The key turned in the lock, and Eleanor, careful not to make a sound, slipped into the flat. The hallway was dark, save for a sliver of light creeping from the kitchen. Her parents were still awake, though it was well past midnight. Lately, this had become routine—long whispered conversations behind closed doors, sometimes rising to hushed arguments.
Eleanor kicked off her heels, set her laptop bag on the side table, and tiptoed down the corridor to her room. She didn’t want to explain why she was late, though the reason was straightforward: the project at work refused to come together, and the deadline loomed.
Through the wall, she caught fragments of their murmuring.
“No, Geoffrey, I can’t keep doing this,” her mother whispered, irritation sharp in her tone. “You promised last month.”
“Darling, now isn’t the right time,” her father replied, his voice edged with excuses.
Eleanor sighed. Lately, her parents had been arguing over something, but around her, they pretended all was well. They were in their fifties now, and she was grown, yet it still stung to think something was amiss between them.
She undressed, washed her face, and crawled into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. The same questions circled in her mind. Her brother, Oliver, lived in another town and rarely visited. If they divorced—who would stay with whom? Who’d keep the flat? And why were they hiding their problems?
The murmurs beyond the wall persisted. Eleanor reached for her nightstand and fumbled for her headphones—anything to block out their secrets. Her hand bumped her phone, sending it clattering to the carpet. As she picked it up, her thumb accidentally opened the voice recorder app. She hovered over the screen.
What if… she recorded them? Just to know the truth, rather than guessing. If she asked outright, they’d surely brush her off with empty reassurances.
Guilt pricked at her. Eavesdropping was wrong, especially recording them. But they were her family. Didn’t she have a right to know?
Decision made, she turned on the recorder, set the phone close to the wall, and pulled the duvet over her head.
The next morning, as she readied for work, both her parents looked exhausted. Over breakfast, they exchanged only polite, hollow words.
“You came home late,” her mother remarked, pouring tea. “Working again?”
“Deadlines,” Eleanor nodded. “Why were you two up?”
“Oh, just an old film,” her mother said lightly, eyes fixed on the teapot.
Her father buried himself in the newspaper, feigning deep interest in an article.
“Don’t wait up tonight,” he said without looking up. “Client meetings. Might run late.”
Her mother pressed her lips into a thin line but said nothing.
All through her commute, Eleanor fought the urge to listen to the recording. The Tube was too crowded, and shame gnawed at her. She’d wait until evening.
The day dragged. When she returned, her mother was gone—a note said she’d gone to a friend’s and would be back late. Her father was still at work, as promised. Perfect.
Curling into the sofa with a blanket, she pressed play.
At first, only muffled fragments reached her. Then the voices sharpened.
“—tell Eleanor?” Her father sounded uneasy.
“I don’t know,” her mother sighed. “What if she doesn’t understand? It’s been so long.”
“But she deserves to know.”
“Of course she does. But how do we explain why we kept quiet all these years?”
Eleanor froze. What truth were they hiding?
“Remember how it started?” Her father’s voice softened, almost smiling.
“How could I forget?” Her mother chuckled. “I thought it’d be temporary. Turned out to be for life.”
“And what a life,” her father mused. “Though it wasn’t always easy.”
“Especially after Eleanor came along.”
Her chest tightened. “Especially”? Had she been unwanted? Or was it something else?
“But we managed,” her father continued. “And she turned out splendid.”
“She did,” her mother’s voice warmed with pride, easing Eleanor’s dread. “But now we must decide what’s next. I’m tired of this double life, Geoffrey.”
Double life? A cold wave swept over her. Was one of them having an affair? Or both? The thought made her queasy.
“Let’s wait for Oliver,” her father urged. “We’ll talk as a family.”
“Fine,” her mother relented. “But no more delays after this. We either change everything, or… I don’t know what.”
The recording cut off—perhaps they’d left the kitchen or the phone stopped.
