*”Are you listening? I just want to open your eyes…”*
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. *”I can’t forgive. Betrayal isn’t something you just brush away. And yet… Did I have it so bad all these years? A flat in central London, a comfortable life. No real complaints. But still…”*
At school, Eleanor had been top of her class—her parents raised her to do everything well.
But Thomas scraped by with middling grades in every subject except maths. There, he was a prodigy, winning every competition. He was perpetually dishevelled, ruffling his hair whenever frustrated, shoulders slightly hunched, thick-rimmed glasses giving him the air of a bookish scholar. Girls didn’t interest him; theorems and equations did.
One day, someone bumped into him in the corridor, and his glasses clattered to the floor, shattering. In class, he squinted helplessly at the board. For the first time, Eleanor noticed his profile—like a Grecian general, with a strong jaw, straight nose, well-shaped lips, and soft lashes framing his eyes.
A nudge startled her.
*”Honestly, without those glasses, he’s quite handsome,”* her friend whispered.
Flustered, Eleanor looked away—but soon found her gaze drifting back. After lessons, she approached him. *”You look better without them. Ever tried contacts?”*
The next day, he arrived glasses-free, eyes clear. She knew his parents had bought him lenses.
*”Better?”* he asked at break.
*”Much,”* she smiled.
From then on, they were inseparable. He rambled about theories; she listened adoringly. She helped him with English and literature.
As a maths champion, universities lined up for him. Because of Thomas, Eleanor abandoned her plan to study literature in her hometown and followed him to London.
Near graduation, her parents urged her to return home. She’d given up hope—until, the night before leaving, he dropped to one knee, fumbling with a ring box like something from an old film.
Thomas pursued a doctorate, teaching undergraduates. They were given a cramped faculty flat—a tiny kitchen, a shared bath.
Eleanor was an average student; teaching was her only path. A year and a half later, their daughter Lily arrived, and she never returned to the classroom. Thomas earned his PhD, won accolades for solving a complex theorem. Eleanor stayed home, raising their girl.
His papers were published internationally. Harvard invited him to lecture. His professorship marked a new peak. She took pride in his success—it was hers too. They moved from the flat to a townhouse in Kensington.
Friends called them the perfect couple. Eleanor’s world revolved around Thomas and Lily, who grew into a beauty, marrying a promising young painter.
Then, in a single day, it crumbled.
Eleanor was washing dishes when the phone rang.
*”Mrs. Whitmore? I thought you should know. Your husband is cheating.”* The woman’s voice was calm. *”He had an affair with my daughter. She nearly collapsed when he left her. Now it’s a junior lecturer. They travel together for conferences. Are you listening? I just want to open your eyes—”*
The line went dead. Eleanor stood frozen. She wasn’t one for gossip—she’d see for herself.
At the university, she hid outside his lecture hall. When students poured out, Thomas strode past, oblivious. He never looked around. She waited, then pushed open his office door—and found him kissing a young woman.
***
*”What do I do?”* Eleanor thought, staring at the floral wallpaper.
The key turned in the lock.
*”I didn’t make lunch,”* she panicked—then stopped. *Why should I? Let her cook for him now.* She fetched a suitcase.
*”Taking your dresses to the cleaners?”* Thomas leaned in the doorway, smirking.
She met his gaze. *”These are yours. You’re leaving.”*
*”Why? Where?”* Now he was startled.
*”You’re asking? I saw you with her today. Pretty. You could’ve told me yourself.”*
*”Told you what?”*
*”About the students. The lecturers. Admit it. Be a man.”*
*”I don’t understand—”* He looked away.
Eleanor sat on the bed, face in her hands. *”I gave you my life. Freed you to chase your theorems. And you—you treated me like furniture.”*
*”I’ve nowhere to go. You do. Think she’ll let you sell this place?”* She shoved the suitcase at him. *”Go. Be with her.”*
*”You’re wrong. I’m not leaving. If you want out, leave.”*
The words stole her breath.
*”You’d bring her here? Into our bed?”* She stood. *”I don’t know you anymore.”*
He said nothing as she walked out.
On a bench outside, her legs gave way. A neighbour paused. *”Eleanor, love, are you ill?”*
She shook her head, called a cab. No use making a scene.
*”Mum?”* Lily frowned when she arrived. *”You’re alone? What’s wrong?”*
*”I left your father. Can I stay awhile?”* She sank onto a footstool.
*”Left him? Why?”*
*”He’s with someone else. I won’t pretend it’s fine. He’s a respected man—people will talk.”*
Lily fetched water. *”Stay, but… Victor works from home. He hates disruptions. Even his mother calls first. Maybe… a hotel?”*
Eleanor stared. She’d shielded Lily from every hardship—and now, she was being turned away.
*”You’re right. A hotel’s best.”* She stood.
*”I’ll call a cab.”* Lily hurried off.
*”Thanks,”* Eleanor muttered, stepping out.
*Why? When did I lose her? Should I have stayed? Demanded the house?* But pride kept her from turning back.
At the hotel, morning brought fresh grief. Fifty years old. Unwanted.
A discarded newspaper caught her eye—*”Work Wanted.”* Someone had circled ads for nannies, housekeepers. *”The professor’s wife, a maid?”* She recoiled.
Then—tutoring. Thomas had travelled often; she’d helped him with French. Maybe…
She bought a fresh paper, marked a few ads. But her phone died. Tomorrow, while Thomas was at work, she’d fetch her charger.
At the flat, she plugged it in—then the phone rang. An unknown number.
*”Mrs. Whitmore? Your husband’s in cardiology. A heart attack. He asked for you.”*
At the hospital, Thomas brightened. *”Eleanor, forgive me. Come home. I swear, it won’t happen again.”*
*”What about—”*
*”She left. I made a mistake.”*
She visited daily, bringing broth. He improved quickly. Then, one day, she heard his laughter before opening the door.
*”Annie! You came!”*
She retreated to the hall. A doctor found her, listened to her story over tea.
*”Bitterness will destroy you. See a solicitor. I’ll speak to your husband—he’s playing with fire.”*
She never returned. Two days later, the doctor called. The young lover had fled. That night, another attack…
The funeral was crowded—colleagues, students, kind words.
Afterwards, Eleanor left London. What was there for her now? It’s never too late to start again.
