“Are you cheating on me?”—and with that, everything fell apart.
Eleanor returned home late in the evening. She hung up her coat, pulled a pie from her bag—one she’d brought from work—and walked silently to the kitchen. Though she said nothing, inside, everything churned. The past few months had felt as though her life was unraveling at the seams. But Eleanor held herself together. She prepared dinner, lit the stove, chopped the salad, and set the table. Right at eight, as always, her husband walked in.
William said nothing as he shrugged off his jacket, entered the kitchen, and took his seat. For a long moment, he simply studied his wife, then spoke with a frown.
“You’re not cheating on me, are you?”
Eleanor froze, the plate still in her hands. A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the ticking of the cheap wall clock.
“What on earth makes you say that?” she asked coldly, unmoving.
“Just… you’ve been acting odd. Wearing brighter clothes. More makeup. Coming home later. Almost as if you’ve taken a liking to someone else.”
She set the plate down in front of him without a word.
“Are you actually serious right now?” Eleanor’s voice was quiet, sharp. “I’m working two jobs just to keep up with the mortgage. You haven’t brought home a single penny since March. I don’t accuse you. But the least you could do is support me instead of accusing me of nonsense when all I’ve done is get a haircut!”
William stood abruptly and, without waiting for dinner, stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Once, Eleanor had considered her marriage a stroke of luck. William had been cheerful, dependable—never drank, never strayed. After the wedding, they moved into a flat, then came their son, Oliver, and two years later, the mortgage. They both worked, but William built a career while she tended to their home and child.
Then, in a single year, everything crumbled. William lost his job and spent his days sprawled with his laptop, lamenting his misfortune. Eleanor carried the weight alone. A colleague suggested she take on extra work—caring for an elderly widow, just fetching groceries, delivering medicine, and keeping her company.
That was how Eleanor met Margaret Hartwell—a peculiar but sharp-witted woman who paid simply for conversation. For the first time in years, Eleanor felt needed—not as a housemaid, not as a mother, but as a person. Over tea, the old woman shared stories, laughed, mused on life, and always said the same thing:
“You deserve better. Stop being a shadow. Stand up and walk. Adorn yourself. Love yourself.”
Eleanor began to change. She cut her hair, bought a few modest yet elegant dresses. She walked with her head held high. William noticed—and it frightened him. Not the loss of his wife, but his slipping grip over her.
One day, he glanced through Eleanor’s laptop. There was nothing but schedules, pictures of Oliver, and recipes. Still, he found cause for outrage.
“Are you working as her maid? For money? Wasn’t I enough for you all these years?”
“You gave me a son. Now I carry both of you. I’m not ashamed of the work. I’m ashamed that I live with a man who shames me for it,” she said before walking out.
A month later, Eleanor filed for divorce. William moved in with an old childhood friend. And Eleanor? For the first time, she tasted freedom. And in that freedom, there was no fear—only silence, and the quiet certainty that everything would be different now. This time, it was for herself.
