Chapter 2
Two
Emma
I think he’s dead.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pick up his wrist and let his hand fall back down. There’s no resistance. His eyes don’t open.
Closing my eyes, I wait a moment, then another. I don’t want to rush—to look too anxious. I’m part terrified that he’s going to open his eyes and look at me.
But he doesn’t.
The house is quiet—the younger kids went to sleep a while ago. My eldest son, Noah, is out at work. I’m grateful because with any luck I can get the doctor in and Malcolm removed from the house before he gets back.
Noah doesn’t need to see this.
I leave the room, although I’m reluctant to turn my back in case he does wake up.
Picking up Malcolm’s mobile phone from the coffee table, I study the screen for a moment and then tap out a message.
It’s time. He fell asleep a few hours ago, and I can’t wake him.
I don’t tell the doctor who I am. He knows. This isn’t an unexpected death—it’s been coming for weeks, but I still won’t be at peace until it’s confirmed.
Closing my eyes, I lean back on the couch. Tonight I hope I’ll get the first full night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I’ve known this was coming, but not known when.
I steady my breathing. There’s still a lot of tonight left to go. Once the doctor’s been, I’ll have to call the funeral director to organise the pick up. He needs to go tonight. I don’t want the kids to see him.
The past few weeks have taken a lot out of Malcolm. He was never a big man, but he’s so thin and barely looks like himself.
Though they don’t have a lot of good memories of their father, my children deserve to remember him how he was.
I’m lost in my thoughts when a sudden tap on the door breaks me out of it.
Blowing out a long breath, I make my way to the front door and open it.
“Emma.” Our GP smiles warmly. I’ve seen more doctors these past few weeks as Malcolm’s health deteriorated faster.
“Come in, Doctor Small.”
I step back and he makes his way into the bedroom—it’s a familiar route for him now. While I don’t want to be in the room, I hover around the doorway as he confirms Malcolm has passed.
“He went to sleep. I checked …” My voice cracks, but all I feel is relief. He wasn’t a good patient and got more and more frustrated as time went on.
My abuser is dead.
He nods. “I’ll go back to the office and get this entered on the computer so the funeral director can access it.”
“Thank you.”
I meet his gaze when there’s silence, and he reaches out and gives my bicep a reassuring rub. “He’s in a better place now. Look after yourself. If you need anything, give the clinic a call.”
I nod. He’s mistaken my relief for pain, but I’m sure I’ll get a lot of that.
As soon as he’s gone, I pick up my phone and dial the funeral director. Everything’s paid for—Malcolm had some plan he’d started when he was diagnosed with end-stage heart failure.
His health deteriorated too fast for a transplant to be considered, and his age was against him—he was sixty-seven when he passed.
They’ve been expecting my call for a while. Malcolm spoke to them a few weeks ago to let them know what was happening, and now it’s just a matter of when.
“Did you want us to come tonight or in the morning?” The woman on the phone is so gentle and caring.
“Tonight, if you could.”
“I’ll make some calls and let you know when we’re on the way.”
“Thank you.”
And then I’m left in the silence—hoping no one wakes up because for the first time in forever, I’ve got time to myself.
It’s nearly eleven at night when they finally arrive, but they’re quick and efficient, speaking in hushed tones to be respectful. I’m grateful as it also minimises the chances of my children being woken.
The funeral directors must have done this a million times before.
By the time they emerge from the room with his body on the gurney, he’s wrapped and I will never have to look at him again.
My shoulders droop in relief.
It’ll be simple.
There was no point in having a funeral—he didn’t want one anyway. While he worked for a while, we haven’t made friends here. Until his illness got worse, I rarely left the house apart from school runs and grocery shopping.
He’ll be cremated and then interred in the Canterbury Memorial Gardens where he bought a family plot back before he joined the church.
I won’t be joining him there.
The fact he owned the plot tells me he joined the church with an ulterior motive. He knew my parents, and I believe he moved with them to the remote community at the bottom of the country to find a wife.
He found me—a vulnerable pregnant teenager who had no way out.
“Mrs Nichols.” I blink, shaken out of my thoughts by the soft voice. Mr Simms, the funeral director stands in the doorway, a small smile on his lips. “Someone will give you a call in the morning to confirm everything.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see my way out.”
I close my eyes and listen to the low rumble of the car engine pulling away.
I’m free.
Twenty-seven years of living a life I never wanted—one that was forced on me.
A wave of relief washes over me.
Tomorrow, I’ll speak to the lawyer to get the will probate underway—the sooner I can sell this house, the better.
It was our escape when Malcolm decided we were leaving the church, but the abuse followed us.
And then I wait.
Noah’s shift is due to end at midnight—he’s working nights at a petrol station. I’m too wired to go to sleep before he gets home, and as the other adult in this house, I want him to know before the others do.
I turn on the television for some background noise. I’m not sure what’s on, and I don’t care. Tonight changes everything.
We can live our lives the way we need to, and not as dictated by my husband.
I should have left—I told myself that a million times over the years, but I could never see a way out, not once the children started arriving. Malcolm would have tied me up in knots for years. Maybe I should have been stronger—I’ve spent enough time berating myself for not making the break.
But even now, when I’m brave because he’s gone, I know I’d do it all over again to make us safe—no matter the cost to me.
Finally, the front door opens and closes, and my son walks in.
“Mum? You’re still up. What’s going on?” He leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. I love my son. While you shouldn’t have favourites, he and I have always been closer than the others. There’s a reason for that, but my lips are sealed for the moment.
“He died tonight. The funeral director has come and gone.”
His eyes widen. “That’s why it’s so quiet.”
I nod, blinking rapidly. My son, my beautiful son, wraps me in his arms and holds me while I sob.
He knows I’m not sad. For the first time in years, I’m free.
We’re all free.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. “I need sleep, but I wanted to see you before I went to bed. The others don’t know. It happened after they were in bed.”
“We’ll tell them together tomorrow.”
And as of tonight, I’m free from the abusive husband I’ve been married to for over twenty years. He wasn’t violent, but for our entire marriage, he’s worn down my self-esteem and abused me emotionally, verbally, and financially.
The day the doctor told us he was terminal, I knew it was just a matter of time.
Maybe our marriage was for all the wrong reasons, but I have four pieces of my heart under this roof.
And now we get to start fresh.
“What’s our next step?”
I draw in a deep breath. “Get the house ready to go on the market. We’re not staying here.”
He nods. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“We’ll move out of Christchurch when it’s sold. Somewhere warmer.”
He smiles, but I’m sure he’s thinking of his job. Noah’s twenty-six now, and he should be in his own home, or flatting with friends.
But I know he’s stayed to support me—Malcolm was only too happy to have the extra income coming into the house.
“That sounds great.”
I’ve been planning this for months—I know exactly where we’re going.
Noah will have more family than he realises.