20December Im writing this on a cold, damp evening, the kind that makes the Thames fog roll in thick as wool. The Christmas tree in the sittingroom is already standing, its fairy lights twinkling over the polished oak, while I sit at the kitchen table with a halffinished shopping list.
Ethel, my wife, is perched on the sofa, mumbling to herself about the perfect festive spread roast turkey, mince pies, and a bottle of Prosecco she swears will make the New Year sparkle. Shes ticking off the items she thinks well need for the soirée weve planned with a few close friends. The mood is upbeat, as it always is on the eve of the celebration; after all, New Years Eve feels like the grand finale of the whole year.
Ethel, now fiftytwo, has always adored the holiday season a sentiment Im sure most English folk share. The first snow of the year is thin, though, and the pallid sky dampens the usual cheer. Still, the earlyDecember sales at Harrods and Selfridges have already begun, and she, ever the prudent homemaker, has bought all the presents months in advance. Shes even ordered matching earrings for our three sisters, making sure no one goes without children, grandchildren, even a dear husband in the mix.
For my part, I was getting a cosy woollen jumper with reindeer embroidered on the cuffs something Ive long coveted. It cost Ethel barely a few quid, but what would I have done without her generosity? All the gifts were wrapped, hidden away, and waiting for the right moment. I kept wondering what she might give me in return perhaps a ring? No, something practical, like a little cash, since at fiftythree my taste in things isnt exactly cuttingedge.
Then, without warning, I blurted out, Im leaving!
What? Ethel asked, still halflost in her list.
Completely!
How can you be completely? she pressed, her eyebrows knitting together. What about New Years?
I stared at her, a grimace pulling at my mouth. What New Year, Ethel? When will you finally see sense? I said it in a slow, almost childish way, as if I were a child reciting something for the first time.
Ive found someone else. Were expecting a baby, I added, watching her eyes widen. Now its crystal clear.
She tried to ask, And what about me? but the question fell flat, like a toast that never made it to the table. The answer, she knew, was already written in the silence between us.
My rival was a youthful lady from the office, barely past her thirties, radiant and full of the vigor that my own middleaged self lacked. I bragged about her, almost with a grin. Shell give me a son. I finally get an heir! I declared, though the idea of inheritance seemed absurd when she earned more than I ever did. Our flat was modest two bedrooms, the one I occupied was merely on the lease; the other was rented out. Ethels earnings covered everything, and she owned both the house and the flat outright. Yet she never added any extra bitterness to the pot, preferring instead to indulge in her own comforting fantasies.
We met at the company Christmas party, I told her, as if that made it any less tragic.
Why should I care? she snapped.
Because its all about love, isnt it? Its lofty for you, but for me its just filth, I muttered, feeling a strange mix of triumph and emptiness.
She stared at me, a look of bewilderment that told me I had not only missed the mark but was entirely blind to the pain I was causing. Perhaps she had overestimated my intellect, thinking I could handle this without a hitch.
The day after my departure, Ethel sat at the table, the shopping list still halfwritten, the pen hovering over the line that read Prosecco. She crossed it out, her hand trembling, and then collapsed onto the couch, her mind a void. Hours slipped by like minutes; the house fell quiet, save for the ringing of the telephone. It was her friend Betty, calling from a nearby town.
Edwards gone! Ethel blurted.
Gone? Really? Betty asked, surprised.
Did you know? Ethel asked, bewildered.
Everyone knows, Betty replied after a pause. He was working with Victor at the firm.
Ethels face flushed with anger. Did you keep it from me? she shouted.
Yes! Betty answered, halflaughing. We all thought youd patch things up, but what are we supposed to do now?
The night fell, snow drifting lazily over the streets of London. The city was lit with festive decorations, but the crowds thinned as people stayed home, clinging to the warmth of their own celebrations. Ethel walked alone, her breath forming little clouds, and thought, Let them be happy. I wont let this ruin me.
A year later, exactly twelve months after Edwards sudden exit, the tree was again twinkling in the living room. Ethel, ever resilient, scribbled a fresh list. She and Betty had agreed to meet at a local pub for New Years, just as they had before. She was set to introduce her new friend, Harry, who had recently proposed to her.
The front doorbell rang, and there stood Edward, a small backpack slung over his shoulder, a swaddled infant cradled in his arms.
What on earth Ethel thought, her mouth forming a curse that never left her lips.
Imagine if Id not been home, he said, his tone oddly cheerful.
Or if Id changed the locks? she shot back.
Youd still be kind, wouldnt you? Edward replied, his eyes pleading. Will you let us in?
Ethel stepped aside, not ready to turn away a baby. He shuffled through the doorway, placed the tiny child on the bed, and asked, How old is he?
Five months, Edward answered, matteroffact.
And where is your lover? Ethel demanded. Did you ask the wind where she was?
The girl I loved now loves someone else, he whispered.
So, youre here for the child? she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Yes, he said, beginning to undress the baby.
This is absurd, Ethel muttered. I cant even imagine letting a stranger and his child into my home.
Edwards eyes widened. Did you ever think Id care for you? he asked, the desperation in his voice evident.
Not with a child I didnt ask for, she replied sharply. Turn around and leave.
He hesitated, then, with a sigh, said, Im sorry, Ethel. I was foolish.
She watched him gather his things, the baby cooing softly, and heard him mutter about a night after a corporate gathering that had spiraled out of control. It wasnt a demon that drove me, he said, just a moment of weakness.
When the door finally closed, Ethel felt an odd calm settle over her. She turned on the kettle, poured herself a cup of tea, and thought about the year that had passed. The pain had not vanished, but it had become a dull ache, a reminder that life moves on regardless of the chaos we create.
Tonight, as I stare at the flickering lights on the tree, I realise that the hardest part of the season is not the missing gifts or the empty chair at the table, but the stubborn belief that we can control everything. Ive learned that letting gowhether of a lover, a plan, or a grudgedoesnt mean we are defeated; it simply means were making room for whatever tomorrow may bring.
