A Knock at the Door
Have you ever had the kind of knock at the door that changes the direction of your life in an instant? The sound of an apocalyptic event that tears your whole world in two?
It goes without saying that I’ll never forget the horrific, life-changing moment on 10th August 2019 - or the agonising hours that led up to it.
I hadn’t seen my husband since the Tuesday before that Saturday afternoon. We’d both been travelling a lot for work. A non-descript ‘Call you later’ turned out to be our final goodbye. Whispered by me, in a hushed tone, trying not to fully wake him as I shoved my toothbrush into an overnight bag, rushing out of the door to beat the early-morning traffic.
You don’t imagine your own love story ending that way. You picture growing old together - sitting side by side, reading the morning papers in matching recliners and slippers. You imagine weeping at their bedside in a hospice with pastel-coloured walls, surrounded by vases of flowers, half-eaten boxes of grapes, and a framed photo of the grandchildren. Holding their hand and seizing the final opportunity to say all the things you’ve ever wanted to before they close their eyes and drift peacefully into their forever slumber. Naturally, you will follow soon after from a broken heart.
That Saturday was supposed to be a momentous reunion after such a busy period. It was earmarked as the beginning of a new chapter - settling into our new roles as parents and turning our beautiful new house into a home for the little one who would be joining us in four months’ time. The nursery had already been decorated, and the evening before, I’d made the pilgrimage to IKEA for a nursing chair and baby changing unit. There was flat-pack building to be done.
***
We had a tradition of giving each other a ‘Special Homecoming’ after time apart. A spotlessly clean house, fresh bedding, maybe flowers (for me, at least), and most important of all: the ‘Special Homecoming Dinner.’ That evening’s dinner was already discussed and planned at length, as most of our meals usually were. A healthy homemade version of a kebab with as many sides and accompaniments as we could think of - a perfect compromise for someone with a stinking hangover and a pregnant woman trying to practise some semblance of damage limitation.
That meat sat in the slow cooker on our kitchen island for at least a week afterwards; a big, silver, Russell Hobbs elephant in the room that the streams of visitors to our home would quietly circle around, pretending not to see. It was a reminder of one of the many, many plans we were never going to follow through with.
***
I was awake early that morning, as pregnant people often are. Excited to have my husband home so we could embark on the next chapter of our lives. Our ten years of holidays, parties, and only worrying about ourselves were behind us.
I checked WhatsApp and saw him briefly flicker online before switching to ‘last seen at 7:35 am’. Forever ‘last seen at 7:35 am’. I figured he’d still be snoozing before his drive home, so I cheerfully pottered about the kitchen, music blaring as the bright August sunshine poured through the windows. Later, I got ready to walk to the shops to pick up the last few bits for our Special Homecoming Dinner.
By 11 am, I was fighting back tears. Something felt wrong. He hadn’t replied to my messages or answered my increasingly frantic calls. I was too scared to voice my fears aloud as if doing so would make them real. Maybe I was just overthinking — letting anxiety get the better of me. At 20 weeks pregnant, when tears come easily over the smallest inconvenience, it was hard to tell where hormones ended and rational concern began.
But by 3:30 p.m., I had completely lost it. Panic set in, and I could no longer pretend everything was fine. I needed to take action, so I called the hotel.
‘Sorry, we’re really busy. Can we call you back?’ the receptionist said, her tone betraying that something wasn’t right.
At 4:30 pm, there was a knock at the door. The yellow police jackets shone like warning beacons through the frosted glass as I approached, my heart pounding.
Looking back, I wasn’t surprised when the knock finally came. It was confirmation of the escalating unease I’d felt all day. I was almost willing someone to put me out of my misery and explain what had gone wrong since 7:35 am. I braced myself and opened the door, half expecting my guilty-looking husband to be standing there with the officers, having been involved in some minor mishap.
But he wasn’t there.
I looked at the officers and then past them, searching for him. The solemn expressions on their faces extinguished any hope I’d held onto.
‘Rachel Lamb?’ they asked, confirming who I was.
I led them down the hallway to the living room, each step heavy with dread.
‘I think you’d better sit down.’