THE SIN AND THE BUCKET
“Has he lost his mind? He’s forty-six! Chasing after some girl half his age—what sort of love could that possibly be? Like a mouse diving headfirst into a trap! I won’t understand it, and I refuse to!” Margaret seethed, pacing the kitchen, her fury aimed at her husband’s foolishness.
Her best friend, Eleanor, listened with patience, stirring her tea. “Don’t be hasty, Maggie. You’ve always had the perfect family. Things will settle down.”
But Eleanor knew—as did the neighbors, the colleagues, the whole of London—that the peace of Margaret’s so-called perfect family hung by a thread.
William had gone mad. Utterly unrecognizable.
It had all started with an accident. A simple fender bender, of all things—then a fleeting infatuation, and now, this: a raging, desperate love.
Winter had been cruel that year, the roads slick with black ice. William drove carefully, easing to a stop at the crosswalk. Then—out of nowhere—a girl dashed into the road and slammed against the bonnet of his Jaguar. For a moment, he thought she’d thrown herself at the car on purpose. No time to think. He leapt out to help her.
She groaned, clutching her arm. He insisted on taking her to A&E, but she refused. “Just tea,” she’d said, wincing. “Tea would help.”
So he brought her to his office.
Fed her Earl Grey and buttered toast.
Learned her name—Angelica. She was lovely, he noted. Heart-shaped face, a spray of freckles, curls like spun gold. Wise beyond her years, yet somehow ethereal. He could’ve listened to her voice forever. But William was a practical man. He shook himself free of the spell, handed her his card—mere politeness—and said, “Ring me if you need anything.”
By evening, he’d forgotten the incident entirely.
Two days later, she called. Needed to see him. Something urgent, she claimed.
Guilt still gnawing at him, William agreed.
She opened the door of her tiny flat in Camden. Bandages wrapped her right hand. “You see… I tried hammering a painting up. My arm—it still hurts. Could you help?”
“Of course,” he said at once.
The painting was hung. A bottle of Merlot appeared on the table.
“To celebrate,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to hang it for ages.”
He couldn’t refuse. Poor girl, all alone.
The wine vanished between them, the fruit untouched. They talked and talked, voices hushed, laughter spilling like secrets.
He came home past midnight, dazed. His wife and daughter slept soundly. Work had always kept him late.
Six months later, he announced he was leaving.
Margaret and their daughter, Emily, were stunned. Had he gone mad? Of course, Margaret had noticed changes. First, he’d forgotten her birthday—unthinkable. Then, their savings had dwindled inexplicably. Then, he was almost never home. The list went on.
But she dismissed the dark thoughts. Refused to believe the worst. She’d always mocked the phrase “midlife crisis”—as if a man her husband’s age could be so childish.
She trusted him completely.
And yet—the blow came.
Sobbing, she turned to Emily. “Find out who she is. How serious it is.”
Emily had already visited her father. She knew.
“Mum… he’s in love. No question. She’s twenty-six. Her name’s Angelica. And—” Emily hesitated. “She looks just like you. When you were young.”
Margaret went pale. When Emily showed her a photo, she nearly fainted.
“God… it can’t be.”
Emily didn’t understand.
…Old sins cast long shadows. And now, that shadow had caught up.
At seventeen, Margaret had married her first love—a whirlwind romance, a man who swept her off her feet before she could think. They lived with his mother, Beatrice, a kind woman who adored Margaret. When their daughter was born, Beatrice wept with joy—she’d always wanted a girl.
They named her Angelica.
But when Angelica was three, her father left—a job in Manchester, he claimed. Six months passed. He never returned.
One day, Margaret found a letter. Addressed to Beatrice.
*”Mum, speak to Margaret for me. I’ve found real love here. I’m staying. Comfort her, will you?”*
Margaret confronted Beatrice.
“You knew! Your son is a cad! What am I supposed to do now?”
“I hoped he’d change his mind,” Beatrice begged. “But now—there’s a child. Margaret, you’re young. You’ll find someone else. Just—leave Angelica with me. Please.”
Margaret agreed. Started anew.
Met William on the Tube when he stepped on her foot. He apologized profusely, charmed her with roses and a stuffed bear at New Year’s.
They married.
Margaret moved in with him. Angelica stayed with Beatrice—and the bear.
Visits grew scarce. Then stopped entirely. Margaret had another child. A new life.
Until now.
Angelica had returned—to steal her mother’s husband.
Margaret went to confront her.
Angelica opened the door as if expecting her. Offered coffee. Smiled coldly.
“Hello… *Mum*. Come to fetch your husband?”
Margaret flinched.
“I’ve planned this since I was fifteen. Wanted to hurt you—badly. Grandma died when I was eleven. After that? The care home. Slaps instead of kisses. Hunger. Cold. Then I thought—why not take *your* husband? But then… I fell in love with him. Doesn’t matter now. Go.”
Margaret whispered, “Forgive me. Just—don’t tell William. Or Emily.”
A year later, Angelica died in childbirth. Twins.
With her last breath, she murmured to William, “Name the boy Will. The girl… Maggie. Go back to your family.”
When Margaret heard, she went to him.
William stood awkwardly, empty milk bottles in hand. “They just ate,” he muttered.
Margaret took charge.
“Will… come home. We’ll manage. They’re family too.”
