It had been years since Eleanor had visited her dear friend Margaret, their bond forged back in their university days. The occasion was Margaret’s birthday, and everything was splendid—utterly perfect. The spacious townhouse, with its four airy rooms, was alive with warmth and laughter. The dining table groaned under the weight of a lavish spread: fine Stilton weeping golden tears, an exquisite Cumberland sausage studded with creamy fat, roast beef still pink at the center—testament to the new oven’s prowess. There were pickled tomatoes, crisp coleslaw with garlic, and an array of sweets and pastries. It was less a meal and more a still life by Turner, each dish a masterpiece.
The guests were a merry lot—family and colleagues, all raising heartfelt toasts. Soft music drifted from the gramophone, mingling with the clink of crystal. Porcelain figurines lined the shelves, heavy drapes framed the windows, and a thick floral rug muffled their footsteps. Everyone ate with relish.
Margaret’s husband presented her with a delicate diamond ring—after all, fifty years was no small milestone. Their children showered her with affection, and the youngest grandson planted a kiss on her cheek. There was room enough for all, and happiness to spare.
Later, they danced. The hosts had cleared the back parlour for the occasion, and the guests, flushed with wine and good cheer, swayed to the melodies of their youth. A handsome man—a colleague of Margaret’s husband—asked Eleanor to dance. She twirled, her cheeks rosy, her hair loosening from its pins. For a moment, she was young again, and his kind words, free from presumption, warmed her heart.
Then she glanced at the clock and reality crashed in. She had to leave—no, run. Her mother-in-law needed her medicine and a wash; her husband couldn’t manage alone. There was tomorrow’s supper to prepare, and though her shift at work began at noon, the morning would be swallowed by chores. Her husband would return weary; when illness lived under your roof, there was no end to the work.
Money was scarce. The publishing house where her husband worked had folded, and his temporary position paid a pittance. The loan for their son’s failed business still loomed, and their daughter-in-law had been in hospital with the baby for weeks. The carer, a necessary luxury, demanded more shillings per hour than they could spare. Tonight, after tending to the household, Eleanor would sit at the typewriter, working late to earn enough for another day’s care.
These thoughts stormed her mind as she bundled into her coat. No one pressed her to stay. The party rolled on. Margaret hugged her tightly—she had always been a generous friend—but her life was her own, full of its own joys. Eleanor stepped out into the bracing rain, the bus stop ahead. For a fleeting instant, she considered turning back—to the warmth, the laughter, the table laden with abundance, where conversation danced over films and old jokes instead of illness and debt.
But she boarded the bus. Then she walked into their cramped flat, the stale scent of sickness clinging no matter how she scrubbed. The burnt porridge in the pot confirmed her husband’s distraction. Exhausted, he greeted her with news from the doctor—new appointments, troubling results. The flat seemed smaller, darker, choked with medicine bottles, stacks of nappies, a sack of soiled linens for the bin.
The contrast with Margaret’s radiant home was so sharp Eleanor nearly wept. She swallowed the bitterness, forced a smile, and embraced her husband. “Thank you for letting me go. It was lovely—just what I needed. Draw a bath; I’ll see to your mother. Did you give her the medicine? And yours?”
She set to work. This was life. It demanded toil, sacrifice, scrubbing and scrimping. But it was theirs, and the people within it were irreplaceable. There was no use comparing. Duty called, and love bound her fast.
Later, when Margaret wrote to ask if she might share Eleanor’s number with the charming gentleman from the party, Eleanor replied with a smiling “No!”—grateful for the respite but resolute. Margaret understood. It had only been a question.
Life often tempts us with ease, whispering of roads untaken. Yet we return to our own—to the work, the weight, the love that anchors us. Even when weariness threatens to swallow us whole. Even when the music still plays elsewhere. We go back. Love pulls us home.
