Everything Happens
Elizabeth woke just moments before her alarm was set to ring. She lay still, steeling herself for another day, much like all the ones before—the same routine, unchanged for years. Life had moved steadily for her, predictable and uneventful, without surprises.
Except, of course, for the one their son had sprung on them a few years ago. He had enrolled at university and declared he wanted to live on his own. She had fretted, argued, pleaded. But he had threatened to drop out and join the army if they refused. What choice did they have? They relented, even paid his rent. After graduation, he found work and no longer needed their help.
Careful not to wake her husband, Elizabeth slipped out of bed and made her way to the kitchen. Soon, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the flat—real coffee, not the instant substitute.
When her husband entered the kitchen, smelling of soap and aftershave, a steaming cup and a plate of toast awaited him on the table. He never cared for eggs or porridge. He ate in silence and left just as quietly.
“I’ll be late tonight—there’s a faculty meeting,” he called from the hallway.
Elizabeth followed, straightened his tie, smoothed his collar, and brushed an invisible speck from his shoulder—the final, necessary touch, like the last stroke on a canvas. It was their ritual, unchanged save for the seasons: a scarf in winter, a tie in summer, and that same flick of her fingers over his jacket, coat, or overcoat.
Once he was gone, Elizabeth tidied up, drank her tea with lemon, and settled at her laptop. She worked from home, translating articles and books from French and German.
The work flowed easily; the book was engaging. She paused often to consult dictionaries, ensuring each word held its proper weight. Then the phone rang.
“Elizabeth? It’s Margaret from the faculty,” a voice announced.
The flat, colourless tone brought to mind a tall, plain woman in her mid-forties with sharp features.
“Hello. Is something wrong? Has something happened to Charles?” she asked, suddenly tense.
“No, no, he’s fine.” A pause. “But I need to speak with you. I’m nearby—could I drop in? In five minutes?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth replied, wondering how the woman happened to be “nearby” during a teaching day.
Exactly five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Elizabeth let her in.
“Tea? Coffee?” she offered.
“No, thank you. I haven’t much time. We’ve a free period, so I thought—”
They moved to the sitting room.
Elizabeth sat. “Go on.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I can’t stay silent. Your husband is seeing a student—a sweet girl, barely twenty. Lives with her disabled mother.”
“Spare me the details.”
“Very well. I overheard him on the phone. The girl’s expecting. He promised he’d stand by her, help her…”
Elizabeth said nothing. When no questions came, Margaret continued.
“This isn’t his first affair. There was Helen from the faculty, Nina from sociology… Forgive me, but I had to speak. Now this girl—twenty years old. Remember that conference in Austria three months ago? He never went. Rented a cottage outside Oxford instead. Spent three days with her.”
“How do you know that?” Elizabeth refused to believe a word. The bitter jealousy of a lonely spinster.
“You don’t believe me. You think I’m jealous, that I want to ruin your life,” Margaret said, as if reading her thoughts. “But imagine if this became public. He’s thirty years her senior—old enough to be her grandfather. It’s laughable.”
Elizabeth snapped back to herself.
“Thank you. I’ve heard enough.”
Margaret stood. “Yes, I’ll go.”
Elizabeth saw her out, then sat motionless, staring at nothing. Work was impossible now. The calm had lasted too long. She’d expected something like this—but a student? How could he?
Years ago, her father had brought home a gangly, bespectacled student—his thesis advisor. They’d debated in the study, then shared lunch.
“A natural talent. Mark my words, he’ll go far,” her father had said.
The young man ate quietly, eyes down, as if they weren’t speaking of him. Occasionally, he glanced at Elizabeth. She was in her third year at university, studying languages. His name was Charles. He’d come from a small northern town. Her father took him under his wing—arranged his postgraduate studies, guided his dissertation. Soon, Charles became a fixture in their home.
Years later, when Elizabeth was already working as a translator, he visited.
“Father’s at a symposium in Edinburgh. He’s away all week—didn’t you know?” she’d asked.
“I didn’t come for him. I came for you,” he’d said, flushing, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Oh? How can I help? A translation?” She’d teased him outright.
“I’d like to take you to the exhibition. Turner, Constable…”
She’d wanted to go herself but had no one to go with—none of her friends cared for art. So she agreed.
To her surprise, he was brilliant. He spoke with insight about the paintings, then kept her enthralled on their walk home. She listened, hardly believing this was the same awkward young man. She barely noticed his glasses. She wasn’t in love—just intrigued.
“Give him a chance. He’ll go far—I’ll see to it. He’s steady, intelligent. He’ll give you the life you’re accustomed to,” her father had said. She trusted him.
When Charles proposed, she accepted. But the wedding was delayed—her father died suddenly. Charles took over his department, finished his thesis. They married a year later.
After her father’s death, her mother fell ill. She died while Elizabeth was pregnant. Life changed overnight. She worked from home, translated, kept house, raised their son. She managed. And for years, she’d believed Charles loved her.
“You were wrong about him, Father. So was I,” she said aloud. “He used us. Took your name, your position, our home—and betrayed me all along.”
Charles’s lectures were legendary. Students never missed them. He spoke with passion, drama, wit—performance as much as teaching. Elizabeth had loved listening to him. The thick glasses were long gone, replaced by contacts.
She warmed her tea, stirred in two sugars—something she hadn’t done in years. Even took a roll from the bread bin. Lately, she’d watched her weight. But today called for sugar, for bread.
Then she fetched a suitcase, packed Charles’s things, and set it by the door.
“Going somewhere?” he asked when he returned. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” He flipped the switch. She blinked in the sudden light.
“No, you are. You’re leaving. This is my parents’ flat. You’ll go to your… Lucy, was it? She’s having your child. You promised to take care of her. So do it.”
“What nonsense is this? What student? What child?” He feigned confusion.
“Enough. We’re not in a melodrama. Just go.”
“You believed gossip? You’ll regret this—”
When the door finally slammed behind him, she cried. For herself, for lost years. She’d trusted him, made a home, freed him from every domestic care. And he—
She wandered the flat, unsure how to live there alone. Days later, her son came, begged her to forgive his father.
“You should see how he’s living. Squeezed into a tiny flat with her disabled mother. And the baby’s coming—”
She cut him off.
“He should have thought sooner. He had everything—including a wife he didn’t love. Now he has nothing but a pregnant girl. He got what he wanted.”
“But you’ll be alone.”
“I’ll manage. If you’re worried, stay. There’s room. I’d like that.”
He did. First to comfort her, then for good. Four months later, Charles collapsed during a lecture and died. A heart attack.
At the funeral, they praised him—tactfully silent about his affairs. Elizabeth didn’t blame herself. Though exile had played its part. He wasn’t used to hardship.
A month later, her son brought Lucy home. She peered nervously from behind him.
“Mum, she’s staying. The baby’s due soon. I’m sorry, but it’s Father’s child—they’ve no space there. If you send her away, I’ll go too. For good.”
She said nothing, stunned. What could she say? She’d thrown out her husband—but she couldn’t lose her son.
“Fine,” she said, and retreated to her room.
In the morning, she packed.
“I’ll stay at the cottage till winter. I can’t face her. I need time alone. I spent my life serving your father—I won’t wait on her. ForShe locked the cottage door behind her, took a deep breath of the crisp country air, and walked toward the village, where her neighbor was already waiting by the fence with a hopeful smile.
