From the street, the house doesn’t ooze the unhappiness she had always believed it would. She sits in the car – fingertips drumming on the handle, radio so low she can barely recognise the tunes, – and waits for his wife to leave.
Until a few hours ago, she’d been satisfied with what they had. She didn’t care if he had a family. She didn’t even want him to leave them. Everything was all right as it was.
And then came the storm. And the thunder. And the tree that fell after the thunder and onto his car just as he was driving home from her village because she had insisted that it wasn’t safe for him to drive in a storm, better wait.
She learnt about the accident by chance, a photo of his crashed car posted in the village WhatsApp Group. Her neighbours called it a miracle.
When she texted him, he sent his address, the code to open the door, and what time he’d be alone.
When the door opens, his wife comes out first, and it only occurs to her now that she has never seen any picture of her. She hasn’t asked, he hasn’t offered. When Paul and Martin appear, she feels a surge of fondness upon recognising the boys from all the photos she’s been shown. Paul has his eyes locked on his phone – typical Paul, she thinks – but Martin rushes to his mother, who stops to hug him, even though they are late for school already. Even from the safe distance of her car, she can sense he’s asking about his dad, his mother reassuring him that he is safe now. That he – they – will be okay.
She watches them leave. She looks at the door. She looks at the digital lock. She waits.
Then she starts the engine, double-checks her mirrors, and makes a U-turn.
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