A Delayed Farewell: A Goodbye on the Journey Home

Author Ilon MaksReading 5 minViews 49

**A Late Farewell: A Goodbye on the Way Home**

After kissing his lover goodbye with gentle affection, Philip Carter got into his car and drove home. He paused for a moment outside the front door, taking a deep breath, rehearsing in his mind the words hed say to his wife. He climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.

“Hello,” said Philip. “Eleanor, are you home?”
“I am,” replied his wife, her voice flat. “Hello. Right then, shall I fry the chops?”

Philip had promised himself he would be direct, firm, no beating around the busha man of decision! It was time to end this double life while he still felt the warmth of his lovers lips, before everyday routine swallowed him whole again.
“Eleanor,” Philip cleared his throat, steadying his voice. “Ive come to tell you we need to separate.”

The news was met with unsettling calm. Eleanor wasnt the sort to lose her temper easily. In earlier days, Philip had even called her “Ice Queen” for it.
“What do you mean?” she asked, standing still in the kitchen doorway. “Shall I not fry the chops?”
“Thats up to you,” Philip said. “If you want to, fry them; if not, dont. Im leaving. For another woman.”

Most wives would react with furyperhaps a frying pan flying toward their husbands head. But Eleanor wasnt like most.
“Oh, what a tragedy,” she murmured. “Did you fetch my boots from the cobblers?”
“No,” Philip admitted, caught off guard. “If its so important, Ill go get them now!”
“Look at you,” Eleanor muttered. “Same as ever, Philip. Send a fool for your boots, and he brings you back the old ones.”

Philip was offended. The dramatic scene hed imagined was crumbling. Where were the tears, the shouting, the righteous fury? But what else could he expect from a woman as cold-blooded as the Ice Queen?

“I dont think youre hearing me, Eleanor!” he said, raising his voice. “Im telling you Im leaving you for another woman, and youre talking about boots!”
“Exactly,” Eleanor replied. “Unlike me, you can go wherever you please. Your boots arent at the cobblers. Whats stopping you?”

Theyd lived together for years, but Philip had never been able to tell whether Eleanor was serious or mocking him. Early on, it was that very composure, that quiet confidence, that had drawn him innot to mention her striking beauty and practical nature.
Eleanor was solid, loyal, and unmovable as granite. But now Philip loved another. He loved with passion, sin, and sweetness! It was time to cut ties and start a new life.

“And so, Eleanor,” Philip announced, solemn yet regretful. “Im grateful for everything, but Im leaving because I love someone else. I dont love you anymore.”
“Fascinating,” Eleanor said, without raising her voice. “Doesnt love me, poor thing. My mother fancied the neighbor, my father adored dominoes and whisky. And look what a brilliant woman I turned out to be.”

Arguing with Eleanor was pointless. Every word she spoke carried weight. His earlier fervor faded, and he no longer had the stomach for conflict.
“Eleanor, you really are something,” Philip said bitterly. “But I love another. I love with passion, sin, and sweetness. And Im leaving, understand?”
“Whos the other one?” his wife asked. “Tanya Mitchell, isnt it?”

Philip stepped back. A year ago, hed had a fling with Tanya, but he never imagined Eleanor knew of her!
“How do you know about her?” he began, then stopped himself. “It doesnt matter. No, Eleanor, its not Mitchell.”
Eleanor yawned.
“Then its Sandra Webster? You went after her?”

A chill ran down Philips spine. Sandra had also been his lover, but that was in the past. If Eleanor knew, why had she never said anything? Of courseshe was a fortress, never giving anything away.
“Wrong again,” Philip insisted. “Its not Webster or Mitchell. Its someone else, wonderful, the love of my life. I cant live without her, and Im leaving. And dont try to stop me!”
“Then it must be Mabel,” Eleanor concluded. “Oh, Philip, Philip you really are daft. Your great secret. The love of your lifeMabel Venton, thirty-five, one child, two miscarriages Am I right?”

Philip clutched his head. Shed hit the mark! His affair was indeed with Mabel.
“But how?” he stammered. “Who told you? Have you been spying on me?”

“Elementary, Philip,” Eleanor replied. “Ive been a gynecologist for years. Ive examined half the women in this town, while youve only known a handful. One look at you, and I know exactly where youve been, you silly fool!”

