**Title: “The Legacy of James”**
“Just think how you’ll live with yourself if your husband’s innocent child, little Daisy, ends up in foster care…”
It was a Sunday morning—perfect for lounging. But Eleanor stretched, pushed back the duvet, and got up. She washed her face, brewed a fresh cup of tea, and sipped it slowly while staring out the window at the dreary courtyard, its peeling trees and puddles left by last night’s rain. The sky was a solid sheet of grey, threatening to drizzle at any moment.
Still, she had to go out—if only to take out the rubbish. She was sick of sitting at home pitying herself. Nothing would change. James was gone, and with him, a piece of her had died too. The emptiness inside was impossible to fill, no matter how hard she tried. Time didn’t heal; it just buried the pain deeper, blurring the memories. She was exhausted by grief. But how was she supposed to go on without James? What was the point?
They’d met at university. On the very first lecture, he sat next to her—a handsome bloke with bright, curious eyes, just like hers. Soon, they were racing through hallways together, searching for the right seminar rooms, darting to the canteen between classes. By their final year, they understood each other without words, like an old married couple.
*”How am I supposed to live without you? I can’t even imagine it. Exams end, and we’ll go our separate ways. Listen… what if we don’t?”* James had asked one day.
*”What are you suggesting?”* Eleanor replied.
*”Marry me,”* he blurted out.
*”Is that a proposal?”* She feigned seriousness. *”I thought you’d never ask. Fine, I’ll say yes.”*
*”Really?”* His face lit up.
*”Why are you so happy? Marriage isn’t just about wanting to be together. It’s about love.”*
*”We’ve been inseparable for years. Who says I don’t love you? And you—do you love me?”*
She’d asked herself that question countless times, always answering *yes*. She’d have died if James had ever fallen for another woman. They married that August. Eleanor had lived with her parents, while James had moved to the city for uni.
Both sets of parents chipped in to buy them a one-bed flat. Without discussing it, they agreed to wait before having kids. To Eleanor, it still felt like playing house—until it didn’t. They were happy. Two years later, James and his mate, Victor, started a small business.
Eleanor played it safe, keeping her job. If the business failed, she’d still have an income. But it thrived. She eventually joined them, handling the accounts to avoid any nasty surprises.
Another two years, and they’d upgraded to a spacious flat, bought a car, took holidays abroad once or twice a year—returning with stacks of photos and videos. After James’s death, she deleted them all from her desktop. She couldn’t bear to look at them without breaking down.
She remembered that awful day in excruciating detail. It was a Sunday. They were having breakfast when James’s phone rang. He rushed to get ready.
*”Where are you going?”* she asked.
*”Victor messed up—a client’s pulling their funding. I’ve got to sort it.”* He kissed her cheek at the door and left.
If only she’d known it was the last time she’d see him. No foreboding, no gut feeling. Later, she’d hate herself for letting him go alone.
An hour later, the police called. There’d been an accident. She needed to come to the hospital. She hailed a taxi immediately. If James were dead, they’d have said so. She clung to hope until the officer led her to the morgue.
James’s death was the end of Eleanor’s life too. Victor handled the funeral, telling her not to rush back to work—to take her time.
Eleanor changed out of her shorts and tank top. James had loved her wearing them at home, saying she looked sexy.
Two months had passed. It was time to stop hiding. She had to pull herself together—she now owned half of James’s business. Monday was coming. First steps first. If she couldn’t handle it, she’d sell her share to Victor, take a holiday, and find another job.
She stepped outside with the bin bag. The air wasn’t as cold as it had seemed from the window. After tossing the rubbish, she wandered aimlessly until the chill drove her into a shop. She left with a new cornflower-blue dress. She hadn’t been able to resist—she needed something to wear to work, and her old dresses hung off her like sacks.
Her friend Tanya once said that if *she* had died instead of James, he wouldn’t have buried himself in grief. Eleanor had agreed. Men were different—less sensitive.
The next day, the office greeted her with pitying glances and hushed whispers. The paperwork piled up. At first, she read every line, but soon her eyes glazed over.
She took the bus home—James’s car had been totalled. Overheated, she got off two stops early and walked. The breeze tugged at her blue scarf. Just through the park, and she’d be home.
*”Look at you, all dressed up. Rolling in your husband’s money, aren’t you? Don’t care that a child’s starving, do you?”*
Eleanor froze. A woman in her seventies sat on a bench, glaring at her.
*”Are you talking to me?”* Eleanor asked.
*”Who else? You’re Eleanor Victoria Thompson, aren’t you? James was your husband.”* The woman’s beady black eyes bored into her.
*”What child is starving?”* She should’ve walked away, but curiosity won.
*”His child. Your husband’s.”* The woman smirked.
*”That’s impossible. James and I never had children.”*
*”I didn’t say yours. Sit down before you fall over.”*
Eleanor obeyed, perching on the bench’s edge.
*”Your precious James was carrying on with my neighbour, Daisy. Got her pregnant, promised to help. Sent money, never showed his face. No parents, that one. Asked me to babysit little Alfie sometimes. I don’t mind—lonely old bird like me. But when your man died, Daisy was left with nothing. Thought you should know. You’re a woman—you’ll help.”*
*”That’s impossible. You’ve got it wrong.”*
*”Saw him with my own eyes. Swear on the Bible. Don’t make this go to court. Think how you’ll live, knowing your husband’s child is rotting in care.”*
Eleanor stood, shoving the scrap of paper with Daisy’s details into her pocket. She staggered home, trembling.
That night, she replayed the woman’s words. It couldn’t be true. She’d have noticed. She nearly called Daisy but phoned Tanya instead.
*”What do I do?”* Eleanor asked after explaining.
*”Wives are always the last to know. But I don’t believe James would cheat. Something’s off.”* Tanya mused. *”Don’t call Daisy—she’ll twist the knife. I know an ex-cop, works as a PI now. Helped a colleague’s kid out of a gang. I’ll ring him.”*
Soon, a scruffy, unshaven man in his forties arrived. He smelled faintly of whiskey.
*”Apologies—didn’t have time to shave. Let’s cut to the chase.”*
Eleanor repeated her story.
*”Here’s expenses.”* She handed him cash. *”There’s more if you need it. I’m selling my half of the business to Victor.”*
*”Interesting. You haven’t told him yet?”*
*”No. Should I have?”*
*”Don’t. My gut says Victor’s behind this. If he doesn’t know your plans, he’ll pressure you into selling—or force you out. Happens all the time.”*
*”Victor? They built the business together. James trusted him!”*
*”Money makes enemies of friends. Say you’re ill—don’t sign anything. Better yet, leave town.”*
*”I won’t speak to Victor. But I’m not running.”*
Five days later, the PI met her at a café and slid a DNA report across the table. *”Just as I thought—Victor’s the father.”*
Relief washed over her.
*”Confront him tomorrow. Show him the proof. Say Daisy’s neighbour talked. Accuse him of James’s death. I’ll be there.”*
The next day, Eleanor did exactly that. Victor played calm—until she mentioned evidence linking him to the crash. Nervously, he called for coffee,As Victor reached for his phone in panic, Eleanor slapped a restraining order against him, and with Paul’s help, she rebuilt both her life and James’s legacy, knowing that justice—though late—had finally been served.
