In a quiet town along the River Thames, where life moves at a gentle pace and family dramas unfold behind closed doors, my heart aches over the tangled tale of my former wife and the new one I once thought would heal me. I, Jonathan Whitmore, believed I’d made the right choice when I walked away from endless quarrels, yet now, the ghost of my past haunts me.
My former wife, Eleanor, had a knack for turning the smallest matter into a storm. I’ll admit, I was no saint—I had my flaws—but her sharp tongue could wear a man down to the bone. She reproached me for everything: my weariness after long hours at the mill, the time I spent with our ten-year-old son, Oliver, taking him to cricket matches or the fair. To me, those moments were more than duty—they were joy. Yet Eleanor would sigh and say I played the doting father while she bore the burden of discipline. Her grip grew suffocating, and in the end, I could bear it no longer.
One evening, after a row that left the walls trembling, I packed my things and left. I took a small flat nearby so Oliver could visit whenever he pleased. It seemed the only way—Eleanor and I had become strangers under the same roof. Three months later, the divorce papers arrived. For a time, I relished the silence, the absence of shouts and accusations. It was like breathing clean air after years in a coal mine.
Six months passed. Oliver mentioned in passing that a “gentleman caller” had been visiting his mother. I brushed it off, though unease gnawed at me. I resolved to move forward, courting a few women here and there, but nothing stuck. I wanted steadiness, a proper home. Then came Beatrice—young, lovely, unburdened by past husbands or children. She never told me what to do, never raised her voice. I thought, with her, life would be easier.
We married quietly—no grand affair, for I’d done that once. Life with Beatrice was orderly. She kept a spotless house, cooked splendid Sunday roasts, and never once scowled at my boots on the rug. We seldom quarrelled, and in the bedchamber, all was well. Yet her coolness chilled me. She never laughed at my jests, never shared my delight in a good book or a play. Her emotions were like pressed flowers behind glass—pretty, but lifeless. Living with her was like dwelling in a fine dollhouse: polished, perfect, and utterly hollow.
I caught myself writing to Eleanor often, under the guise of discussing Oliver. But the truth was simpler—I missed her. Missed the way our old cottage smelled of rosemary and beeswax, the way her laughter rang like church bells, how she’d spar with me over politics until the fire burned low. The quarrels faded in memory; only the warmth remained.
One day, fetching Oliver, I met her new suitor—a grey-haired chap, shorter than I, with a firm handshake. I nodded, but my blood boiled. This stranger sat in my chair, slept in my bed! I lost my temper, demanding Eleanor keep him away from my son’s home.
“And where should we meet, then?” she snapped. “Shall I send Oliver to you, to tuck him between you and Beatrice? Buy him a proper bed first, then preach to me about my company!”
We shouted as we always had. Oliver fled upstairs, slamming the nursery door. Eleanor stalked to the kitchen, muttering. I followed, and before I knew it, my arms were around her, my lips brushing the nape of her neck. She gasped, then shoved me away.
“Have you lost your senses? Go home to your wife!” Her eyes blazed, just as they used to.
I left, my chest tight as a drum. At home, Beatrice waited—flawless, dutiful, and as distant as the moon. She’d done no wrong, yet I could no longer pretend. I ached for Eleanor, for her fire, for the way she’d wear my old shirts in the morning, for the nights we’d bicker over the next chapter of our favourite serial.
I’d left her by choice, believing it best. Now I see the truth: my home is where she and Oliver are. Yet how can I return? I’ve a wife who deserves no betrayal, and a former one whose embers still burn in my bones. I’m lost, but my heart pulls me back—to what’s real, to where I belong.
