When Eleanor married, she was certain it was a love to last a lifetime. She adored her husband, William, and strove to be the perfect wife—one he could always rely on, one who would never let him down.
Eleanor was the sort of woman impossible not to love. Kind, warm-hearted, with a radiant smile, she was always ready to lend a hand. Even her mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, received her tireless support. A single phone call from Margaret—complaining of back pain or exhaustion—and Eleanor would rush over to clean, cook, or fetch groceries.
“Oh, how lucky I am to have you, dear,” Margaret would sigh. “My son is no help at all—one can’t expect much from men, can they? I always wished for a daughter, but fate gave me you instead.”
Eleanor cherished such words, striving even harder to please. And in truth, Margaret was right: William seldom lifted a finger, neither at home nor for his mother.
But it wasn’t just his laziness. William believed housework was beneath him. Eleanor didn’t mind—she enjoyed making their home cozy. The real issue was his relentless criticism. The floors were never clean enough, the soup never properly seasoned.
Over time, his complaints grew sharper. He accused her of overspending, though she earned her own keep and never asked him for a penny.
“How much does that manicure cost, then?” he sneered.
“Fifteen pounds,” she murmured, as if apologizing.
“Fifteen quid every month!” he scoffed. “We could be saving for a car!”
“But you spend just as much on your gym membership,” she ventured.
“That’s different! The gym is about health, strength! Your silly nails are a waste!”
The grievances piled up like snow. Soon, he begrudged her monthly café outings with friends—nothing extravagant, just a cup of tea and a chat.
“Why must you gad about without me?” he grumbled. “Stay home where you belong.”
Eleanor was gentle and patient, but even saints have limits. Squabbles became daily, understanding vanished. After three years, she filed for divorce. William resisted—not out of love, but because he couldn’t bear losing control. Eleanor, however, had simply had enough.
Once the divorce was final and William moved out, Margaret called at once.
“Eleanor, darling, how could this happen?” she wailed. “Why such a hasty decision?”
Eleanor sighed. Explaining herself was the last thing she wanted, but she answered anyway.
“It wasn’t hasty, Margaret. This was a long time coming. I tried to save our marriage, but William refuses compromise. His constant nitpicking… I’m exhausted. I can’t go on like this.”
“But you were such a lovely pair!” Margaret near-sobbed. “And I adore you! What shall I do without you now?”
Eleanor needed comfort herself, but Margaret, as ever, turned the conversation back to her.
“Why without me?” Eleanor said gently. “We can still speak. My divorce from William doesn’t mean cutting ties. Ring me if you need anything.”
“Oh, Eleanor, you’re an angel!” Margaret cried. “So we’re not saying goodbye?”
“Of course not.”
The divorce left Eleanor drained. William, convinced of his own perfection, was wounded by rejection. But soon, the storm passed. Eleanor realized she felt no regret—his endless demands had smothered any love long ago. Once, he’d seemed the man of her dreams. Had he changed, or had she been blind?
She began anew, blocking William everywhere. He made no attempt to reach out—but Margaret wasn’t ready to let go.
A week later, the phone rang.
“Eleanor, dear, how are you?”
“Well enough,” she replied. “And you?”
The question was polite, but Margaret seized it.
“Oh, dreadful! My blood pressure’s up, I can barely walk. I asked William to fetch my medicine, but he refused! However shall I manage?”
Eleanor understood the hint. Kind to a fault, she couldn’t abandon an elderly woman.
“I’ll bring it, Margaret. Just text me what you need.”
“Oh, you’re my saviour! I knew I could count on you!”
Eleanor postponed her own plans, bought the medicine, and spent two hours at Margaret’s, sipping tea and listening to complaints.
But Margaret’s requests soon multiplied: groceries, cleaning, errands. Once, she asked for a ride to the shops, and Eleanor finally snapped.
“Why can’t William help?”
Margaret muttered excuses, and guilt pricked Eleanor. “She’s struggling—must I be so harsh?”
Soon, she saw Margaret more than her own mother. Calls came at all hours, demanding urgent aid. If Eleanor hesitated, Margaret’s pitiful tones wore her down until she cancelled plans and rushed over.
After all, wasn’t it said that we’re responsible for those we’ve tamed? Eleanor had promised help but never expected such shameless exploitation.
It might have gone on forever—had Margaret not ruined it herself.
One day, she rang again.
“Eleanor, my sister’s visiting. Could you take us to the countryside tomorrow?”
“Not too early,” Eleanor sighed.
“Oh, we hoped to leave by nine…”
“Fine,” she agreed, mourning her free day.
“Thank you, darling! What would I do without you?”
Eleanor nearly hung up—then heard Margaret’s sister chuckle.
“So, she agreed?”
Margaret had forgotten to end the call. Though eavesdropping wasn’t her habit, the conversation was about her.
“Of course she did!” Margaret snorted. “Where else would she go?”
“How do you manage it?” her sister marvelled. “Divorced your son, yet she still runs errands.”
“Because she’s soft as butter,” Margaret sneered. “Eager to please everyone. Truthfully, I’m glad they split—William needs a sharper woman. This one’s fit to fetch my tea. Better she strains herself than my boy. He’ll start anew, but who’d want her?”
Eleanor’s breath caught. Fury boiled in her chest. She’d helped out of kindness—and this was Margaret’s gratitude?
She ended the call. The next morning, she slept in, ignoring the dozen missed calls. When she finally answered, her voice was honey-sweet.
“So sorry, I overslept.”
“But we had an arrangement!”
“Just leaving now—see you in fifteen!”
She sipped her coffee, smiling as the calls resumed.
“Eleanor, where are you?”
“Outside your door! Can’t you see me?”
“We’re waiting!”
“How odd—I’m at the neighbour’s. You know how similar the houses look. Pop over, I’ll be here.”
When Margaret’s irritation reached its peak, Eleanor tired of the game. She sent one final text, detailing what she’d overheard, and blocked the number for good.
As she finished her coffee, relief washed over her. She should have cut ties with both William and Margaret long ago. Now, at last, she was free. And something far better surely lay ahead.
