With a trembling heart, Poppy knocked on the door. Silence answered. Hesitantly, she fished a key from her handbag and turned it in the lock… Goodness, how long it had been since she’d last stepped inside! Everything was just as she’d left it in this once-familiar, beloved home—only now, it all felt cold and alien.

Nearly a year had passed since the fallout with Max. They’d quarrelled before, of course. Poppy would scoop up little Sophie, tears in her eyes, and flee to her mum’s. More often than not, Max, missing them terribly, would come chasing after her the very next day. Life would right itself, the truce adding a peculiar spice to their marriage. But this last time… it had been different.

Shaking off the memories, Poppy marched to the wardrobe to fetch the documents she needed. The papers sat untouched, neatly filed away—just as she’d left them. For two months now, a chap who’d fancied her for ages had been making his intentions clear. Nothing serious had happened between them, but a week ago, he’d gone and properly proposed.

And for seven nights straight, Poppy had lain awake, something gnawing at her, the decision slipping through her fingers like sand.

At first, she’d assumed the row with Max would blow over. He’d turn up at the door, stare right through her soul like he always did, and say, *”God, I’ve missed you.”*

But days passed, then months, and nothing changed. She and Max only crossed paths in fleeting moments, his manner growing colder, the gulf between them widening. He came only for Sophie—silently taking her by the hand, whisking her away, then returning her just as wordlessly. Sophie would babble excitedly about Daddy’s gifts, twirling in a new dress or shoes before the mirror. Meanwhile, Poppy’s heart ached, remembering how Max’s eyes had sparkled when he’d brought presents for *her*. Now… he barely glanced her way. Alone together, the air turned thick with discomfort, and she’d hurry off to her room. Her mum, never Max’s biggest fan, often muttered, *”What’s meant to be won’t pass you by.”* Gradually, Poppy had started to believe it.

With a deep sigh, she cast one last glance around the room—then froze. There, sprawled on the sofa, fast asleep, was Max. Probably just back from his shift. Her first instinct was to bolt, but something pulled her back. Every feature achingly familiar—his face roughened by stubble, dark circles beneath his eyes… She sank slowly onto the edge of the sofa. What *did* she really know about this man she’d lived alongside for years? What thoughts lurked behind that furrowed brow?

Suddenly, a half-forgotten image flickered in her mind: young Max, with his boyish grin and loyal, shining eyes—a smile so bright it had once turned her world upside down. Could that cheerful lad and this weary, scowling man *really* be the same person? And yet, it hadn’t been so very long ago. That smile flashed before her again, vivid as a reproach.

*Where had it all gone?* She glanced around helplessly, as though searching for someone to blame for her shattered life. Her heart ached, fluttering under the weight of miserable memories. Their once-cozy little world had slowly filled with petty grievances, tears, and the crushing weight of misunderstanding. Max, forever exhausted, juggling three jobs to keep them afloat, refusing to rely on anyone… She’d had time to think, to realise she’d lacked patience, grace—*wisdom*.

But they *had* been happy once. That wasn’t just her imagination. Poppy jerked upright, suddenly desperate to prove it to herself. Her gaze fell on Max’s hand—resting on their… *wedding album*, open to a photo where they’d been radiant, dizzy with joy.

Her fingers trembled, and the pictures fluttered softly to the floor. She turned—and there he was, awake, watching her.

*”Poppy… you came back?”* His eyes shone—and the thought that, half an hour ago, she might’ve walked away forever became unbearable.