All Chapters of My Husband Begged Me Back: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

"Irene, the care home says you didn't visit my mother yesterday. What's going on with you?"Niklas's call came at five in the morning.Northern Finland was two hours ahead of London. He lived on the local schedule and was already up before dawn.I lay on a hotel bed with three folded towels beneath me.The bleeding hadn't fully stopped.The doctor said I needed at least five days of bed rest after the miscarriage, but I hadn't dared go back to what was supposed to be our home. I was afraid of seeing the blood on the bathroom floor from where I'd collapsed, or of the care home calling to say Helena needed me again to sign forms, deliver medication, or take her to an appointment.For six years, I had barely had a real day of rest.My abdomen cramped in waves, and every breath tasted like rust.On the other end, his voice grew more and more irritated. "Why are you being so careless about her now? What if something happens? The care home says you haven't shown up for two days straight. You

The day after Aila moved in, Niklas hosted a small reception for potential sponsors at the flat.He was trying to secure a digital archive grant for the traditional crafts of northern Indigenous communities. The guest list included university professors, museum curators, foundation representatives, and a handful of cultural journalists.He had rearranged the living room to suit the shoot.Woven bands, leather pouches, traditional knife sheaths, and silverwork lined the windowsill. The walls displayed his photographs from Inari: snow-covered plains, reindeer herds, artisans at work. Aila wore a traditional ceremonial dress she had redesigned herself and demonstrated her silversmithing for the guests.I hadn't planned on being there.I still had a final batch of transfer paperwork to process before I left. Working through the dull, persistent ache in my abdomen that had lingered since the miscarriage, I sat on the guest room floor sorting documents.Then, through the door, a chorus of ad

Winter came early in Helsinki.During my first week at the new job, the first snow fell by the harbor.The company set me up with a temporary flat for two months, not far from the Design Archive. It was small but south-facing, and on clear days, sunlight would stretch from the window all the way to the center of the wooden floor.There were no books of Niklas's here, no pill organizers for Helena, and no one to wake me before dawn asking why I hadn't done something for them.I worked late every day.The new archival projects were piling up. My Finnish colleagues spoke plainly and kept clear boundaries. When the workday ended, no one treated their personal responsibilities as someone else's obligation.The work made me realize, for the first time, that I was perfectly capable of doing the job. I wasn't the person Niklas had made me out to be, the woman who "just sat around at home."I had simply spent the best six years of my life holding his life together.Sophia's video call came thro

Over the next few days, Niklas didn't show up outside my building again.But every morning, the front desk accepted a delivery on my behalf.The first day, it was a complete set of glassworking tools.Blowpipes, shears, molds, safety goggles, and a temperature recorder, matched as closely as possible to the models mentioned in my mother's old notebooks.A card was taped to the box:"Irene, I'm sorry. I'm six years too late."The second day, it was a long-term reservation for a glass-roofed cabin in Lapland.He had bought the rights to the same week every winter. The note said only:"The northern lights come back every year. I wanted to watch them with you. Now I just hope that every time you look up, you won't think of my broken promise."The third day, it was a thick stack of trust and fund documents.He had transferred his savings, research prize money, and a portion of his future royalties into an independent account, with my name listed as the beneficiary.The card read:"You held

The following spring, I submitted my resignation to the Helsinki Design Archive.My supervisor didn't try to keep me. She only asked if I was sure.I said I was.Six months at the job had restored my professional confidence and given me the courage to admit what I truly wanted: I didn't want to spend my life preserving other people's work. I wanted to be the one making it.I used the money from the London flat to rent a studio in Fiskars Village in southern Finland, a space with a small yard and a kiln.The studio had belonged to a retired couple who were both glassmakers.Years of heat had yellowed the walls. Old molds were stacked on the floor, and outside the window ran a narrow river. In spring, when the ice and snow melted, the sound of running water went on day and night, like someone breathing slowly in the distance.I began methodically sorting through the notes Catherine had left behind.Her records were incomplete.Some formulas were only half-written. Some temperature curves