Philip took a deep breath, trying to salvage his dignity.
“Suppose youre right!” he declared, defiant. “Even if it is Mabel, nothing changes. Im leaving.”
“You really are dim, Philip,” Eleanor sighed. “You couldve just asked. Besides, theres nothing special about hershes just like the rest. And I say that as a doctor. Have you seen your passions medical history?”
“N-no,” he admitted.
“Well then. First, go straight to the shower. Second, tomorrow Ill ring Dr. Harris to see you without delay. Then well talk. The shame of ita gynecologists husband picking an unhealthy woman!”

“So what do I do?” Philip whined.
“Ill fry the chops,” Eleanor said, turning away. “You, wash up and do as you please. If you want a healthy woman, just sayIll recommend someone.”

I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! As the doors of the reception hall slowly swung open, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, carefully holding up the hem and trying not to betray the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out bubbling glasses of champagne—everything was as Artem and I had dreamed. Well, almost. Just as I was catching my breath before stepping into the hall, the screech of brakes suddenly pierced the quiet. Through the glass entrance, I spotted an old silver people carrier pulling up to the steps. The door slid open, and out came a noisy crew: Auntie Gail, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Please, not this,” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “Did they actually come?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with children.” We stood frozen in the doorway, ready to be announced and swept into the celebration as husband and wife, but instead we were two actors suddenly at a loss for lines on opening night. At that moment, I understood: if I didn’t keep it together now, the entire day would be ruined. But to make sense of how we got here, you’d have to go back several weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing: we wanted a quiet, intimate, cosy wedding. Only 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we dislike children. But because we dreamed of an evening free from dashing about, high-pitched screams, tumbling off bouncy castles, spilled juice, and other people’s midnight lectures. All our friends understood. My parents did too. Artem’s parents were surprised, but quickly got over it. But the extended family… Auntie Gail called first—a woman whose volume is coded firmly in her DNA. “Inna!” she started without a hello. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We just want a peaceful evening, so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She sounded so scandalised, you’d think I’d proposed a nationwide ban on babies. “Don’t you get it? We’re a close family! We always go everywhere together!” “It’s our special day. We aren’t forcing anyone to come, but that’s our rule.” A heavy pause, as solid as granite. “Fine, then. We won’t be there,” she snapped, and hung up. I looked at the phone, feeling like I’d just hit the big red ‘disaster’ button. Three days later, Artem arrived home, looking grim. “Inna… can we talk?” “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three kids aren’t some sort of wild monsters, but normal people, and if they’re not wanted, she’s not coming either—not her, her husband, or her in-laws.” “So, five fewer?” “Eight,” he corrected, collapsing onto the sofa. “They say we’re breaking tradition.” I couldn’t help but laugh—a hysterical, broken sort of laugh. “What tradition? Letting kids take out waiters with snack trays?” Artem managed a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re ready to riot.” But the campaign didn’t stop there. A week later, we went for family dinner at Artem’s parents’ place, and there I got a surprise. His grandmother, quiet and usually invisible, suddenly took charge. “Children are a blessing,” she scolded. “Without them, a wedding feels empty.” I was about to reply, but Artem’s mum got there first. “Mum, please! Children at weddings are chaos. You complain about the noise yourself. How many times have we crawled under tables to catch the little runners?