The Decision to Return
Lovely Maisie Whitaker was getting married. Everyone at university had assumed the pretty girl from their class would be the first to tie the knot. But no one guessed her groom would be their professor—Dr. Edmund Hawthorne, a distinguished scholar of English literature, who was very much and very painfully married. Since when had that ever stopped anyone, though?
At least the age gap was only thirty years—perfectly acceptable!
“You’ve been filling your head with nonsense online!” Maisie’s grandmother fumed. “Have you lost your mind? He’s older than your father!”
“So what?” Maisie retorted, flattered by the older man’s attention. “It’s trendy these days!”
“Trendy! Might as well get a tattoo on your face while you’re at it—why not write ‘fool’ right across your forehead? It’d suit you!”
“And maybe I will!” Maisie laughed. “Just in time for the wedding!”
“God help us,” her grandmother, Margaret, sighed, watching the girl twirl in front of the mirror. “No respect, no shame.”
“You’ve been to his house! Had tea with him! Met his wife!” Margaret pressed, desperate to stir some sense into her granddaughter. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Why should I be? It’s not my fault he fell for me. And I only went to get help with my dissertation—that’s what students do!”
“Help with your dissertation—sure! Get your degree and walk away. But you? You jumped straight into their b…ed! Their marital bed, no less!”
“You’re so stuffy, Gran!” Maisie rolled her eyes. “You’re stuck in the past. This is the modern age!”
“Sleeping with another woman’s husband—that’s modern, is it? Let me tell you what it’s really called!” Margaret snapped. “And don’t you dare say you love him—I won’t believe it!”
Maisie scoffed and stormed off. Tomorrow, her besotted professor was taking her as his date to a colleague’s anniversary party—their first public appearance as a couple. They’d already moved into a rented flat together after Edmund left his wife and filed for divorce. Tonight, Maisie had come home to pick out an outfit for the big night.
The next day, the sight of lovely Maisie clinging to balding Dr. Hawthorne sent whispers rippling through the café. The other professors and their wives—especially the wives, who had all been friends with his first wife, Eleanor—exchanged glances. Was this his daughter?
But Maisie made her intentions clear. She smiled coyly, resting her hand on his thigh—far too bold for a father-daughter dynamic.
Edmund, blissfully oblivious, was over the moon. He’d lost his head completely, drunk on love. He knew it was wrong, knew it wasn’t fair, knew he was betraying everything. Yet here he was, powerless against it, as if under a spell.
When the dancing started, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. The dim lights, the soft music, her youthful energy—it was intoxicating. But then the birthday boy’s son cut in, pulling Maisie close for a slow dance. Too close.
A colleague sidled up to Edmund. “So, what exactly are you planning to do with her?”
“Do?” Edmund blinked, expecting praise for his young bride-to-be.
“In plain English—she’s dim as a post. And you threw Eleanor away for this?”
“Jealous, are you?” Edmund thought bitterly. “Who wouldn’t be? Their wives are all past their prime, and here I am with a peach—ripe, sweet, and mine.”
It was clear his friends disapproved. Fine. Who needed them? His love life had never been more thrilling.
The music shifted to something upbeat, and Maisie and her partner spun wildly, her short skirt riding up. The women gasped. Time to leave—before things turned violent.
He dragged a protesting Maisie—”I want to dance!”—out the door. “You can dance at home.”
For the first time, doubt crept in. Had he rushed things? Maybe he shouldn’t have filed for divorce so hastily.
Eleanor would never have behaved like this, though she’d been just as stunning in her youth. But no—he’d confessed everything, left her with the house, the savings. She’d let him go gracefully, though by then she’d surely heard the gossip.
Maisie’s tipsy laughter snapped him back to reality. This was his happiness. She wasn’t dim—and cows had beautiful eyes, anyway.
Days rolled on. Edmund buried himself in work. Maisie, now graduated and “figuring things out,” waited at home. “We can afford it, kitten,” she purred.
At “kitten,” he cringed but stayed silent—what if she left?
His life had become exhausting. After hours of lectures, all he wanted was the sofa. But Maisie, restless from lounging all day, demanded outings—cafés (she refused to cook), evening strolls, even ice skating. “I’ll teach you, kitten!”
His belly strained against his laces. Sweat beaded on his lip. Each panting breath made him wonder—would he drop dead before this farce ended? And how was Eleanor?
Thoughts of her crept in more often as the divorce loomed. Neither she nor their children had spoken to him since he left. At first, he hadn’t cared. His life, their lives—separate.
Two days before the divorce, he came home to an empty flat. No Maisie, no note—just a text: “Gone with Jeremy. Sorry.”
Jeremy—the thirty-year-old AI specialist she’d danced with that night.
Edmund sat heavily on the dent she’d left in the sofa. The Spanish Inquisition had been less expected.
Karma. Poetic justice. Served him right.
For minutes, he stared blankly. At least he hadn’t bought the wedding suit. And now he could ditch the skates—his gut rejoiced. The relief outweighed the heartache.
Then he called Eleanor.
“Can I come over?”
“For your things? I’ll pack them.”
“No. I want to come back.”
“Don’t.”
“I love you. Only you.”
“Edmund, darling—don’t be trite,” she quoted dryly and hung up.
Shame burned through him. How had he not seen this coming?
“Well, no skating tonight,” he muttered, yawning as he sank into the sofa’s hollow.
He’d win her back.
Smiling at the thought, he drifted off. This—this was bliss.
Love? Overrated.