Eleanor sat stunned. What was happening to her family? What double life? Why wait for Oliver to explain?
A thousand questions, no answers. Should she record them again? That felt worse. No—she’d call Oliver. Or visit Aunt Margaret, her mother’s sister. She’d always been frank with Eleanor.
Decision made: she’d ring Oliver tomorrow, and visit Aunt Margaret at the weekend.
Her brother didn’t answer until evening.
“Ellie, hi! Sorry, left my phone in the car all day,” he said brightly.
“When are you visiting?” she asked bluntly.
“This weekend, why?”
“Mum and Dad are acting strange. Whispering, pretending everything’s fine. Talking about a ‘double life.’”
Silence.
“Oliver?”
“I’m here,” he cleared his throat. “Look, don’t overthink it. People have secrets, even parents.”
“So you *know*?”
“I… suspect.” He hesitated. “If they’re not telling you, they’re not ready. Wait for me, alright? I’ll be there Saturday.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “Should I talk to Aunt Margaret?”
“No,” he said too quickly. “Keep her out of it. Let’s handle this ourselves.”
After hanging up, her unease deepened. So Oliver *did* know. And wanted to shield Aunt Margaret. Was it an affair? A family scandal too ugly to share?
That evening, her mother returned from her friend’s in high spirits, cheeks flushed.
“Guess what? Charlotte’s selling her flat!” she announced. “Moving to the countryside. Says she’s sick of the city.”
Eleanor nodded, unsure how to react.
“Would *you* want to live in the country?” she asked suddenly.
Her mother stilled. “I don’t know. Sometimes, yes. The quiet, the fresh air, a garden.”
“What about Dad?”
“What about him?”
“Would *he* want to?”
“Ask him yourself,” her mother said tightly. “He’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up.”
To her relief, her father returned earlier than expected. She was making tea when the front door clicked shut.
“Dad, want some?” she called.
“Please,” he said, loosening his tie as he entered the kitchen. “Where’s Mum?”
“In her room, watching a film,” Eleanor handed him a cup. “How was work?”
“Fine,” he sighed, sinking into a chair. “Client agreed to our terms, so the project’s moving forward.”
“Good.” She hesitated. “Dad… is it true you and Mum have something important to tell me?”
He stiffened. “What makes you say that?”
“Oliver let it slip,” she lied. “Said you’d explain when he visits this weekend.”
Geoffrey rubbed his temples. “Yes, there’s something. But let’s wait for Oliver, alright? It’s better that way.”
“Is it bad?” she pressed. “Are you two separating?”
“What? No!” He looked genuinely shocked. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re always whispering, arguing. Mum mentioned a ‘double life.’”
Confusion, then understanding, then—oddly—relief crossed his face.
“Ellie, you’ve got it all wrong,” he said gently. “No one’s separating. Quite the opposite…” He trailed off. “Just wait for the weekend. I promise, it’s nothing terrible.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.” He squeezed her hand. “Now drink your tea before it’s cold.”
That night, sleep evaded her. If not a separation, what? Illness? Money troubles? Moving? The last thought unsettled her. She’d just begun building a career, made friends—she loved London.
Yet something didn’t add up. Why had her father said “the opposite”? The opposite of separating was… renewing vows? A second honeymoon?
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Still awake?” Her mother peered in.
“No,” Eleanor propped herself up. “You?”
“Just thinking,” her mother sat on the bed’s edge. “What did you and your father talk about?”
“Nothing much. Work, Oliver. He’s coming this weekend.”
“I know,” her mother nodded. “He rang.”
They sat in silence.
“Are you and Dad really okay?” Eleanor finally asked.
Her mother gave a small, strange smile. “Perfectly.As Eleanor stepped into the sunlit garden of their countryside home that weekend, watching her parents tend to the bees with quiet joy, she realized that sometimes the greatest secrets aren’t betrayals, but simply love stories waiting to be shared.
