A SIN WITH A NUT, A KERNEL WITH A BUCKET
“One simply cannot indulge in youthful passions at his age! He’s forty-six! What is he thinking? That girl could be his daughter! What kind of love could they possibly have? Hmph! Smitten like a mouse in a trap! I don’t understand it, and I don’t wish to!” fumed Irene over her husband’s behaviour. Her oldest friend, Eleanor, listened to the tirade.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Irene. These things sort themselves out. You’ve always had the perfect family,” Eleanor soothed, though she—like the neighbours and colleagues—knew the peace of Irene’s household hung by a thread.
Geoffrey, Irene’s husband, had lost all sense of reason. He was not himself.
…It all began with the car accident. That was what started it—first a fleeting infatuation, then a final, scorching love.
Winter. Black ice. Geoffrey drove carefully to the office each morning, never speeding. That day, he halted at the pedestrian crossing. Suddenly, from nowhere, a girl flung herself onto the bonnet of his car. Geoffrey was stunned. For a moment, he thought she’d thrown herself under the wheels deliberately. But there was no time to wonder. He leapt out to help.
The girl groaned and winced dramatically. Geoffrey helped her into his car, insisting they go to A&E. She refused. Said she felt better already. But she wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea…
Geoffrey took her to his office. Poured her tea, offered sandwiches. They introduced themselves. Her name was Angelica. Geoffrey noted how striking she was—sweet, upturned nose, curly hair, oddly serious for her years. There was something mesmerising about her. He could have stared forever, listened forever to that lulling voice. But he shook himself, as if snapping out of a trance, and saw her out. He’d wasted enough work time already. As a polite afterthought, he handed her his business card.
“Angelica, ring me if you need anything.”
By evening, the incident had slipped his mind.
Two days later, Angelica called. Asked to meet. Said it was urgent.
Guilt still gnawed at Geoffrey, so he went.
The “victim” opened the door of her tiny flat. Inside, her right arm was bandaged.
“You see, Geoffrey… I tried to hang a painting in the kitchen. Couldn’t manage it. My arm hurts. Would you help?” She winced.
“Of course. Hand me the hammer.”
The painting was soon up. Then a bottle of wine and fruit appeared on the table.
“We ought to celebrate. I’ve wanted that painting hung for ages, but no man about the house,” Angelica said, inviting him to stay.
Geoffrey couldn’t refuse. He pitied her. Such a lovely girl, all alone…
The wine vanished between conversations. The fruit lay untouched. Neither was hungry. Only the need to talk, talk, talk…
Geoffrey returned home dazed, a ghost of himself. It was late. His wife and daughter slept soundly, long used to his work swallowing his nights.
Six months later, he announced he was leaving them. Irene and their daughter, Lizzie, thought he’d gone mad. Irene had noticed changes—first, he’d forgotten her birthday. Unthinkable. Second, their savings had dwindled alarmingly. Third, he was scarcely home. There were more signs, too many to count.
She dismissed the dark thoughts. Refused to believe the worst. Hadn’t she always laughed at the saying, “Old fools are the worst fools”?
She’d trusted him completely. And why not? She took care of herself, still turned heads at work. But her heart belonged to Geoffrey alone. And now this—betrayal!
Hysterical, she confronted Lizzie.
“Find out everything, love. Who is she? How serious is it?”
But Lizzie had already visited her father. She too burned with curiosity.
“Mum… it’s true. Dad’s in love. No doubt. This girl—she’s only five years older than me. Twenty-six. Angelica, her name is. And… she looks just like you. Spitting image of your old photos.”
Irene went pale. When Lizzie showed her Angelica’s picture, she asked for a sedative.
“Good Lord! It can’t be!”
Lizzie didn’t understand.
…Old sins cast long shadows. “And now mine has caught up,” Irene thought bleakly.
…She’d met her first husband at seventeen. Back then, it felt like fate. He’d swept her off her feet, married her before she knew what was happening. She adored his fervour.
They lived with his mother, Margaret—a gentle, doting woman who loved Irene dearly. Irene confided in her, cried on her shoulder when things grew hard. Every family has its trials…
In time, a daughter arrived. Margaret, who’d always wanted a girl of her own, was overjoyed. Her husband had died young, leaving her with only a son.
Margaret had suitors, but she never remarried. Said it was God’s will she remain a widow.
She called her granddaughter an angel. Named her Angelica.
The girl grew to look just like Irene.
When Angelica was three, her father went away for work. Said he’d return in six months. He did not.
Margaret soothed Irene. “Duty calls. Be patient.”
Then Irene found the letter. Addressed to Margaret. From her son.
He’d found true love, he wrote. Would not return. “Mother, find words to comfort my wife…” The rest extolled his new beloved.
Irene stormed to Margaret.
“You knew! Your son is a cad! What am I to do now?”
“Irene, listen! I hoped he’d come to his senses! But now—they’ve a child coming… You’re young! You’ll remarry! Leave Angelica with me! I couldn’t bear to lose her!”
Irene thought, then decided to start anew.
She met Geoffrey on a bus. He’d trodden on her foot, apologised profusely. They exchanged numbers. She forgot him—he did not forget her. He called at New Year’s, brought roses, a giant teddy bear. It was cold, merry, careless.
They married swiftly. Irene moved in. Angelica stayed with Margaret… and the teddy.
At first, Irene visited, brought sweets, took the girl to the zoo. Then, satisfied Angelica was happy, she stopped. Her second child was coming.
Life moved on. Work, family, duties… She lost touch with Margaret and Angelica entirely.
Now, years later, Angelica had returned—to steal her mother’s husband!
Irene went to confront them.
Angelica answered the door as if expecting her. Offered coffee, chocolates.
“Well, hello… Mum. Come to fetch your husband?”
Irene stared at the floor.
“At fifteen, I began plotting revenge. Lying awake, thinking how to hurt you… Mum. The orphanage gave me plenty of time to plan.”
“Orphanage?” Irene gasped.
“Yes, Mum. Gran died. Death lays you down, you don’t rise again. I was eleven. Landed in the orphanage. A living orphan.”
She’d gone from Gran’s kisses to daily slaps. “I was her jewel. Then I was nothing. A wolf-cub—hungry, cold, furious. That’s when I vowed to steal your husband. Wanted you to know despair. But… I fell in love with Geoffrey. Love’s no fire, but once lit, it can’t be quenched. No one loved me like Gran. Losing that love—it’s terrifying. You’ll learn now, Mum. I don’t pity you. Leave.”
Irene whispered, “The road’s long, and stones trip all. Forgive me. Just—don’t tell Geoffrey. Or Lizzie. Spare them.”
A year later, Angelica died in childbirth, delivering twins. With her last breath, she begged Geoffrey:
“Name the boy Geoff, the girl… Irene. Forgive me. Go home.”
When Irene heard, she went to him. Geoffrey braced for scorn—”Had your fun, now left holding the babies?”
But Irene went straight to the cribs. The twins slept, snuffling softly. Geoffrey stood holding empty milk bottles.
“They just ate. Fell asleep…” he mumbled.
Irene took charge.
“Geoff… I’m sorry. But graves grow grass with time. You can’t manage two babies alone. Come home. We’ll sort it. These little ones… they’re family too.”
