**A Crack Under the Southern Sun: A Drama in Lakeshire**
Eleanor arrived home from her holiday with a heart heavy as lead. Her husband, Oliver, hadn’t texted once. At Lakeshire Station, no one waited for her. The flat was dark, no supper prepared, chaos strewn about. *Probably off with his mum again,* she thought bitterly, pulling out a second suitcase to pack her things. Just then, Oliver stumbled through the door.
“Back already?” he sneered, blocking the doorway. “Didn’t expect you. Had your fill of fun, did you? Think you can waltz back like nothing happened?”
Eleanor laughed—a hollow, jagged sound. “Don’t worry. I won’t be staying long.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Oliver’s face darkened. Then it dawned on him.
“Ollie, how could you? We planned this trip for *months*!” Eleanor’s voice cracked.
She’d dreamt of it all year: saving up, comparing packages, imagining sun-soaked beaches.
“Not my fault,” Oliver muttered, avoiding her eyes. “Mum fell ill. Had to stay.”
“When, then? If she’d been hospitalised, I’d understand. But a slight fever? That’s all it was!”
“She rang an ambulance!” he snapped.
“It dropped as soon as she took paracetamol. Ollie, this was a last-minute deal. If we don’t go now, we’ll never get that price again!”
“Christ, your selfishness is revolting!” His jaw clenched. “I said *no*. Mum could take a turn!”
“She’s got a daughter, hasn’t she? Emily could’ve looked after her.”
“You *know* Emily’s swamped. Drop it. We’ll go another time.” His tone turned icy. “We’re staying home. I promised Mum I’d help with the renovations. You’ll pitch in too.”
He stormed out, as if the matter were settled. Eleanor crumpled onto the bed, sobbing.
Not only did she slog at a job she hated just to pay bills, now her only escape was stolen. She’d endured her boss’s jabs, worked overtime—all for this dream: turquoise waves, golden sand.
She’d wanted to quit for ages, but Oliver forbade it. *The pay’s too good,* he’d insisted. They’d redone the kitchen, bought a new car. Yet his wages vanished into his mother’s whims—new plumbing, a telly, endless demands.
No doubt *she* had killed the holiday. Queen of guilt-trips, with only Oliver as her loyal subject. His sister Emily had long since learned to steer clear. But a wife? Easier to bully than Mum.
The sea faded from view. All Eleanor saw now was wallpaper paste and her mother-in-law’s musty flat. She couldn’t do it. She *needed* this break.
Half an hour later, she faced Oliver. “I’m going. With or without you.”
“Have you gone mad?!”
“You’re the mad one! I waited for this like a miracle, and you’re snatching it away. Stay if you must. I’m leaving.”
“Who with?” His eyes narrowed.
“Alone.”
He scoffed, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. “I know why you *really* want this. Some tanned bloke waiting? Fancy playing the runaway wife?”
Eleanor bit her tongue. Words piled up, sharp and poisonous.
“Cat got your tongue? Knew I was right!”
“If you don’t trust me, *come along*,” she hissed.
“I won’t abandon Mum.”
“Fine. Don’t.”
She fled to the bedroom, fury clawing at her throat. Always, *always*, his mother came first. And now, baseless accusations? She’d never given him reason to doubt her. All she’d craved was peace—no flings, no drama.
Oliver assumed she was bluffing.
At dawn, she asked one last time. He called her an idiot. By afternoon, she returned with a ticket in hand.
Oliver erupted. Never had they fought like this. She even offered to book him a seat—but he refused, stubborn to the end. *Why?* His mother had been fine all week.
As she left for the station, he snarled, “Don’t bother coming back! I don’t need a wife like you!”
Tears streaked her face as the train pulled away. She didn’t know it then, but that holiday would change everything…
The resort swallowed her whole—azure waves, buttery sunlight, crisp white sheets. The first night, she texted Oliver: *Arrived safely. It’s gorgeous. Wish you were here.* No reply.
She vowed not to message again. Let him reach out. But silence was his punishment.
Her sorrow lasted a day. Then, freedom took hold. She’d forgotten how sweet solitude could be. With Oliver, they’d have bickered by the pool, never venturing beyond the hotel. Now, she explored ruins, swam at midnight, wandered cobbled streets.
And thought. *Really* thought.
Clarity came like a tide. She worked that miserable job not for lack of options, but because Oliver feared losing her paycheck. Yet she never enjoyed it—he controlled every pound.
This trip? *She* had scrimped for it. He’d contributed nothing. Worse, she lived with a man who cherished his mother’s praise more than his wife’s happiness. She was convenient—quiet, solvent, ever-obliging.
At twenty-eight, Eleanor was radiant; Oliver had a beer gut and a temper. And her mother-in-law? Not one *thank you* in three years. Just a shrine to her precious son.
Sipping a cocktail by the shore, Eleanor wondered: *Why?* What did this marriage give her? Stress. Disrespect. A life measured in sacrifices.
She’d thought she loved him. Now, adrift in the sea’s rhythm, she realised—she didn’t *miss* him. Dread pooled at the thought of returning.
Oliver never texted. A blessing, she decided. Cleaner this way.
No one met her at the station. The flat was a tomb—dark, supper-less, strewn with takeaway boxes. Oliver had been at Mum’s, then.
Eleanor didn’t unpack. She fetched the second suitcase.
“Back, are you?” Oliver loomed in the doorway. “Didn’t think you’d show. Had your fun? Well, *darling*, you’ll beg for forgiveness before I’m through!”
She laughed then—bright and broken. How kind of him to make this easy. She’d feared leaving the flat they’d shared would hurt. Instead, she felt only the urge to *run*.
“Don’t fret. I’ll be gone soon. Just collecting my things.”
His face twisted. “Found some bloke out there, didn’t you?”
“No.” She zipped the bag shut. “Just myself. I’m leaving, Ollie. The divorce papers will follow.”
“*I’m* throwing *you* out!” he roared.
“Whatever helps,” she murmured, stepping past him.
She returned to her old flat—the one she’d kept despite Oliver’s demands to sell. *For investment*, she’d claimed. Really, she’d known.
Oliver thought it a tantrum. Until the papers arrived. Then came the calls, the pleading. Too late.
Eleanor began anew. Divorced, resigned, and—slowly—in love with life. Time slipped away when you lived for others. But now? Now, she lived for *her*.
