Too Late to Regret: No Turning Back
“Well then, Evelyn Winthrop, we’ve patched you up and given you our advice. Now, mind you don’t neglect yourself,” the doctor said with a smile, giving her shoulder a pat before graciously holding the door open for her to shuffle through with her bags.
Evelyn felt a lump rise in her throat. Though she’d been in hospital for an unpleasant reason, she’d almost enjoyed it—a rare chance to rest. And all because, for years now, she’d been working herself to the bone, too afraid even to ask for a day off. The dizziness, the exhaustion, the creeping headaches—she’d ignored them all. In the end, she collapsed, her nerves shot and her heart strained. A month in hospital, and her mother nearly took ill herself from worry.
But George, her husband, hadn’t batted an eyelid. As if he hadn’t even noticed she was gone. Or perhaps he truly hadn’t—the moment Evelyn left, his mother had swept into their house like a storm, pots and scoldings in tow.
“My dear Evelyn, you must understand—my Georgie is just a boy at heart. Who else will look after him if not his own mother? You’ve got your mum to fuss over you, so let me tend to my little lad,” his mother cooed through the phone.
Evelyn gritted her teeth. Years of teaching George to stand on his own two feet—gone in an instant. Every scrap of independence, every bit of help around the house—vanished, like sugar in tea. Once again, she was the wicked witch, and his mother the fairy godmother, swooping in to “rescue” her poor, oppressed boy. Though who was oppressing whom—that was another matter.
Thinking back to their early years of marriage made her shudder. His mother had been worse then, hovering over them like a spectre. She’d even called them in their bedroom once: “Are you asleep? Or is something… not as it should be?” Ghastly.
They’d met in a ridiculous way. Evelyn had stormed out after a row with a so-called friend who’d turned out to be a snake. She’d been wandering the street, brooding over life’s unfairness, when a man nearly fell on her—or rather, a branch did. She looked up, and there was Gregory, stuck in a tree.
“Have you lost your mind?” she’d snapped. “Trying to break your neck?”
“I was rescuing the cat!” he’d huffed.
There was no cat, of course. Whiskers had long bolted, but Gregory remained. Evelyn fetched a ladder and rope to help him down. That was how they met. That was how their story began—sweet on the surface, but rotten underneath.
After the wedding, Evelyn quickly realised her husband wasn’t just helpless—he was a child. Couldn’t wash a dish, couldn’t take out the rubbish without whinging. She bore it all—the mortgage, her job, her ailing mother—while he ran to his mother, who in turn lectured Evelyn. So she took charge, schooling him properly. And, to her credit, she succeeded.
Gregory changed. Learned to cook, to clean, even showed initiative. His mother retreated—though she still wept in corners, lamenting her poor boy’s fate. But Evelyn kept things in hand. Until the hospital.
Now it was back to square one. She rang Gregory—silence. Odd. Mondays were his day off; he should’ve been up by now. She tried his mother—no answer either. Her stomach twisted. She hailed a cab and sped home, dread prickling her skin.
She climbed the steps, slid the key into the lock—and the door swung open before she could turn it. A strange woman stood in the doorway.
“Who are you?” Evelyn asked coldly.
“I’m Marina. Gregory’s beloved. And you, sweetheart, don’t live here anymore. So do us a favour and vanish.”
Evelyn froze. Before she could gather her thoughts, the door slammed in her face.
“I’ll fetch your things then, shall I?” called the voice from inside.
A few minutes later, bags began marching out one by one. With a sharp nudge past the interloper, Evelyn perched on her tartan suitcase and dialled the police. She hadn’t slaved all these years just to hand everything over to a traitor.
When the officers arrived, she turfed them both out—Gregory and his little “Marina.” He stayed silent, but his new flame tried to argue.
“This is his flat too! You can’t throw us out!”
“I can,” Evelyn said calmly. “Everything’s in my name. Run along to Mummy and complain.”
When the door clicked shut behind them, she exhaled—properly—for the first time in years. She aired the rooms, stripped the bed, filed for divorce. It hurt at first. Then… it felt like freedom.
A month later, lounging in bed on a Sunday morning, she savoured her hard-won peace. The phone rang.
“Gregory,” she muttered to herself, and answered.
“Evelyn, my love… I miss you. No one loves me here. It’s all Mother’s fault. Forgive me. Take me back…”
She listened in silence. Then snorted with laughter.
“You’re serious? Take you back? After all that?”
He kept babbling like a schoolboy. She switched off the phone, flopped onto the pillows, and smirked.
“Well then,” she murmured. “And here I feared my life was over. Turns out, it’s only just begun.”
