Shadows of the Past: A Story of Love and Forgiveness
In the quiet town of Bridlington, where ancient oaks cast long shadows over cobbled lanes, James clenched his jaw, thinking, “Go on, cry some more, why don’t you?”
They pulled up to the house. Helen, his wife, sat in the car, leaning heavily against the door. James rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go—now I’ve got to open the door for her.” But she was already climbing out. He yanked the handle in frustration, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Watch your step, clumsy,” he muttered, guiding her inside.
He hauled the shopping bags in, dumped them by the door, and waited as Helen limped her way to the bedroom before tossing over his shoulder, “I’ll be back late.”
Without another word, he left. The engine roared to life, and he drove aimlessly through the winding streets, trying to outrun his irritation. He needed air. He dialed his workmate, Dave, who invited him over to test a new game. James went.
Beer loosened their tongues, and soon, the conversation turned personal. James spilled it all—how the spark had fizzled, how routine had swallowed them whole, how Helen “nagged him to death, spoon by spoon.” He mentioned Sophie from Sales—young, carefree, always grinning. The way she brushed against him, laughed at his jokes. With her, the world felt light.
Helen
“Why aren’t we booking the holiday for July?” I asked as we drove home.
James exploded. Yelled. Slammed his hands on the wheel, face twisted with anger. I turned to the window, tears slipping free. What had I done wrong? It was just a question. Lately, he’d been on edge, snapping at everything.
My friend Susan had hinted: “D’you think there’s someone else?” She told me about her husband, Michael—how he’d changed when that “girl from the office” started batting her lashes. Young, chirpy, and suddenly Michael was dressing sharper, tossing around slang—”cringe,” “lol.” Susan had nearly died of shame when he started babbling like a teenager in front of their son’s mates. Their boy was mortified.
In the end, Susan had had enough. Packed his bags, sent him off to his mum’s “for a reality check.” Joked down the phone: “Returning your man-child.” His mother shot back, “Try the loony bin—we don’t want him.” Then she tore into him so hard he snapped out of it overnight. Susan could breathe again.
But James? He wasn’t like that. And I felt it—no one else yet. But something was off.
James
Sat at Dave’s, my mind circled back to Helen. What happened to her? Where was the woman who used to laugh so easily? Now it was all chores, that damn holiday… Then I pictured Sophie—her bright laugh, how she’d leaned in at the café after work, hanging on my every word.
Helen rang. Asked me to pick her up from work, stop by the shops. Mood ruined. Sophie had pouted when I said I had to go. And Helen? Bloody hell—why drag herself in with a sprained ankle? Stay home! But no, the place would “fall apart without her.”
I thumbed my phone, debating calling Sophie. Dialed… Then Dave cut in:
“You alright, mate? Ringing Sophie?”
I ended the call, heat crawling up my neck.
“Gonna head off, Dave.”
“Had my own ‘Sophie.’ Name was Liza,” he said, staring into his pint. “Blew up my marriage for her. Only see my boy on weekends now. Ex-wife’s remarried, happy. I was happy too, for a bit. But it wasn’t real. By the time I figured it out? Too late. Live alone now, just me and the telly. Begged her to take me back. She said, ‘Forgave you. Can’t live with a cheat.’ Put myself in her shoes—yeah. I’d do the same.”
Dave fell silent. My chest tightened.
“Think before you call,” he said.
I left. The phone rang. Thought it was Helen—no. Sophie.
“Hey, you called?” Her voice was syrup.
“Uh—wrong number,” I grunted.
“Pop round anyway? Accidentally-on-purpose. I’ve got white wine…”
Disgust twisted in my gut—at her, at myself. I hung up. She called again. And again. I sat in the car, rejecting each one. Finally, a voicemail: “Coward. Grow up.” I deleted her number. Blocked it.
Back home, the shopping bags still sat by the door. Helen was at the table in the dark, staring out the window. I sat across from her.
“Hel…”
She turned. Face puffy, eyes red. My chest ached.
“Hel, we need to talk.” The words tumbled out—apologies, excuses, half-formed regrets. She listened, silent.
“I’m going to Mum’s,” she said softly. “Taking sick leave. Think about what you want, James. I’m not giving ultimatums. Just… decide what matters.”
She left. The flat swallowed me whole. I hadn’t fallen out of love. So what was wrong with me?
I sat in the dark until dawn.
Helen
Four hours. Where was he? Fear gnawed at me. All those years, crumbling. Painful. Pathetic, maybe—a woman in her forties weeping over this. But… I think he’s fallen out of love. I’m just… there.
A midlife crisis? Our son’s twenty-two, our daughter nineteen. Would he want more kids? Marry some glossy young thing, post avocado toast pics online while he—grey-templed, in a cashmere jumper—bounces a rosy-cheeked baby. Perfect little family.
I remembered midnight feeds, hospital vigils. Why do second wives get the fairy tale? Calm babies, doting husbands. Their toddlers probably recite Shakespeare before nursery.
Why’s it so unfair? He gets a fresh start. I don’t.
I cried until my leg throbbed, mourning youth, love, everything slipping away. One thought looped: “What did I do wrong?”
Then it hit me. Nothing. Love just… expires. Some get forever. We didn’t.
The door clicked open. He was back.
Said we needed to talk. Rambled, backtracked, blamed nothing and everything. I told him I was leaving. And I did.
Lied to Mum—”fumigating for mice.” Said James was at a mate’s, kids away at uni.
“Mice? Where?” Mum frowned.
“Big ones.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“Allergies from the spray.”
“Leave her be, love. Dinner’s ready,” Dad cut in.
Mum fussed, piling my plate, fetching antihistamines.
“Mum, no. Dad—got any whisky?”
“There’s sherry—” Mum began.
“Got proper stuff,” Dad said, shooting her a look.
We drank in silence. He talked about his army days, flipping through an old album. I laughed at the photos. Then he grabbed his guitar, and we sang at the kitchen table. The weight lifted. I fell asleep to Mum whispering, “What’s wrong with her?”
Morning light. Voices in the kitchen.
“James, what’s this about mice?” Mum grumbled. “Helen says rodents, you say fleas… Eat your pancakes.”
I walked in. James was demolishing a stack.
“Morning, Hel,” he smiled. “Sorted the pests.”
“Fleas?”
“And mice.”
“Sure?”
“Clear as day. Oh—put the shopping away too.”
I exhaled.
James & Helen
“No more fumigating, yeah?” he said.
“Yeah. But pests don’t just appear, James. You’ve got to notice them first.”
“Right. Keep our eyes open?”
“Right.”
James
I’d pictured it—her gone for good. Another man’s hands on her. The thought gutted me. Come morning, I drove to her parents’.
“Fleas all gone? Helen asleep?” I asked her mum.
“Out like a light,” she said, eyeing me. “Pancake?”
“Ta.”
Helen
It passed. We shook ourselves out, learned. The old us is gone—but so’s the rot. Our story didn’t end. It just turned a page.
