The Wealthy Husband
Reginald Hawthorne threw out his wife after her infidelity, though not without ensuring her comfort. Yet he refused to speak to her ever again, under any circumstances.
“It’s your own fault! Reggie, please forgive me!” Julia pleaded, her words disjointed.
“Have you lost your mind at your age?” he bellowed. “Humiliating me like this? Be grateful I’m just walking away!”
Julia was forty-six, same as him, though his money had kept her looking no older than thirty—another insult. Who’d want a middle-aged woman without his fortune poured into her upkeep?
All Stories of Life
“Reggie, hello! Why the cold shoulder?” called a voice from long ago—Dennis, if memory served.
Reginald clenched his teeth. What cruel fate, forcing him back into this wretched place after so many years. And of all people, it had to be Dennis, the neighbourhood drunk.
The car window rolled down, and his driver, Charles, murmured, “Need anything, sir?”
Reginald waved him off. He strode toward the building, ignoring Dennis—who’d once been more than just a neighbour. They’d been young once, drinking cheap wine in good company. Thirty-five years ago? And now he was expected to acknowledge failures like Dennis?
“Hello, Mum!” he called as he pushed open the apartment door.
“Reggie!” she cried with delight.
Why wouldn’t she move to his grand estate in Surrey? Clinging to this cramped London flat like a limpet.
“How are you, Mum?”
At seventy-eight, she was spry—racking up fifteen thousand steps a day, ordering groceries online, watching films on the state-of-the-art system he’d bought her, tutting at the “decline of modern art.” Twice a year, she jetted off to Europe or somewhere warm. A modern woman, and he was proud—but this obsession with her flat gnawed at him.
“Mum, have you reconsidered?”
“Reconsidered what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
He sighed. Always this dance.
“Moving in with me! So I don’t have to keep trekking here.”
“Then don’t! We can meet in town if you miss me.”
Her casualness stung. How could she say that? She was his mother.
“I have to come. I need to know you’re alright—your health, your mind…”
“My mind?” She raised an eyebrow.
He smirked despite himself. “Don’t discuss my personal life with your gossip circle, Mum.”
“Do I?” she countered.
“You must—why else would the local drunks ask if I’ve remarried?”
“Perhaps you should,” she sighed. “Then you’d fuss over me less.”
“So my visits are a nuisance now?”
“You don’t just visit. You hover, waiting for me to wither so you can drag me to your Surrey mansion!”
Reginald recoiled. “Mum!”
She stamped her foot. “I want to live out my days here, where I raised you, ungrateful boy!”
He backed away. “I’ll come another time.”
“Come when you’ve dropped this nonsense! I won’t be shipped off to nouveau riche territory!”
His home was eight kilometres from the Surrey elite, but to her, it was all the same—flashy arrivistes. His mother, a literature professor, had buried his father young and never remarried, declaring life too full of joys beyond marriage.
Reginald had once thought his own marriage secure. He’d built an empire, raised a son—Peter, who’d vanished to America for studies and never returned. After Julia’s betrayal eight years ago, he’d been truly alone. And he preferred it—except when loneliness whispered.
“Take me home, Charles,” he muttered.
“Office, sir?”
“No. Home.”
That evening, he considered inviting a young woman over—plenty would jump at the chance. But their hopeful eyes, sizing up his fortune, soured the idea. Instead, he uncorked a Château Margaux 2004—too precious to waste on empty company.
Pouring the wine, he wondered—why wouldn’t his mother move? His estate had gardens, staff, every comfort. Then it hit him: he was lonely. At fifty-four, he craved his mother’s presence. Pathetic.
Julia’s affair had shattered him. She’d blamed his workaholism, begging forgiveness, but he’d cast her out, ensuring she was provided for but never speaking to her again.
Now, after a month of silence from his mother, her weak voice on the phone sent him racing to her flat.
A woman—late forties, vaguely familiar—answered the door.
“Where’s Mum?!” he demanded, shoving past.
“Shh! She’s asleep!” The woman gripped his coat. “She fell—concussion, high blood pressure. Let her rest.”
“Who are you?”
“Natalie. Dennis’s sister. Natalie the charmer?”
Recognition flickered. Thirty-five years since he’d seen her.
Over tea, she explained—married young, widowed, back in London nursing her brother’s alcoholism.
“Take her to yours? That’s what she fears,” Natalie said wryly.
“None of your concern,” he snapped.
She left, brushing his shoulder—a jolt of electricity.
When his mother woke, she scolded him for upsetting Natalie.
That evening, over dinner at a relaxed bistro, they laughed like children. At her doorstep, he kissed her—impulsive, thrilling.
“Come home with me,” he murmured.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
They married within the year. Society sneered—what billionaire weds a middle-aged nurse? But Reginald didn’t care.
At their wedding, his mother danced, Dennis—fresh from rehab—toasted them, and Peter sent a perfunctory text.
Let them talk. Happiness, rare and late, was worth every whisper.
