch was born when Simon was in his first year of school. He remembered her mother, Laura, the beauty of the village, heavily pregnant, and her proud father, George. Later, Laura would push a pram past the gate, and Simon would crane his neck, desperate for a glimpse inside. Back then, it had seemed like magic.

Simon grew older, and little Emily grew up. Soon, she was dashing out of her parents house in a bright dress, a large bow tied in her fair hair. She played with friends, building makeshift houses by the garden fence. Simon watched it all from his parents house, just across the street, facing the Birches home.

“Simon, would you walk Emily to school?” Laura asked one day. He agreed, and for nearly a year, he escorted the young girl. At first, they walked in silence, but Emily soon filled the quiet with stories from her lessons. Her school day ended earlier, and shed wait patiently for Simon to finish. Sometimes, he walked home with classmates, Emily tagging along. Eventually, he grew used to waiting for her by the gate each morning, taking her hand as they set off.

The next September, Emily whispered a request: could she walk with her friends instead? From then on, the girls led the way, with Simon following at a distance, watching, ready to step in if needed. And one day, he did.

A goose blocked the path, hissing, wings flapping, and the girls froze in fear. Simon stepped between them and the bird, and they dashed past, squealing.

The year after, Simon left for secondary school in the nearby town, returning only on weekends and holidays. Emily seemed to forget him entirely, passing by with downcast eyes, never saying hello. Later, he enrolled in maritime college, visiting home even less.

“Mum, whos thatEmily?” Simon looked up from dinner as a tall, striking young woman stepped out of the Birches gate.

“Thats our Emily!” His mother smiled, glancing out the window.

“When did she grow up?” Simon marveled.

“Time passes,” his mother sighed warmly. “Shes got the best of her parents, hasnt she?”

He glimpsed her a few more timescarrying water from the well, dressed smartly for examsand the urge to walk her again stirred in him. But the last straw was hearing her voice as he helped his father mend the fence. “Honestly, youd follow that voice to the ends of the earth!”

Then, one day, buckets in hand, he met her at the well.

“Hello,” Emily said first, stunning him.

“Hello, Emily,” he replied, suddenly shy.

The buckets filled slowly, and Simon struggled for words.

When he left that time, a quiet longing clung to him. At last, hed fallen in love.

After swearing his oath, he was posted to Plymouth.

***

The next time Simon came home, hope flickered in his chest. Maybe now, at last, hed tell Emily. She was old enough now.

The first day, he slept off the journey. Then the work beganhis father had a plan. They chopped firewood, repaired the shed, replaced floorboards in the bathhouse, then the cowshed. Two weeks vanished.

Simon glanced often at the Birches gate, usually shut. Laura or George came and went, but Emily never appeared.

“Mum, wheres Emily?” he finally asked.

“Gone to university. Lives in the city now,” his mother said.

Simon returned to Plymouth empty-handed.

A year later, he saw her onceand hated it. From behind the curtain, he watched her walk with a lanky local lad, laughing at his jokes, smiling at him with an affection that stung.

Later, he learned shed married him and moved to the county town.

Whenever Simon visited, he saw heror worse, heard her.

“Simon, stop tormenting yourself. Youre not a boy anymore,” his mother said gently.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Of course it is. I see how you look at her. Find someone in Plymouthput your heart to rest. Like they say, ‘The grass is always greener.’ Let her go.”

“I try. But I cant.”

***

Simon visited less. The service sent him to distant bases, and he sought out the hardest postings, as if punishing himself.

He missed his fathers funeral, arriving only on the ninth day. Four years later, he was late for his mothers, too. But the village didnt abandon its ownthe neighbours had arranged everything.

Laura met him at the gate with the key; shed sent the telegram about his mothers passing.

The next day, Simon tended the graves, then cleared years of clutter. His mother, ill toward the end, had let things slide. He cleaned thoroughly, and in the evenings, pored over old photo albums.

Then he found ita yellowed newspaper, folded tight.

A photo of him and Emily, walking to or from school. A reporter had snapped them during harvest, mistaking them for siblings.

Before leaving, Simon asked Laura and George to tend the house, letting them use the garden. They were delighted.

“Emily wont need to buy potatoes now. That husband of hers never worksno money,” Laura grumbled.

“How is she?” Simon asked carefully.

“Not well. Lodging with his aunt. He drinks, shouts at them both…”

“Why does she stay?”

“She says its love. I think that aunt put a spell on her! They live on the aunts pension and Emilys wagessewing bags at the factory. Sometimes they pay her in bags! She sells what she can, but he drinks the rest. Ive got a dozen of those bags. Want one?”

Simon nearly refused, then took it. The stitching was sturdy. It felt like shed made it herself.

***

After his service, Simon returned to the village. He renovated the housenew windows, heating, a septic tank, a well. He drove to work in a modest new car.

The villagers rarely saw him, just glimpses when he left or returned.

“Oi, landlord! Locking yourself away again?” a womans voice called as he latched the gate.

He turned. An older woman smiled at him.

“Hello,” he said, squinting.

“Dont recognise me?”

“No…”

“Your old teacher!”

“Mrs. Wilkins!”

“Invite me in, then.”

She asked why hed returned.

“Wanted to be master of my own house.”

“Good. But a house needs a mistress.”

“True.”

“Plenty of divorced women here, widows too. Good women, but no decent men left.”

She listed namesold classmates, now alone. Simon realised hed never once thought of them. None meant anything to him.

“Such a choice youve got!” Mrs. Wilkins winked.

“Ill think on it.”

“Dont wait forever, Simon. A man alone isnt right.”

At last, she left. He bolted the gate, wanting no more visitors.

***

One evening, driving home, Simon spotted a slender woman on the roadside.

Emily.

He slowed, then stopped.

“Emily! Need a lift?”

“Hello.” That voice again, freezing him.

They were still 300 yards from her parents, but she climbed in.

“Visiting?” he asked, desperate to keep her talking.

“For good. Vals dead.”

“So youre a widow?”

She said nothing.

At her gate, she thanked him softly. The word echoed in his heart all night.

That evening, he went to propose. Laura met him in the yard.

“Aunt Laura, is Emily home?”

“Where else would she be?”

“Ive come to ask for her hand. Ive loved her since you first asked me to walk her to school.”

“I know. Your mother and I talked of it. But she was too young, then you left. And Val… God rest him,” she crossed herself, “he was no good. Drank, lost jobs, hit her. She kept taking him back, hoping to change him.”

“Why didnt she leave?”

“I begged her. But shes stubborn. Cried, then went back. Hoped theyd get a home of their own. With him? Impossible.”

Simon stepped inside. Emily appeared in the doorway.

“Hello, Simon.”

“We need to talk.”

“Ive never told anyone… I love you. Now youre free, I cant stay away.”

“I know.”

“Marry me.”

“Not yet. Vals forty days arent done.”

“Val again!”

“He was my husband. We had ten years. Give me time.”

“Ive waited a lifetime. Im not young anymore.”

“I cant yet.”

So the waiting dragged on.

***

One evening, Simon found