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the wishes of the ones getting married,” his mother said, perfectly calm. I wanted to stand up and cheer. But Grandma only shook her head. “I still think you’re wrong.” That’s when I knew: this had officially become a family drama on par with Game of Thrones. And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout punch came a few days later. Ring. Uncle Mike’s name flashed up—normally as unflappable as an English oak. “Inna, hi,” he began gently. “We’ve been talking… Why no children? They’re part of us—you know we always go to weddings together.” I sighed. “Mike, we just want a calm evening. Honestly, we’re not forcing anyone…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But… Olya says if the children aren’t included, she won’t come. And I’ll stay with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more off the list. By now our guest count was dropping like January pounds. Artem sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said quietly. “It’s our day, not theirs.” But the pressure kept coming. Grandma would throw in, “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya posted in the family WhatsApp: “A shame, really, when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The people carrier pulled up right in front of the steps. Children were out first, marching across the paving as if they’d rehearsed it. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her handbag. “I’m going mad,” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We walked outside to greet them. Auntie Gail sailed onto the top step. “Well hello, newlyweds!” she declared in a stage voice. “Sorry we’re late, but we decided to come after all. We’re family, you know! Couldn’t leave the children—no one to watch them. But they’ll be very quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem muttered, eyeing the kids already poking their heads under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed, very clearly: no children. You knew this from the start.” “But it’s a wedding…” she began. That’s when Grandma stepped in. “We’re here to celebrate you,” she said, measured, “but children are family. It’s wrong to separate them out.” “Mrs. Paulson,” I said as gently as I could, “We’re glad you’re here, truly. But this was our choice. And if people can’t respect that, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t get to finish. “Mum!” Artem’s mother cut in, emerging from the hall. “Stop ruining their day. Adults party—children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Grandma blinked. Auntie Gail froze. Even the children went suddenly silent—sensing the shift. Gail sniffled. “Well… okay. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. We just thought it would be better this way.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silent standoff, and then—without a word—they led the children back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home. The adults remained. For the first time, completely voluntarily. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, a gentle hum of conversation. Friends raised glasses, gentlemen made way, waiters poured the champagne. I realised then: we had done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, wife… I think we won.” “I think so too,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. Our first dance—no little feet underfoot. No one shouting or dropping cakes, no Peppa Pig videos blaring from a mobile. Just grown-ups chatting, laughing, enjoying the music. A few hours later, Grandma approached. “Inna, Artem,” she said softly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… nice. Really nice. So peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paulson.” She sighed. “Old habits die hard. But you knew best.” Those words meant more to me than any wedding toast. Towards the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching her Prosecco as if it were a shield. “Inna…” she lowered her voice. “I went overboard. Sorry. We’ve always had kids everywhere. But tonight… it was beautiful. Peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thanks for being here,” I replied, honestly. “We never get to relax, being parents. But tonight… I felt like a real person again,” she confided. “A bit sad we never thought of this before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the reception ended, Artem and I stepped out into the lamplight. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “Because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was what mattered. Family is important. Tradition matters too. But boundaries are just as important. And if the couple says “no children at the wedding,” it isn’t a whim—it’s their right. As it turns out, even the clunkiest family traditions can change—if you make it clear the decision is final. That day was a lesson for all of us—especially for Artem and me: sometimes, to save your celebration, you need to be able to say “no.” And that “no” makes for a truly happy day.

