“Well, what of it? Me and Nigel are doing just fine. We’re a proper family, no scandals, the kids turned out alright.”
“Nigel, did you forget your keys again?” Margaret sighed, recognising the familiar throat-clearing on the other side of the door. Her husband never rang the bell—just waited until she figured it out herself.
“Forgot,” Nigel muttered, squeezing past her into the hall. “Was in a rush this morning. Big meeting coming up.”
Margaret watched as he kicked off his shoes, leaving them right in the middle of the hallway, and silently moved them to the shoe rack. Forty years of marriage had taught her not to fuss over the small things. Nigel was a senior engineer at the factory, responsible for major projects—all he wanted at home was peace and quiet. So what if she had to tidy up after him?
“How was work?” she asked, ladling out a bowl of beef stew.
“Same as always. Management breathing down our necks, workers who don’t listen, outdated equipment. But we manage.” Nigel flipped absently through the newspaper, eyes glued to the headlines.
Margaret nearly mentioned their neighbour, Susan, who’d been complaining about her son’s drinking problem, but thought better of it. Nigel didn’t need other people’s dramas after a long day.
“By the way,” he suddenly looked up, “they offered Thompson a promotion. Transferring to London, head office. Big salary bump—triple what he’s on now.”
“Good for him,” Margaret nodded, clearing the table.
“He recommended me for his position,” Nigel added quietly.
Margaret froze, plates in hand.
“What do you mean?”
“Director’s making the decision next week. If it goes through, I’ll be deputy chief engineer. Nearly double the pay, better benefits, extra holiday.”
Nigel kept his tone steady, but Margaret knew him too well—she could hear the quiet excitement underneath. He’d wanted this for years, though he’d never admit it outright.
“Nigel, that’s wonderful!” She sat beside him, taking his hand. “You’ve earned it. All these years of hard work, never once letting the factory down.”
“Still might not happen,” he shrugged, but she could see it in his face—he was already picturing himself in the new role.
That evening, Nigel was unusually animated, talking about projects he could finally push through, business trips abroad, even replacing their old Rover with something newer. Margaret listened, sharing his excitement. After dinner, they even put on music and danced in the kitchen, just like when they were young.
The next day, Margaret bumped into Emily, Thompson’s wife, in the garden.
“Congratulations!” Emily beamed. “Stephen mentioned Nigel might take his spot. Brilliant opportunity—we’re so happy for you.”
“Thanks, but nothing’s final yet,” Margaret replied cautiously.
“Oh, it’s practically a done deal. Stephen says they’re not even considering anyone else. Nigel’s the best in the department—everyone respects him.”
Margaret walked home with a lighter step. So Nigel’s hopes weren’t unfounded. If Thompson said so, the promotion was as good as his.
She decided to make a special dinner—roast beef, Nigel’s favourite pudding. Humming as she cooked, she realised she hadn’t felt this hopeful in ages.
But when Nigel came home late, he was grim and withdrawn.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just a long day.” He sat at the table but barely touched his food.
“Nigel, talk to me. Did you hear something about the promotion?”
“They’ll decide next week.”
“Is there a problem?”
He sighed heavily.
“Turns out it’s not so straightforward. There’s competition. Harrison’s in the running. And Wilson from the other division.”
“But Thompson said you were the best candidate!”
“Thompson’s not the one deciding. Harrison’s got connections—his wife works in council, his nephew’s married to the director’s daughter.”
Margaret’s chest tightened. Had she been naive to think this was settled?
The next day, she visited her old friend Linda in HR. Over tea, she cut straight to it.
“Linda, what do you know about Nigel’s promotion?”
Linda hesitated. “There *is* a vacancy. And yes, Nigel’s in the running.”
“But what are his chances? Who else is competing?”
“Margaret, you know I can’t share internal details.”
“Linda, we’ve been friends for thirty years! Nigel’s a wreck, and I don’t know how to help.”
Linda finally relented. “Alright, but this stays between us. Nigel’s the better candidate, no question. But there’s a catch. New policy—they vet not just the applicant, but the whole family now. Reputation, any skeletons in the closet.”
Margaret frowned. “So what? We’ve got nothing to hide. The kids are doing well, no scandals.”
“Of course, of course,” Linda said quickly. “Just know they’ll dig deep. Especially with the new director—he’s big on discipline.”
Margaret left, uneasy. What could they possibly find?
At home, she wracked her brain. Their son, James, was an engineer up in Manchester, settled with his own family. Their daughter, Lucy, was happily married with two kids. She’d worked at the library for years—respectable. Nigel didn’t drink, never caused trouble.
But the worry gnawed at her.
That evening, she finally asked Nigel, “Is it true they check the family before promotions now?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Linda mentioned it.”
“Suppose they do. What’s there to hide?” But she noticed the tension in his voice.
“Nothing! Just… what exactly do they check?”
“Usual stuff. Background, references, debts, criminal records. Standard procedure.”
But Margaret knew he was holding something back.
Days passed in tense silence. Nigel barely spoke, picking at his meals. Margaret tried to cheer him up, but nothing worked.
Then, the unthinkable—a constable knocked on their door.
“Evening, Margaret,” he said, removing his cap. “Is Nigel in?”
“What’s this about?”
“Just a routine follow-up.”
Nigel emerged, stiff and formal.
“Nigel, you recall that incident five years ago? Your neighbour, Davies, beating his wife? You filed the report.”
“I remember.”
“Well, Davies claims no one was home—that you only reported it because Margaret asked you to.”
Margaret’s stomach dropped. She *had* urged Nigel to step in—Davies had been terrorising his wife for years, but she’d been too scared to speak up.
“Is that true, Nigel?” the constable pressed. “Did your wife ask you to file it?”
Nigel hesitated.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “But I’d seen the bruises myself.”
“I see.” The constable jotted something down. “So you wouldn’t have reported it otherwise?”
“Maybe not,” Nigel said quietly.
When the constable left, the house felt heavier.
“Nigel,” Margaret whispered, “you don’t regret helping her, do you?”
“Of course not. But don’t you see? Now it looks like I can’t make decisions without my wife’s input. Weak leadership.”
The realisation hit her like a truck. All those years of “helpful” advice, steering Nigel—she’d thought she was being a good wife. Now it might cost him everything.
A week later, the promotion went to Harrison. Officially, it was due to “greater management experience.”
But Linda later confided the truth: Nigel was deemed “too easily influenced by his wife.”
He took the news calmly, as if he’d expected it.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he told her. “More responsibility, more headaches.”
But Margaret saw the change in him—quieter, more distant. Sometimes he’d look at her with a sadness that crushed her.
Their marriage would never be the same. Her wisdom, once a point of pride, had backfired spectacularly. Now, every time she bit back advice, Nigel made decisions with exaggerated independence, as if proving a point.
An invisible wall grew between them—unspoken blame on both sides. The very thing that should’ve strengthened them had instead torn them apart.
