You Brought Her to Us Yourself

You brought her into our lives yourself, Emily whispered, her voice trembling like a violin string about to snap.

Mark, youre a treasure! Victoria laughed, leaning back in her chair, a perfect white smile lighting her face. Emily caught the look her friend cast at her husband and felt a cold knot twist somewhere beneath her ribs. She quickly brushed it aside: Just a newcomer to town, trying to fit in, she muttered.

Victoria had moved in a month earlier, a fresh face in the bustling streets of London, a bit lost but eager. How could anyone turn her away?

Dont flatter him, Emily said, smiling at Mark. He only learned to make a proper stew after seven years of marriage.

Still, what a stew! Victoria leaned forward, touching Marks elbow. Id marry a chef like that.

Mark chuckled, shoulders squaring with a hint of pride. Emily noted his ears turning pinkan unmistakable sign that the compliment had hit home.

I tried, he said modestly.

Victorias first visit stretched into the night. She admired the flats renovations, the childrens photographs, Marks vinyl collection. Every topic became a reason to pull Mark into conversation. Mark, where did you find that? Mark, you have such taste! Mark, tell me more.

Emily refilled tea, watching Victoria sit a little too close to her husband, laugh a little too loudly at his halfhearted jokes, and brush his hand whenever she spoke.

Mum, whos that lady? their twelveyearold son, Jack, asked as Emily cleared the dishes after the guest left.

My friend. New one, Emily answered.

Odd. She keeps staring at Dad, Jack added.

Emily froze, a plate trembling in her hand. Even a twelveyearold could see it.

Its nothing, she told him.

She repeated that mantra for weeks, convincing herself it was just her imagination, that Victoria was merely chatty and open.

Victoria kept returning. Sometimes to borrow a recipe, sometimes with tickets to a gallery shed snagged last minute, sometimes just to pass through. Each time Mark was home, and each time Victoria seemed to blossom in his presence.

Youre something special, Mark, not like the rest, she said, perched on a kitchen stool. Emily, where did you dig him up? Men like him arent found on a rainy Tuesday.

We met on the Underground, fifteen years ago, on the escalator, Emily replied evenly.

Romantic! Victoria clapped, and Mark smiled, pulling Emily into a forced grin.

After one visit, Mark lingered in the hallway, seeing Victoria out the door. Emily heard their low chuckle through the doorway.

What took you so long? she asked when Mark returned.

She was telling a joke, he said.

Right, Emily replied, not pressing further, fearing shed look like a jealous hysteric.

Two weeks later, a phone lay on the nightstand, screen up as Mark showered. Emily wasnt looking, but the glow caught her eye as a message slipped in.

I miss you. Youre charming and a wonderful conversationalist. Victoria.

Emily slipped onto the edge of the bed. Her fingers moved to the phone; she knew the password, as theyd never hidden anything from each other.

The messages had been going on for weeks. Victoria complained about loneliness, about how hard it was in a new city, about how lucky she felt to have found someone as understanding as Mark. Mark replied with encouragement, calling her wonderful, sending a flood of smiley faces.

Emily set the phone down. The bathroom drummed with water, a fake whistling tune floated outMark was in a good mood.

Mark emerged, towel around his shoulders, eyes meeting Emilys, frozen.

Whats wrong? he asked.

I saw your messages with Victoria.

A brief, heavy pause stretched between them.

Its nothing, love, he said. Shes just sociable, a lonely girl in a foreign town. You brought her to us, after all.

Emily stared at him, hunting for even a flicker of guilt. Mark seemed genuinely surprised.

Youre jealous? Seriously? Weve been together twelve years, we have two kids, and youre jealous of your own friend because of a few emojis?

Shes flirting with you.

She talks like that to everyone. Youre exaggerating.

Emily wanted to argue, to tell him that proper friends dont text a husband late at night, calling him a babe, saying they miss him. But Mark was already slipping on a Tshirt and disappearing into the bedroom.

Victoria didnt back down. She appeared more often, offering to watch the children while Emily worked, to cook dinner when Emily was late. Little Lucy, eight, gushed about Aunt Vicky who made the best pancakes and let her stay up for cartoons.

I just wanted to help, Victoria said innocently. Its hard for you to manage alone.

I have a husband, Emily replied.

Of course, of course. Mark is a wonderful dad. Youre lucky to have each other. The words felt hollow, doubleedged. Emily couldnt pin down what was wrong, but a sour aftertaste lingered.

Mark became glued to his phone, taking it into the loo, tucking it under his pillow, reaching for it at every buzz. At dinner his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, his lips forming a halfsmile as he typed.

Dad, are you listening? Jack asked, repeating the question three times before Mark finally looked up.

What? Yeah, son, whats up?

I was talking about the swimming meet. You coming?

Sure, when is it?

Saturday. Ive told you three times already.

Mark ruffled Jacks hair apologetically, then dove back into his phone. Emily cleared the plates in silence. Jack stared at his father, hurt. Lucy poked at her meatball, bewildered by the sudden hush at the table.

Victorias flirtation grew bolder. No longer hidden behind harmless compliments, she brushed Marks collar, wiped an imagined speck of dust from his shoulder, grabbed his hand when she laughed, stared into his eyes far too long, licked her lips as she looked at him.

