**Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love Story**
Edward Whitmore stepped into his flat after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Hello, I’m home!” he called out, walking into the kitchen, where the aroma of dinner already lingered.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, surprised by the neatly arranged dishes on the table.
“No occasion,” replied his wife, Evelyn, though an odd note crept into her voice. “Just didn’t feel like cooking, so I ordered takeaway.”
“Takeaway? Brilliant!” Edward brightened, shrugging off his suit jacket.
“Go on, sit down. Let’s eat,” Evelyn said before abruptly leaving the kitchen.
A minute later, she returned with a piece of paper in hand and wordlessly handed it to him.
“What’s this?” Edward asked, but the moment his eyes landed on it, he froze as if struck by lightning.
***
“Hello, delivery here,” crackled the intercom, and a young bloke in a bright uniform appeared on the screen. “Your payment didn’t go through yesterday.”
“Must be a mistake,” Evelyn answered smoothly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, here’s the receipt—have a look,” the bloke held up a crumpled slip, jabbing his finger at the address. “I delivered it myself yesterday. Address: Moonrise Lane, 12. A bloke paid by card, but it declined. I’ve got a copy—just check, please?”
The lad seemed flustered, apologising after every word. Clearly, he was new—not just to deliveries, but to working at all. Evelyn narrowed her eyes skeptically, opened the door, and studied him. His skinny shoulders were swallowed by an oversized thermal backpack, making him look like a sparrow carrying the world. She suppressed a smile but was distracted by the receipt.
On the slip, it read: *Error Code: 55. Incorrect PIN.*
“I told you, you’ve got the wrong place,” she repeated. “No one was home yesterday, and we didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the courier flushed. “The payment was handled by… another woman.”
“Even less likely,” Evelyn laughed. “Definitely not me.”
He held out a second receipt with the full order details. Her eyes skimmed it: Japanese cuisine, cutlery for two, card payment. Nothing unusual—except for one thing. Edward *hated* sushi. At the bottom was the name: *Edward.*
Her temples throbbed. Only one man lived here—her husband. But *another woman?* At 43, she hardly qualified as a “girl.” Maybe the courier was just being polite? But something didn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she said abruptly. “Where’s your card reader?”
The lad blinked, taken aback. He’d braced for tears, shouts—his mum had reacted like that when she’d found out about his dad’s affair. But Evelyn was calm, steel wrapped in silk. As she saw him out, she suddenly laughed—a sound that spiralled into something raw, tears spilling over. She wiped her face, inhaled deeply, and picked up her phone.
“Edward, hey—what time are you finishing today?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice.
“Hi. Should be seven, unless the boss drags us into another bloody meeting,” he replied. “Why?”
“I thought we could have dinner together.”
“Plans change?”
“Yeah, I’ll be home. Feels like ages since we had a proper evening.”
“Alright, but I’m not sure when I’ll be free.”
“No worries, we’ll sort it later. Don’t fancy cooking—mind if I order in?”
“Fine by me.”
She hung up and opened the wardrobe. Her gaze landed on a black dress with gold threading—the one she’d worn to last year’s office party. *If we’re celebrating, let’s do it properly,* she thought bitterly.
Back in the hallway, she stared at the receipt, then picked up her phone and ordered the exact same sushi from yesterday—*cutlery for two.*
That evening, the same courier, now thoroughly baffled, delivered the meal. Relieved the payment worked this time, he scurried off, convinced this household held secrets far stranger than his minimum wage could justify.
An hour later, Edward returned. Evelyn greeted him with a smile, but her eyes betrayed her. She noticed how carefully he played the doting husband—always his routine after “late nights” or sudden “business trips.”
“Sushi?” Edward frowned at the table.
“Yeah, saw an ad for this place yesterday,” she said airily. “Fancied a change. I know you’re not keen, so I roasted a chicken for you.”
“Suppose I’ll try it. Had it at a work do once—wasn’t awful.”
“Change is good, isn’t it, Edward?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Wash up—I’m starving.”
Edward tensed. Her calm, the sushi, the same restaurant—he didn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night’s dinner with *her*?
He sat, shooting her a wary glance. Instead of screams or accusations, Evelyn merely asked, “What’s her name?”—her voice flat as she speared a roll.
Edward choked. Denial was pointless.
“Charlotte,” he muttered.
“Pretty name,” she said evenly. “How long’s it been?”
“Evelyn—” he stammered.
“Skip the excuses, Edward. Tell me about her. I want to know if it’s serious.”
“*Serious?*” He gaped. “Are you *joking*? Why are you so calm?”
“No jokes,” she laughed, but it was hollow. “So, Charlotte. What’s she like?”
“She’s thirty,” he admitted. “Doubt it’ll last—”
“Why? Flaky? Drawn to a man with a steady job?” Evelyn held his gaze, unflinching.
Her face darkened with quiet pain.
“No, she’s… decent,” he mumbled.
Praising his mistress to his wife felt surreal.
“Then what’s the problem?” she pressed.
“What are you *on* about?”
“You like her—I can tell. That’s not how you talk about flings. I’ll give you a divorce. No drama. We can sort the assets now.”
“Evie, are you *okay*?” Edward stared, unnerved.
Her calm terrified him. He’d expected fury, threats—like before. But Evelyn was impenetrable.
“Edward, I don’t love you,” she said simply. “Haven’t for three years. And God, it’s *easy* to say. Every time you stray, I take you back. We should’ve ended this ages ago. But you cling to *principles.* Let me go. I’m letting *you* go.”
Edward froze. They’d fought, made up, but divorce had always loomed too large. He’d assumed she’d crumble without him—just as he feared life alone.
They’d married at eighteen, childhood sweethearts. The unknown terrified him.
But that morning, when the courier handed her the receipt, Evelyn realised the truth: her love for Edward had faded. It was as simple as dust on a shelf—just swipe it away.
“Maybe we’re rushing?” he ventured. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I was *glad* today, Edward. Hurt first, then… free. I don’t love you.”
“Sorry. I don’t… think I love you either,” he exhaled.
“Then let’s toast to it,” she nodded at the table.
She fetched a notepad and pen.
“While you eat, let’s list who keeps what.”
*Like dust,* she thought, beginning the inventory. Edward, watching her, started talking about Charlotte—not as a mistress, but as someone who made him feel light. As if speaking not to his wife, but an old friend.
Sometimes, the end isn’t a storm. It’s just the quiet click of a door, left ajar too long, finally closing.
