Once upon a time, in a quiet corner of England, there were those who doubted such things, and others who swore by the notion that two halves could find one another and become whole. And nothing—nothing at all—could part them, save death itself, for that was beyond dispute.
Love, devotion, tenderness, loyalty—these were the virtues that flourished in true families, where husband and wife were bound as one. Such was the life of Eleanor and William. They had married for love, and from the very first day, they had stood by one another, caring deeply.
“Ellie, I look at you and Will,” her friend Margaret once laughed, “and I can’t help but think how perfectly matched you are—why, you even resemble each other!”
“Well, we’re two halves of the same whole,” Eleanor replied with a chuckle, though she hadn’t given much weight to the words at the time. She’d said it lightly, without thinking.
“You’re lucky, Ellie, to have such a husband. If only I could find one like him.”
“You will, if you put your heart into it,” Eleanor assured her.
The years passed. Eleanor and William raised two sons in warmth and kindness. William never once raised his voice to his wife or children, and Eleanor was the very picture of serenity. Their family was strong, their home full of goodwill. They holidayed together, spent summers in the countryside, and never gave anyone cause to speak ill of them.
William worked as a department head in a construction firm, while Eleanor taught history at a secondary school. Their sons did well in their studies and took to sports. The eldest finished school and went off to university, while the younger was still in sixth form.
Then one evening, William came home from work in silence and lay down on the sofa, unwell. He said nothing, not wishing to trouble his wife. But Eleanor noticed at once—he never rested after work.
“Will, what’s wrong? Are you ill?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.
“Just a bit under the weather. A touch of weakness. Don’t fret—it’ll pass. Happened once before at work.”
“You’ve felt this way before?” Eleanor frowned.
“Once or twice. I’ll rest a while, and it’ll be fine.”
She set the table for supper and called him, but he refused.
“Ellie, you go ahead. I’ve no appetite.”
Eleanor picked at her food, her mind racing. William never complained of his health.
“Forty-three is no age for such weakness,” she thought, sitting alone in the kitchen. “He’s in his prime! I must send him to the doctor.”
William, too, was lost in thought.
“I don’t understand it. I’m a strong man—why this weariness? I don’t want to worry her. Maybe rest will help.”
By morning, he seemed well again. They breakfasted and went their separate ways—he to the construction site, she to school. But soon, Eleanor noticed he had grown thinner, his face drawn.
“Will, are you truly all right?”
“Well enough. Just tired sometimes.”
“Right. I’m booking you a doctor’s appointment, and we’re going together. This is no trifle. Weakness at your age? We must get you checked. My heart won’t rest otherwise.”
When the doctor delivered his verdict, Eleanor refused to believe it.
“Doctor, surely there’s some mistake?”
“No mistake. Your husband’s had every test. The diagnosis is confirmed—cancer. But it’s not the final stage. We’ll fight it. He mustn’t lose heart, and neither must you. There’s still hope.”
At home, Eleanor locked herself in the bathroom, not wanting William to see her tears. She turned on the tap and wept.
“I won’t believe he’s going to die. I can’t accept it. I know how cruel this illness is—my father was taken by it. The medicines may buy time, but in the end…”
She washed her face, then the dishes. William watched the telly. He knew his fate but refused to show his fear—not to her.
Both now carried the same heavy thoughts, pretending all was well.
Finally, Eleanor spoke.
“Will, let’s not hide from each other. I know what we’re both thinking. I feel it in you. But you mustn’t give up. Promise me you’ll fight. We’ll fight together. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. Promise?”
She remembered every hardship they had faced—the fire that left them homeless, the family who turned their backs, claiming they had troubles of their own. Yet they had endured, rebuilt.
“We’ve weathered worse,” she told him. “If we’re together, we can overcome anything.”
She gave him examples—times when all seemed lost, yet a way forward had always appeared. Now, when life was settled, their youngest at university, their home secure—now he would leave her? No. She would fight for him. They were one.
Evenings, she pretended to read, though her mind was elsewhere.
“Now, when we should be enjoying our peace, he wants to go,” she thought.
“Will, fight,” she urged him. “You mustn’t give in. I’ll be at your side—your nurse, your comfort, your wife. I want your recovery more than you do.”
William listened, silent. He knew the end of this road. But one evening, he smiled.
“Very well, Ellie. Let’s fight. What have I got to lose?”
Eleanor’s heart leapt.
“That’s the first sign he believes me. Believes that together, we’re strong enough to face anything.”
Time passed. They fought. Eleanor stood firm, and William, at times, even laughed. Over a year later, the doctor brought joyous news—William was improving. His spirits lifted, and Eleanor kept her smile bright.
Then came the day the doctor declared him free of the disease. Their joy knew no bounds. Eleanor hardly knew how they’d done it—but she understood.
“We simply refused to lose each other. We vowed to stand together in sorrow and in joy—and we did. Love won.”
All rejoiced—Margaret, too, though she had troubles of her own. Her marriage to John had seemed happy, their daughter grown. Eleanor often told her,
“Margaret, you and John are two halves of a whole. You’re always together—he’s faithful, and so are you.”
But one day, Margaret arrived in tears.
“Ellie, John’s leaving me for another woman,” she sobbed.
“Impossible! How do you know?”
“He confessed. He’s been with her over a year. A year, Ellie! And I never suspected.”
When John left, Margaret did not rage or weep. She only said,
“John, I love you dearly. No one else will ever do. You may find life hard without me—but know I’ll always be waiting.”
To Eleanor, she said,
“He’ll come back. No one can love him as I do. He knows it—we’re one. This is just a trial, like you and William faced.”
Eleanor doubted it but held her tongue, offering only comfort. John had left for a younger woman. Five years passed without word.
Then one day, the telephone rang.
“Ellie, he’s back!” Margaret’s voice was calm, as though stating the obvious. “John’s come home.”
What struck Eleanor most was not his return, but Margaret’s certainty.
“Truly? I’m so glad for you!”
“Of course. It couldn’t be otherwise. We’re one—we can’t be apart. It was all a misunderstanding. He sees that now.”
Margaret never reproached him for those five years. Even now, she says,
“To love and be loved—that’s nature’s gift, fate’s design. That’s what makes us happy.”
And so Eleanor and Margaret remain the dearest of friends, their husbands by their sides, grateful for the trials they overcame—together.
