Returning home early, Sophie felt herself floating through the unopened gate, as if the air was thick and syrupy. The doctors clinic had cancelled appointments the GP was unwell, perhaps with a Victorian cough and suddenly Sophie found herself gifted a whole evening. She drifted in, tempted by thoughts of a proper supper, maybe actual mashed potatoes, not just toast on the go.
Her key turned silently, wanting not to disturb her husband, Bernard, if he happened to be napping in his armchair. But Bernard was awake, and the kitchen was alive with voices spooling out like soft fog.
I cant keep doing this, Penny. Hiding every weekend, Bernard sighed, sounding as faded as a rainy Monday morning.
What do you expect? Just blurt out the truth? replied his sister, Penny. When had she glided in?
Sophie hesitated by the living room door, half-open, standing somewhere between herself and someone else.
If Sophie finds out, itll all collapse, Bernard continued, his words drifting like cobwebs. Thirty years of marriage down the drain.
You have to decide, Pennys tone sharpened, are you still going to visit her every Saturday?
Her?
How could I abandon her? Shes alone. No one else to look after her, Bernard whispered.
And what about your wife? Penny pressed.
Sophie stood gripping the door frame, pulse thudding so hard she feared the whole house might shudder.
So no fishing, then.
Not trips with Henry to the lakes.
There was someone else her husband visited, every weekend.
You know, Penny. If I confess now, shell despise me. For deceiving her. But not saying anything… it gnaws at me, Bernard said, voice thick.
Gnaws at you? Penny huffed. Where was your conscience before?
It used to be simpler. Shes getting worse, Bernards words clung to the walls.
Listen, maybe you need to come clean to Sophie, Penny advised, her voice brittle.
Dont joke! Bernard sounded terrified. She might kill me. Or worse, kick me out. Where would I go at sixty?
Sophie sagged against the door.
Thirty years, shed fried him sausages for fishing trips, pressed his shirts, soaped his wellingtons. Shed fretted if he returned late. And he went to someone else. And Penny her own sister knew.
How blind shed been.
Penny checked her watch. I have to run. Still, think about it you cant keep this up. It’ll surface soon.
I know. I know, Bernard replied.
Footsteps came toward the hall and Sophie darted, dreamlike, into the bathroom.
She needed time.
Time to let this truth settle, time to decide what tomorrow would look like.
Would tomorrow even come?
She gazed at her reflection: Sophie Peterson. The perfect English wife?
No, just an English fool.
She emerged wearing her usual, unreadable face. Bernard was hunched at the table, flicking through The Times, looking comfortably ordinary.
Oh, Sophie! he exclaimed, voice shining with fake warmth. Back early, are you?
Clinic cancelled, she replied.
Penny popped in, said hello.
Liar. Hello was hardly the word.
Hungry? Sophie asked in a voice flat as the Midlands.
Yes, whats for tea?
Cutlets. As always.
The week passed in a strange haze, like a garden choked with brambles. Sophie observed Bernards every movement, each sentence, the phone he hid, his Friday nerves, the careful packing of fishing tackle.
Saturday morning, she couldnt bear it.
Bernard, why dont we go fishing together this time? she said, innocence lacing her words.
He paled.
Why? Youd be bored silly.
Id like to try. Could be fun.
No-no-no, his hands fluttered, its cold, there are midges. Youll hate it. Best stay here.
Then off he drove, guilt all over his face, and Sophie was left stewing with thoughts that gnawed like worms beneath a summer lawn.
On Monday, she rang Penny.
Penny, fancy a chat? she proposed.
About what? Penny replied, wary.
Just heart-to-heart, been ages.
They met at a nondescript café, a sort of neutral territory. Penny fiddled with her wedding band.
How are you? Sophie ventured gently.
Fine. You two okay?
Were… fine. Bernards obsessed with fishing lately.
Penny choked slightly on her coffee.
Oh? How often is he out?
Every Saturday. Positively possessed, now.
Thats men for you, Penny muttered. Always some hobby.
Do you know where he goes?
Me? How should I know?” But her eyes raced about, betraying her.
Just thinking, maybe Ill tag along, see whats so wonderful about this fishing.
Sophie, why? Penny snapped. Leave him be. Everyone needs a little space.
Space! Was that English for betrayal?
Penny, Sophie leaned closer. You know something.
