Elizabeth woke a few minutes before her alarm. She lay still, bracing for another day—same as yesterday, same as last week, last month, last year. Everything in her life ran smooth as clockwork, no surprises.
Except—no. A few years back, their son had sprung one on them. Got into university and declared he wanted to live on his own. How she’d fretted, begged him not to. But he’d threatened to drop out and join the army instead. What choice did they have? They relented, even paid his rent. After graduation, he found work and refused their help.
Elizabeth eased out of bed, careful not to wake her husband, and padded to the kitchen. Soon, the flat filled with the rich scent of fresh coffee—proper stuff, not instant swill.
When her husband strode in, smelling of shower gel, a steaming cup and plate of toast waited for him. He despised eggs and porridge. He ate in silence, left in silence.
“Running late today. Faculty meeting,” he called from the hall.
Elizabeth followed, straightened his tie, brushed invisible lint from his shoulder—a ritual. In winter, she adjusted his scarf; in summer, his tie. Always that phantom speck of dust, whether it clung to his blazer, overcoat, or lambswool jacket.
Once he’d gone, she tidied up, sipped lemon tea, and settled at her laptop. She worked from home, translating articles and books from French and German.
The work flowed easily; the book pleased her. She paused now and then to consult dictionaries, hunting the perfect turn of phrase. A phone call shattered her focus.
“Elizabeth, hello. It’s Margaret from the department.”
The colourless voice conjured an image—tall, flat-chested, plain, mid-forties.
“Hello. Is something wrong? With Peter?”
“No, no, he’s fine.” A pause. “I need to speak with you. I’m nearby—pure chance. Could I pop in? Five minutes?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, baffled. What was she doing here during lectures?
Five minutes sharp, the doorbell rang. Elizabeth let her in.
“Tea? Coffee?”
“No need. I’ve little time. Free period, you see…”
They settled on the sofa.
“I’m listening,” Elizabeth said.
“It’s wretched to say, but I must. Your husband’s seeing a student—sweet girl, twenty-ish. Lives with her disabled mother.”
“Spare me details.”
“Fine. I overheard him on the phone. The girl’s pregnant. He promised he’d stand by her, help…”
Elizabeth said nothing. After a minute, Margaret pressed on.
“He’s had flings before. With Veronica from the faculty, with Nina from the sociology department… Forgive me, but I couldn’t stay silent. Now this child.”
She leaned in. “Remember three months ago, his conference in Vienna? He never went. Rented a cottage outside Oxford instead. Three days with her.”
“How’d you know that?” Elizabeth trusted not a word. Bitter spinster’s revenge.
“You don’t believe me. Think I’m jealous, out to ruin your life,” Margaret said, as if reading her mind. “Admit it—it’s unseemly. If word got out… He’s thirty years her senior. Granddad material. It’s absurd.”
Elizabeth snapped back.
“Thank you. If that’s all—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll go.” Margaret sprang up.
Elizabeth showed her out, then sat staring blankly. Work was impossible. The calm had lasted too long. She’d expected something like this. Faculty affairs, fine—but a student? How could he?
Years ago, her father brought home a gawky, bespectacled undergrad—his thesis student. They’d closeted themselves in the study, emerged for lunch.
“A rare talent. Mark my words, he’ll go far,” her father raved.
The boy hunched over his plate, sneaking glances at Elizabeth. She was at uni then, studying languages. His name was Peter. From some backwater up north. Her father took him under his wing—grad school, thesis guidance. Soon, Peter was practically family.
Once, after she’d started translating, he visited.
“Father’s at a symposium in Edinburgh. Gone all week. Odd you didn’t know,” she said.
“I came to see you,” he mumbled, pushing up his glasses.
“Oh? Need a translation?” She smirked.
“I’d like to take you to the gallery. Turner, Constable…”
She’d wanted to go, but none of her friends cared for art. So she agreed.
To her surprise, he was brilliant—sharp observations, fascinating anecdotes as they walked home. She barely noticed the glasses. Not love, but interest.
“Give him a chance. He’s destined for greatness. I’ll see to that. Steady, clever—he’ll give you the life you’re used to,” her father said. She trusted him.
When Peter proposed, she accepted. Then her father died suddenly. Peter took over his department, finished his thesis. They married a year later.
After her father’s death, her mother sickened. She passed when Elizabeth was pregnant. Just like that, her life shifted. She worked from home, raised their son, kept house. She managed. Yet she and Peter were happy. Until Margaret’s visit, she’d believed he loved her.
“You were wrong about him, Dad. So was I,” she said aloud. “He used us. Took your name, your job, our flat. And cheated.”
Peter’s lectures were legendary. Students flocked to them. Performances, not lessons. Even Elizabeth enjoyed listening. The thick glasses were gone—contacts now.
She reheated her tea, added two sugars—a rarity lately. Even took a roll from the bread bin. She’d been watching her weight. But today called for sweets.
Then she fetched a suitcase, packed Peter’s things, and set it by the door.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, stepping inside. “Why sit in the dark?” He flicked the switch. She winced at the light.
“Not me. You. You’re leaving. The flat’s mine—my parents’. You’ll live with your… Lucy, was it? She’s having your child. You promised to care for them. So care.”
“What rubbish is this? What student? What child?” He played dumb.
“Spare me the melodrama. Just go,” she said wearily.
“You believe gossip? You’ll regret this.”
When the door slammed, she cried—for herself, her lost youth. She’d trusted him, built a home, shielded him from chores. And he…
She wandered the flat, dreading solitude. Days later, their son visited, pleaded for forgiveness.
“You should see how he’s living. Squashed in a one-bed with her wheelchair-bound mother. A baby coming…”
She cut him off.
“He should’ve thought sooner. He had everything—plus a wife he didn’t love. Now he’s got nothing but a pregnant girl. Serves him right.”
“But you’ll be alone.”
“I’ll manage. Stay with me if you’re worried. Plenty of space.”
He did—first to support her, then for good. Four months later, Peter collapsed mid-lecture. Heart attack.
At the funeral, they sang his praises, tactfully ignored his affairs. Elizabeth felt no guilt. Though exile had hastened his end. He’d not thrived in hardship.
A month on, their son brought Lucy home. She peered shyly from behind him.
“Mum, she’s staying. The baby’s due soon. Their place is a hovel. If you turn her away, I’ll leave too. For good.”
Elizabeth said nothing, reeling. What could she say? She’d lost Peter. She couldn’t lose him.
“Fine.” She retreated to her room.
Next morning, she packed.
“I’ll stay at the cottage till winter. Can’t bear to see her. Need time alone. I’ve nursed your father all my life—won’t wait on her. Take me there.”
“Mum, I feel wretched. Kicking you out of your own home.”
“My choice. No one’s kicking me.”
The cottage soothed her. For the first time since Peter’s death, she slept soundly—even overslept. Working in the quiet was bliss.
“Hello!” A man’s voice called from beyond the fence as she wandered the overgrown garden. “New neighbour. Staying long?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Actually…” He hesitated. “Your plot’s big, untended. Mine’s tiny. Mind if I plant potatoes behind your shed? I’ll give you half the crop. Need to winter here.”
She agreed. The rows wouldn’t be eyesores. Not that she planned to stay past autumn.
At dawn, tea in hand, she watched him—shirtless, tanned, digging. Sweat glistened. She admired his rhythm. Suddenly, he straightened, waved. Flustered, she stepped back.
She spiedEach day, she found herself lingering by the window, drawn by the steady rhythm of his work, until one afternoon, as he mended the broken fence between their gardens, she realized—without quite knowing when—she’d stopped counting the days until her return to the city.
