The dim streets of Manchester escorted Andrew home after yet another draining workday. His mind buzzed with the usual clutter, but tonight, unease gripped his chest like a vice. The fourth-floor windows of their flat were dark. “Where’s she wandered off to now?” he muttered, stepping into a house so quiet it hummed. Before he could even kick off his shoes, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Thompson from next door stood there, her face pinched with worry. “It’s your wife, Eleanor,” she said, twisting her hands. “The paramedics took her just now.” Andrew froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. His whole life—full of blunders and missed chances—collapsed in an instant, leaving only regret.
The realisation struck him again, sharp as lightning. He stopped dead on the pavement, the ground tilting beneath him. “How could I’ve been so blind?” he scoffed bitterly. It had all been so obvious, yet he’d missed it. At home, Eleanor—the woman he’d once loved but long stopped appreciating—would’ve been waiting. He pictured their usual exchange: her tossing a flat “You’re back?” over her shoulder before vanishing into the kitchen without so much as a glance. “Fancy dinner?” she’d ask, her voice stripped of any warmth.
There was a time Eleanor cooked with heart—baked Victoria sponges, hunted down recipes, even tried her hand at pickling. But lately, the effort had vanished. For the kids, when they visited, she’d still go all out. For him? Barely a crumb of care. Her meals had turned tasteless, as if she resented every stir of the spoon. When he couldn’t stomach it, Andrew would fry up bangers or slap together a sandwich, chewing in silence. She’d eat, never thanking him. Her indifference gutted him, but he bit his tongue to keep the peace.
Eleanor hadn’t always been like this. Once, she’d been soft—warm hugs, whispered affection, moments where she’d press close like she was sharing her very heartbeat. But those days were buried. Now, her care felt robotic, like a chore she loathed. When had it changed? Was it when he’d lingered at the pub while she waited up? Or when he’d skipped fetching her after their youngest was born because he was “celebrating with the lads”? Back then, he’d shrugged. “It’s a happy occasion, isn’t it?” But the look she’d given him—wounded, hollow—haunted him still.
Eleanor grew quieter, drifting further away. She’d flinch at his remarks, retreat to the bedroom like she couldn’t stand his presence. “God, it’s just the truth!” he’d snap. But her silence cut deeper than shouting. When the kids visited, she’d brighten—bustling, laughing, alive. With him? A brick wall. “Who’s she fooling?” he’d think. Life slipped by, their marriage reduced to a hollow routine.
Andrew had quit the pub years ago. Worked as an engineer, earned decently, never strayed. But Eleanor? She hardly seemed to notice. She earned just as much, fierce and self-reliant. So why stay? For the kids? They’d long flown the nest. He’d stopped trying to understand her, chalking it up to “If this is how she wants it, fine.” But deep down, he ached for a proper marriage—a wife who greeted him with a smile, who’d miss him when he left. For love, long gone.
And now, the crushing thought: she’d never loved him. Maybe not really. He’d always wondered why a woman so sharp, so put-together, had settled for him. Maybe he’d just been convenient—tall, decent-looking, good genes for the kids. “Bet that’s all it was,” he thought, acid seeping into the memory.
Stepping into the dark flat, the silence screamed. “Where is she?” His pulse spiked. The doorbell rang again. Mrs. Thompson couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Andrew, love, the ambulance took Eleanor over an hour ago…”
He sprinted through the streets, tears blurring his vision. For the first time in years, he prayed.
“Please, God, don’t take her. How do I live without her? I’ll fix it, I swear—just let her be alright! I’ll go to church, I’ll volunteer, just—please!”
But he never saw Eleanor alive again. The hospital said her heart had stopped in the ambulance. His world shattered. Days blurred. Kids, mates, relatives murmured condolences, but their voices buzzed like static. One thought looped: “Never said sorry.”
Now Andrew lives alone. The kids offered to take him in; he refused. He visits the parish church often. There, amid candle-smoke and hushed hymns, he almost feels Eleanor beside him. The old stone walls seem to cradle his grief. He stares at the stained glass and whispers, “Sorry I never saw you.” But there’s no answer—just silence, his only companion now.