Emily watched from the kitchen corner, feeling as though she were a background prop in a play where Victoria pretended she didnt exist, or that Emily was merely a temporary, annoying obstruction.

Mark, can you show me that photoediting program on the computer? Victoria asked. You promised.

Now?

Whats the holdup?

They disappeared into Marks study, the door closing behind them.

That afternoon Emily decided to surprise her husband. She packed his favourite lunchstuffed peppers he never refused, a shrimp saladinto a tidy container and drove to his office.

The office was quiet; most staff were at the café for lunch. The receptionist gave Emily a nod; they knew her.

Mark Whitaker is here, she called, but Emily didnt wait for the end.

She slipped down the hallway to his office. The door was ajar.

She pushed it open and froze on the threshold.

Mark sat at the edge of his desk. Victoria stood between his knees, arms wrapped around his neck, their lips locked in a deep, greedy kiss as if it were the first time theyd ever kissed.

The lunch container slipped from Emilys hand, smashing onto the floor.

Both men and women recoiled. Victoria looked more annoyed than embarrassed; Marks face went ashen.

Emily Its not what you think, he stammered.

Not what? she whispered, hearing her own laughdry, cracked.

Emily Explain. Tell me how she just fell onto your chest.

Victoria smoothed her blouse and scooped her handbag from the chair.

I think Ill be off, she said.

Wait.

Emily stepped between them. Victoria met her gaze with defianceno remorse, no guilt.

You knew he was married. You came into my home, ate at my table, played with my children.

Adults are responsible for their own actions, Victoria replied, shrugging as she walked past, her heels clicking.

At the doorway she turned: Give me a call when youre free, Mark.

Emily turned back to her husband. Twelve yearstwelve bloody years of building this family. Sleepless nights with newborns, his promotions they celebrated together, a threeyear renovation, beach holidays where Lucy first swam alone, Christmas trees, birthdays, childrens illnessesall reduced to nothing.

Mark, Im sorry, he said, eyes pleading. I know Ive messed up. She spun my head around, but I love you, I love the kids

When you get home, your things will be packed. You can take them and go to your Victoria.

Emily turned and walked out. She didnt cryshe had no tears left. Inside her, everything turned to ice.

At home she methodically packed. A suitcase from the attic, shirts from the wardrobe, socks, underwear, tiesall in one pile. A razor, toothbrush, deodorant. Twelve years compressed into a suitcase and three bags.

When the children came home from school, their fathers belongings lay by the door.

Mum, wheres Dad? Lucy asked, peeking into the bedroom.

Dad will be living elsewhere, Emily said.

Jack said nothing, glanced at his mother, then trudged to his room.

That evening Emily called her mother.

Mom

She tried to speak calmly, but the words broke, and hot, angry tears flooded her.

Sweetheart, Im on my way. Hold on.

Helen arrived within the hour, hugged her daughter, brewed tea, sat her at the kitchen table.

Tell me everything, Helen said.

Emily poured out the storyVictoria, the texts, the night in the office. Helen listened, silent.

You did the right thing, she said when Emily fell quiet. Right?

Of course. Betrayal cant be forgiven. Mistakes, weakness, foolishness can, but not this.

Emily leaned into her mothers shoulder.

The divorce dragged on for six monthspapers, court dates, splitting assets. Mark tried to return, calling, texting, showing up.

Emily never opened the door.

The kids stayed with her. Jack visited his father reluctantly every two weeks; Lucy missed him but found solace in dance and drawing.

Two years slipped by faster than expected. Emily returned to work, enrolled in night classes, lost six kilograms by finally stopping emotional eating. Life began to settle.

Then David appeared by chance at a parentteacher meeting for Jackhis nephew was in the same class. They chatted in the hallway, then met again at the school coffee shop, and later David called to check in.

You know, I like you, he said on their third date. Im not good with flowery words, but its true.

Emily laughed; David was everything Mark wasntsteady, reliable, a man of few words but many deeds. The children didnt warm to him instantly. Jack watched him like a guard, Lucy felt a twinge of jealousy, but David never rushed, never pressured. He helped with homework, taught Jack to fix a bike, drove Lucy to her dance competitions.

A year later they marriedquietly, no grand celebration, just close family who genuinely cheered their happiness.

One Saturday morning Helen called. David was flipping pancakes, the kids were buzzing around the house.

Whats up? Helen asked.

I ran into Tanya Morozova yesterday. Remember her?

Of course.

She told me about your ex. Mark and Victoria split long ago. He dumped her six months after your divorce.

Emily retreated to the bedroom, closed the door.

He dumped her?

Yeah. Found someone younger.

Wow.

Im saying people dont change. He was a dog then, still is. She got what she deserved. As they say, you reap what you sow

Emily hung up, sitting on the bed. She had expected satisfaction or glee, but only a faint relief washed over her: Good, its no longer my problem.

Emily, the pancakes are ready! David called, holding a steaming plate.

She rose, took his hand.

Whats wrong? he asked.

Nothing. Everythings fine.

Mark was a ghost of the past. Victoria got the loneliness shed earned. In this kitchen, the scent of pancakes lingered, Lucy argued with Jack over the last banana, and David looked at Emily with a love that made her smile.

Life went on. And this new life felt right.