I know nothing! her sister bit off. And Id rather keep it that way. So should you.
She stood and left Sophie with a bitter conviction: Penny was covering for Bernard.
That night, Sophie set up her own little investigation. She rummaged Bernards jacket pockets, leafed through his wallet, peeked into the car.
And she found it.
In the glove box receipts. Regular payments. £500 every month.
Private care home: Hope House. City of Brightwood.
Care home?
Not a cottage, not an angler’s lodge. Care home.
Sophie sat staring at the slip, feeling her world warp and implode. Care homes were for those who needed help, for those with no respite from illness.
So, Bernard was seeing a sick person. Supporting someone in secret.
Wife? Lover?
She didnt sleep, cycling through scenarios, each more awful than the last.
In the morning, decision made.
She would visit Brightwood herself. Unravel the mystery with her own two eyes.
She called in sick on Friday, claiming a doctors appointment.
The three-hour drive to Brightwood seemed to last forever, winding through English countryside surreal as a painters canvas, her mind teeming with worst-case parades.
The home was modest, inviting, its sign reading, For People with Special Needs.
Disabled. Her heart lurched. Did Bernard have a disabled relative shed never heard about?
Who are you here for? the nurse at reception inquired.
Sophie hesitated. Could you tell me who Bernard Peterson visits here?
Are you family?
Im his wife.
The nurse checked the register. Natalie Peterson, room twelve. Off you go.
Peterson!
She has his surname!
Sophie paused at room twelves door, unable to knock. Inside waited the truth both feared and longed for.
Natalie Peterson.
Her husbands namesake.
Hand trembling, she opened the door.
May I come in?
The room glowed with daylight and floral scents; a woman sat by the window in a wheelchair. Youngish, mid-thirties, dark-haired, slim.
Very much Bernards image.
Are you here for me? Natalie asked, her voice delicate.
I… Im Sophie. Are you Natalie?
Yes. Do we know each other?
Do they? How could she answer?
Im Bernard Petersons wife.
Natalies face drained of colour, eyes wide as moons.
Oh God, she whispered. You know everything?
I do now, Sophie moved closer. Will you tell me?
I cant… Dad asked me never to say.
Dad.
Sophie sensed her knees turning to jelly, and sat by the bed.
Hes your father?
Yes, Natalie wept softly. Forgive me. He told me you had no children, and it would break you to find out about me.
Hold on, Sophie held up a hand. Lets go step by step. How old are you?
Thirty-four.
Thirty-four! Born a year before their wedding. Before Bernard met Sophie.
And your mother?
Mum died two years ago. Cancer, Natalie dabbed at her tears. Dad helped us all that time. Sent money, visited. When Mum passed, he arranged for me here. I have cerebral palsy. I cant live alone.
Sophie was silent. Trying to swallow it whole.
Her husband had a daughter. A sick daughter. Supported in secret for thirty years.
Hes lovely, Natalie went on, tears shimmering. Visits every Saturday. Brings food, medicine. Talks about you. Says youre amazing.
Talks about me?
Yes. Says he loves you. Always calls you my Sophie, my Sophie. Says youre the best wife in England.
Sophie laughed, bitterly.
The best wife whos been lied to for thirty years.
He didnt mean to lie! Natalie protested. Hes just scared. Scared youd leave if you found out. Im not normal. Im a burden.
Youre not a burden.
To most people, I am. Mum said, Wish youd never been born. But Dad always said, Youre my daughter. My responsibility.
There was a gentle knock; the nurse peered in.
Natalie, youve got visitors! That’s wonderful! Anything wrong?
Its fine, Mrs. Brown. This is Aunt Sophie.
Aunt Sophie.
Oh! Mrs. Brown cheered. Finally, you meet! Bernards told us all about you says youre warm and understanding!
Warm and understanding! And Sophie had played detective, imagining Bernard’s treachery.
The nurse left, Natalie and Sophie alone.
Tell me about your mum, Sophie said softly.
Mum was beautiful. Dad dated her until he met you. When she learned Id be born disabled, she told him to go find a normal family. Go to you.
He wanted to stay?
He wanted to marry Mum. She wouldnt have it. Said she didnt want pity. If he loved someone else, he should go.
So he married me?
Yep. But never abandoned us. Helped. When I got older, Mum allowed him visits as long as you didnt know. She feared it would ruin your marriage.