—I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! The doors of the reception hall slowly opened, spilling warm golden light into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, holding up my hem, trying not to let my trembling hands betray me. Jazz played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out glasses of champagne… Everything was just as Artie and I had dreamed. Almost. As I caught my breath before stepping into the hall, a screech of brakes echoed from outside. Through the glass doors I saw an old silver minivan pull up to the steps. The door sprang open, and out tumbled a noisy crew: Aunt Gail, her daughter with her husband… and five children, who immediately started racing around the car. My blood ran cold. “Not this,” I whispered. Artie stepped closer. “They really came?” he asked, peering outside. “Yes. And… with the kids.” We stood at the threshold, ready to join the guests, but instead froze, like actors who’d forgotten their lines before opening night. At that moment, I realised: if I didn’t hold my ground right now, the whole day would be ruined. But to understand how we ended up in this absurd situation, let’s rewind a few weeks. When Artie and I decided to get married, we were sure of one thing: it would be intimate, cosy, and calm. Just 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we don’t like kids. But because we dreamed of a peaceful evening, free from racing, shouting, bouncy castle mishaps, spilled juice, and awkward parental scoldings. All our friends understood. So did my parents. Artie’s parents were surprised, but quickly accepted it. Extended family, however… The first call was from Aunt Gail—a woman whose voice comes with a built-in megaphone. “Ina!” she began without greeting. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I replied calmly. “We want a quiet evening so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from the children?!” she was so outraged it sounded like I’d called for a national baby ban. “Do you realise we’re a close family? We go everywhere together!” “It’s our day. No one has to come, but that’s the rule.” Silence. Heavy as granite. “Fine. Then we won’t come,” she said briskly, and hung up. I sat holding the phone, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button to start a disaster. Three days later Artie came home, looking grim. “Ina… Can we talk?” he said, taking off his coat. “What’s wrong?” “Kate’s in tears. She says it’s a family humiliation. Her three kids aren’t unruly monsters—they’re normal children. And if they can’t come, well, neither will she, her husband, or his parents.” “So that’s… five less?” “Eight,” he corrected, sinking onto the sofa. “They say we broke tradition.” I laughed—hysterically, nervously, with an edge. “What tradition? Bringing kids who knock the canapés off waiters’ trays?” Artie smirked, “Don’t say that to them. They’re already on edge.” But the pushback didn’t end there. A week later, we went to dinner at his parents’. There, I got a surprise. His gran—quiet, gentle Granny Antonia, who usually prays not to be involved in family drama—suddenly spoke up. “Children are a blessing,” she said reproachfully. “Without them, a wedding… feels empty.” I opened my mouth, but Artie’s mum beat me to it. “Mum, enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Kids at weddings make chaos. You always complained about the noise. How many times did we chase tiny runners under the tables?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the couple’s wishes,” Artie’s mum said calmly. I wanted to stand and applaud. Gran just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” And I realised: the drama had reached ‘Game of Thrones’ level family feud. We were the king and queen under siege. The knockout blow came a few days later. The phone rang. It was Artie’s uncle, Michael—the calmest, most unflappable, “this doesn’t concern me” kind of man. “Ina, hi…” he began gently. “Ollie and I have been thinking… Why no children? They’re a part of us. We always come to weddings together.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a calm evening. No one’s forced to come…” “Yes, I heard that. But Ollie says—if our kids can’t come, neither will she. And so will I.” Another two down. By now, our guest list was on a crash diet, 15 people lighter. Artie sat beside me, put his arm around my shoulder. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said softly. “Otherwise, it won’t be our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Granny hinting: “Without children’s laughter, it will feel dead.” Kate posting drama in the family group chat: “Such a shame some don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The minivan stopped at the steps. Kids charged ahead, pounding the pavement like a marching band. Aunt Gail followed, fussing with her hair. “I’m going mad…” I whispered. Artie squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We went out to meet them. Aunt Gail had already reached the top step. “Well, hello newlyweds!” she boomed theatrically. “Sorry we’re late. But we just had to come. We’re family, after all! Of course, we couldn’t leave the kids behind. They’ll be quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artie muttered, eyeing the children already peeking under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed,” I said, calm but clear. “No children. You knew that.” “But… it’s a wedding…” she began. Granny weighed in. “We came to congratulate you,” she said evenly. “But kids are part of the family. It’s wrong to exclude them.” “Antonia,” I said gently, “we’re glad you’re here. But this is our choice. If it’s not respected, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t finish. “MUM!” Artie’s mum snapped, coming out of the hall. “Stop ruining their special day. Grown-ups celebrate—kids stay home. End of! Let’s go.” Gran hesitated. Aunt Gail froze. The children fell quiet—sensing the mood shift. Aunt Gail sniffed. “Well… right. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. Just thought it’d be best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children must go home.” Kate rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes’ silence—then the kids were quietly ushered back into the car. Kate’s husband drove them home, while the grown-ups stayed. For the first time—by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect. Candlelight, jazz, soft voices. Friends raised their glasses, gentlemen made way, a waiter offered us champagne. And at that moment, I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artie leant over. “So, wife… Looks like we won.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was magical. We danced our first dance without little ones underfoot. Nobody screamed, dropped cupcakes, or played cartoons at full volume. Guests chatted, laughed, enjoyed the music. A few hours in, Gran approached. “Ina, Artie…” she said quietly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… lovely. So peaceful.” I gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, Antonia.” “It’s just… old habits die hard. But you knew what you were doing.” Those words meant more than any toast. Near the end of the night, Aunt Gail joined me, clutching her wine glass like a shield. “Ina…” she whispered. “I overreacted. Sorry. It’s just… we always did things this way. But tonight… it’s beautiful. Quiet. Grown-up.” “Thanks for coming,” I replied sincerely. “We hardly ever relax without the kids. But tonight… I actually felt like myself again,” she admitted. “Funny I never thought of it before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension faded away. At the end of the evening, Artie and I stepped outside beneath the soft glow of the lamps. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “So… how do you feel about our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. Yes, that was the most important thing. Family matters. So do traditions. But respecting boundaries matters, too. And if the couple says “no kids,” it’s not a whim. It’s their right. And as it turned out, even the most stubborn family habits can shift—if you stand firm. This wedding was a lesson for everyone—especially us: sometimes, to save the celebration, you have to say “no.” And that “no” is what makes the day truly happy.