When There Are Secrets to Keep
Edward pulled up beside the crumbling postwar tower block and parked carefully, ensuring his number plates weren’t obvious. His eyes darkened as he took in the peeling balconies with their missing panes, the dull, lifeless windows. The few modern double-glazed units stood out like fresh patches on threadbare cloth. The building resembled a down-and-out—dressed in whatever rags it had scavenged.
Tucked between scrawny trees and equally neglected blocks, the five-storey relic had outlived countless governments and ideologies. It clung on, much like the ageing residents inside.
To Edward, the place dredged up a dull, gnawing misery—the kind that made his teeth ache. He’d grown up in just such a flat, desperate to escape. And he had. He’d studied hard, chosen the right university, the right degree—economics, because no successful businessman could thrive without it. When he finally made it, he moved his parents to a smarter part of town, bought them a neat little house with a well-kept garden out front and, inevitably, a vegetable patch at the back. His mother wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Women didn’t love Edward just for his money. He was handsome, generous, charming. Once or twice, he’d nearly married a glamorous beauty—polished to perfection by expensive surgeons. But then he imagined introducing some leggy, plastic darling to his plain-spoken mother and felt sick.
Molly won him with her quiet, effortless beauty and sweet smile. He fell hard. Within a month, he introduced her to his parents. His mother had given an approving nod, barely perceptible.
Who could resist such natural grace and gentle warmth? Molly, accustomed to little, expected even less. Her father had died young; her mother followed soon after, claimed by aggressive cancer. Edward cherished her, treating her like something fragile even a year after their wedding—still as lovesick as a schoolboy.
Then his deputy, a man he called a friend, claimed he’d spotted Molly near that very tower block—the one that looked fit for demolition. What could she possibly be doing there? She had no connection to the place.
*And what were you doing there?* Edward countered.
*Got lost avoiding traffic. Took a wrong turn.*
*Cheating? Molly? Impossible.* Yet icy fingers traced his spine. His fists clenched.
*Maybe I was mistaken,* his friend backtracked. *She’s lovely, but she’s not exactly unique. Sorry.*
At home, Molly smiled warmly, pressed close to him. Surely, a cheating wife would recoil? But she didn’t. No, something was off. Either she was a brilliant actress, or his friend was lying. Or—worse—there was some other secret.
The mystery gnawed at him. He decided to follow her.
At lunchtime—when his friend had supposedly seen her—Edward parked near the tower block and waited. Music blared to drown his thoughts. Just as he was about to give up, Molly appeared. She hurried to the entrance, unlocked the graffiti-smeared door with a key, glanced around, and vanished inside.
*She has a key. Interesting.* His pulse drummed like a hound on a scent. He nearly chased after her but stopped—no key. By the time he buzzed random flats, she’d be gone.
So he waited, tapping the wheel to *Il Divo*. Forty minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up. Molly emerged, climbed in, and left.
Edward didn’t follow. He drove to work but couldn’t focus. The tower block haunted him. Abandoning his deputy to handle the chaos, he went home early and poured himself a stiff brandy—uncharacteristic for the afternoon, but his mind needed dulling.
*Oh, Molly. Why? Seemed so pure, so modest—just like the rest…* He prowled the house like a caged animal.
The front door clicked. Keys clattered onto the hall table. He downed another glass.
*”Why are you sitting in the dark?”* Molly’s voice startled him.
He turned.
*”You’re drinking? What’s wrong? Work?”*
Her eyes widened—was that fear?
*”I’m fine. Don’t you have something to tell me?”* His voice was rough.
*”I don’t understand.”*
*Such convincing surprise. Bravo.*
*”Where were you at lunch?”* He eyed the bottle.
*”Did you come by the office? No one mentioned—”*
Her shoulders sagged. Colour drained from her face.
*”Don’t lie.”*
*”I wanted to tell you…”* She sank onto the sofa.
Edward watched her crumple. *”Playing for sympathy? Not this time.”*
*”How long have you been lying?”*
*”I… I couldn’t. Not at first. Then—”*
*”Go on.”* He poured another drink.
*”Please stop. You’ll feel awful tomorrow.”*
*”I feel awful now. Start talking.”*
Fear flickered in her eyes again. She looked away.
Edward spun the sofa—wheels screeching—forcing her to face him.
*”I was scared. If you knew, you might throw me out.”*
*”So you’ve been cheating all this time?”* He smirked, drunk. *”Still waters, eh?”*
*”Please, no more.”*
*”Talk.”*
*”I visit my father. He lives there. Not a lover.”*
*”Your father?”* Edward swayed. *”But he’s dead. You said—”*
*”I lied. I was ashamed. I thought he was dead. Then an old neighbour called. He drank. Mum suffered. She kicked him out. Later, she died. Then—after we married—this woman found me. She’d seen him in hospital—hit by a car, barely alive. I paid her to care for him.”*
Edward looked away.
He remembered that night. Winter. Blinding snow. A shadow darting into the road. The thud. The stench of alcohol and filth. The man had seemed to *choose* his moment. Edward had almost driven away. Instead, he’d called an ambulance—then fled.
How could he have known it was Molly’s father?
*”Forgive me,”* he muttered, taking her hands. *”We’ll move him here. Hire a nurse. Your neighbour too, if you like.”*
*”You’re not angry?”*
*”He’s your father.”*
*”Edward, you’re wonderful!”* She clung to him.
*If only you knew.*
*”Just spare me the introductions,”* he grimaced.
Sometimes, he’d see a stout woman wheeling a frail figure onto the veranda, tucking blankets around him. Edward never approached. Shame? Perhaps. The old drunk wouldn’t recognise him anyway.
A month later, Molly told him she was pregnant. His mind raced—*another man’s child?*—until he saw her face.
*”A son! I’ll have a son!”* He spun her, laughing.
When her belly swelled, her father died. Edward exhaled. So, he thought, did Molly.
No man, no guilt.
Fate tangles lives long before people meet—knots too tight to unpick. Skeletons lurk in every cupboard. But secrets have a way of surfacing. And then?
Perhaps forgiveness begets forgiveness. In time.