Sophie sat, swirling with half-remembered dreams and regret. All the years envying mothers, crying over failed IVF treatments. And Bernard always had a daughter.
Why didnt he tell me?
He was afraid. Thought you wanted children so much. If you found out he already had one, and she was disabled, youd hate him.
Hate him for what?
For lying. For spending money on me that could’ve gone to your children. For giving me his time.
Natalie quieted, then added,
He worries terribly, each visit. He says, How do I explain to Sophie? How do I make her see? I say, Maybe shell understand, Dad?
Familiar footsteps outside, heavy, deliberate.
Bernard.
Oh no, Natalie blamed herself, he doesnt know youre here!
He entered, cheery, Hello, love! flowers and shopping bag in hand.
Sophie turned.
Bernard froze at the sight of her. The bag slipped to the floor.
Sophie? he managed. How did you…?
I came to meet your daughter, Sophie answered evenly.
Bernard paled, pressed against the door frame.
How?
Poorly hidden, darling.
He entered the room, closed the door, sank heavily into a chair.
Well, he said, defeated. You know now.
I do.
You despise me?
Sophie looked to Bernard, then to Natalie.
Not sure yet. Trying to work it out.
Whats there to work out? Lied for thirty years. Said I was fishing. Spent family money.
Dad, stop, Natalie protested. Aunt Sophie, Dads not awful. Just frightened.
Sophie walked to the window.
Outside, an ordinary courtyard trees, benches, winding paths. The simple street life passing by.
And here, her own life twisting apart, being awkwardly stitched together.
I need to think, she whispered.
Three days, not a word to Bernard. He haunted the house, attempting to speak, met with Sophies quiet. She cooked, dusted, carried on, but he may as well have been a ghost.
Meanwhile, she thought.
She thought of thirty years spent blindfolded. Of having a stepdaughter, lost and found. Of truth feared more than deception.
On Wednesday evening, she finally broke.
Sit, she told Bernard. We need to talk.
He faced her across the lounge, hands folded, bracing himself.
I visited Natalie again, Sophie started. We spoke properly.
And?
And I realised something. Youre a fool, Bernard.
He flinched.
A fool for thinking Id turn my back on an ill child. A fool for suffering alone for thirty years, when you could have shared it.
Sophie
Hush. Im not finished. She crossed the kitchen restlessly. You thought I was wicked enough to leave you for having a disabled daughter. You thought I was that petty.
No! I was scared of losing you!
You nearly lost me for real.
He bowed his head.
Sorry. I dont deserve forgiveness. But… forgive me.
Stand up.
He stood.
Tomorrow, were visiting Natalie. Both of us. And Ill speak to her doctors about her coming here.
Bernard blinked.
Sorry?
You heard. If shes my daughter now, she should live with family.
But… shes disabled, she needs care.
Well hire help. Adjust the spare room. Well manage. Sophie took his hands. You know what Ive wanted for thirty years?
A child.
A proper family. Now I have one. A daft husband, an extraordinary daughter but a family.
Bernard cried. Sophie wasnt sure shed ever seen him cry.
Are you sure? Youll have her?
I already do. Got her a new pyjama set and shampoo yesterday. Well take it tomorrow.
He hugged her, crushing, as if afraid shed dissolve.
I dont deserve you.
Agreed, Sophie smiled. Get used to it. One rule: no more secrets. Ever.
Promise.
And one more thing. Natalie must call me Mum. If Im her Mum, Im all in.
A month later, Natalie moved in, claimed the bright little boxroom. Sophie chose every detail: wallpaper, curtains, even a patchwork duvet.
Mum, Natalie said shyly that first night, youre sure? Im just… a burden.
If you say burden again, Ill wallop you with my slipper, Sophie threatened, voice twinkling. Youre my daughter. End of.
Late at night, while Natalie slept, Sophie and Bernard sat drinking tea at the kitchen table.
You know, Sophie mused, life is only just beginning.
At sixty? Bernard smiled.
Exactly. Were a real family now. Not husband and wife, quietly gathering dust. But parents. Weve a daughter to raise up.
Bernard nodded.
Thank you.
No thanks. Just never be scared to tell me anything again.
Never.
From Natalies room came gentle laughter she was watching a British comedy on her tablet.
And it was the most wonderful sound in the world.
