“We didn’t lose time—we just took a long road to our happiness,” said Evelyn, nestling closer to Robert.
Evelyn opened her eyes and stretched lazily. It was Sunday—no rush, no hurry.
When her husband died, friends and colleagues expected her to be devastated, drowning in grief. So, she wore the mask of a heartbroken widow. Work gave her leave to mourn properly.
Outwardly, they’d seemed the perfect couple. But what really lay beneath—the hidden skeletons—was no one’s business. No, she pitied David as any decent person would pity a life cut short. But not as a beloved husband.
Evelyn glanced at the framed photo on the shelf. Time to put it away. She’d kept it out before because visitors expected to see it—searching for the portrait of the departed with sympathetic eyes.
Waking up every day to his smug, self-satisfied face was too much. She threw off the blanket, walked to the bookcase, and picked up the picture. For a moment, she studied his well-groomed, charming face—the face of a man certain of his own magnetism. How many women had fallen for him? Evelyn smirked.
“Well? Did you get what you deserved? Think I’m suffering for you? Keep dreaming. Goodbye.” She slid the frame between books. “There. That’s your place now—not in my life.” Brushing invisible dust from her hands, she headed to the bathroom.
***
When Evelyn left the exam hall after her final test, the corridor was empty. She’d been the last candidate. Out of nowhere, a quiet, unremarkable young man appeared—Robert, who’d applied to the same university.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“An A!” she beamed.
“Guess we’ll be studying together, then.” He smiled back.
“We still have to wait for the lists—” she began, though she knew she’d made it.
“Just a formality. You’ve got one B. You’re through.”
“When do they post results?”
“Day after tomorrow. I checked. Fancy celebrating?” His heart pounded as he waited.
Evelyn considered—her parents were at work, no more studying, nothing urgent.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They strolled through London, ate ice cream, then caught a film.
They were placed in different groups. Evelyn didn’t mind, but Robert was upset. Now they only met between lectures, where he always sat beside her.
Once, Robert was late, and David Danvers slipped into his seat just as the professor walked in. Evelyn meant to say it was taken, but the lecture began. The professor had a reputation—strict, unyielding, never giving above a C if he disliked someone.
She shrugged. One lecture apart wouldn’t hurt.
“Cartwright’s jealous. I can feel him burning a hole in my back,” David whispered mockingly.
She glanced back. Robert sat in the last row, glowering.
“Gentlemen, enough chatter. Miss, if you’re disinterested, you may leave,” the professor’s sharp tone made her flinch.
All eyes turned to them, and Evelyn ducked her head over her notes.
“That’s it—we’re marked. He’s got us now,” David muttered, and they stifled giggles.
The professor ejected them. They waited in the hall, then David suggested the cafeteria. Why waste time?
David was witty, knowledgeable—charming. Even lecturers admired his quick mind.
“Evie, be careful with him. He’s a rake, a real flirt,” Robert warned later.
“Jealous?” she teased.
“What if I am?”
“Rob, there’s nothing between us. Just shared a lecture.”
But it didn’t stop there. Evelyn fell hard. Soon, everyone called them a couple. Her parents saw them as engaged. David, ever the charmer, had her mother wrapped around his finger. Women of all ages adored him.
They agreed not to rush marriage—until Evelyn got pregnant. David took it surprisingly well.
“Cool, I’ll be a dad. But—how’ll we manage? What about uni? Maybe… wait a bit? It’s early.”
She agreed. There was time. But nausea struck at inconvenient moments. Exhausted, she had an abortion. How could she study with a baby? They loved each other, had plans.
Robert remained just a friend—lending notes when she missed class. Always there, quietly.
After their fourth year, they married. David’s father, a high-ranking official, hired them post-graduation. David climbed fast. Evelyn didn’t resent it—his father’s doing, she reasoned.
Once, she walked into his office to find him embraced by a brazen young secretary. The woman smirked, unashamed. Her look said: *Your fault for barging in.*
At home, Evelyn erupted.
“What’s the fuss? Men have flings. If you think otherwise, they’re just better at hiding. You’re my wife. I love you. She’s nothing.”
He fired the secretary, hired a plainer one. Evelyn settled.
Would leaving help? Another man might be better—briefly. Why trade bad for worse? Outwardly, they remained the perfect couple.
Then a “well-wisher” called: David had a child. Another explosion, threats to leave.
“Evie, calm down. A kid changes nothing. I love *you*. I won’t divorce you.”
She should’ve left then. But fear held her. She still loved him. David always got his way; Evelyn lacked resolve. Maybe that’s why he valued her. Two strong wills would’ve clashed.
He came home on time, gave her freedom she never used. Sent her on solo trips—his father retired, David took over.
At resorts, men pursued her. Most were married, lying for fun. Their attention grew tiresome. She gladly returned home—to David, their expensive flat.
He’d sigh, envying her beach idles while he worked. Both knew the truth.
They were still the envy of many. Yet Evelyn often watched families in parks with a pang.
Comfort came in knowing every family had struggles. They coexisted—like many couples. Love fades; routine remains.
Two months ago, police called. David was found at their country house.
“Found? What do you mean?”
No more “well-wishers” called about his affairs. Had he stopped, or just hid it better? Pretending was easier.
“Your husband died of a heart attack. His companion… called an ambulance, then vanished. It was too late. In sudden deaths, we investigate—”
Sympathy poured in. She played the grieving widow. David’s father hushed it up—no tabloid scandals about the singer he’d been with.
The thought disgusted her—dying in another woman’s arms. She grieved only in public, sparingly.
***
Evelyn freshened up, sipped her morning coffee. Sunlight streamed in. She was free—from David, his infidelities, the act of the dutiful wife.
The doorbell rang. Another pity visit, she assumed.
“Can I help you?” she asked the man at the door. Something familiar in his face…
“No recognition?” He feigned hurt. “It’s me—Robert Cartwright.” He smiled. “Your birthday’s soon. I’m in town for work. Thought I’d drop by. Is David home?”
Now she remembered. Robert had matured—bespectacled, professor-like. He *was* a professor now.
“Come in.” She stepped aside. “David died two months ago.”
“What?!”
“Heart attack.” She led him inside. “It’s been years. I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re holding up well. Not the weeping widow. Kids must be grown—”
“No children. I had an abortion at uni. David had two—by different women.”
“You say it so calmly?”
“Everyone thought we were perfect. Maybe we were.”
“He cheated, and you stayed?”
“Everyone does.”
“No, they don’t. That’s madness.”
“Think you’d have been better?”
“Maybe. If I were, you’d have married *me*,” Robert said softly.
Evelyn studied him.
He visited often—sometimes inventing trips just to see her. Once, he proposed.
“We’re grown. I’ve always fancied you. Back then, I stepped aside. Now you’re free—”
“Rob, I don’t want more. I’m used to solitude. Peace is all I want.”
He understood but kept visiting.
A year later, Evelyn finally visited the country house—to sell it.
No traces of police or *that woman* remained. The neighbor, who’d kept keys, must’ve cleaned. She’d thank her later.
For now, she aired the place. Spring breathed through open windows. Buds unfurled into tender leaves. She inhaled deeply. *Good.* But she’d sell—too much for one.
That evening, a car stopped outside. Robert arrived with a vast bouquetShe smiled, knowing that sometimes happiness arrives not when we expect it, but precisely when we’re ready to embrace it.
