“Just think how you’ll live with yourself if your late husband’s innocent little girl ends up in foster care…”
It was her day off, a chance to lie in, 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 at the dreary courtyard below—peeling trees and puddles left by last night’s rain. The sky was a flat, leaden grey, threatening to spit down a fine sleet any minute.
But she had to go out, even if just to take out the rubbish. She was tired of moping around the flat, drowning in self-pity. Nothing would bring Oliver back. When someone you love dies, it’s like a part of you dies with them. Eleanor felt the emptiness inside her, a void nothing could fill, no matter how hard she tried. Time didn’t heal—it just buried the pain deeper, blurring the memories. She was exhausted from grief, from the endless tears. How do you go on when the person who was your whole world is gone? What’s left to live for?
They’d met at university. On the very first lecture, he slid into the seat beside her—a handsome bloke with the same bright-eyed curiosity about life that she had. Soon, they were racing through corridors together, hunting for the right seminar rooms, dashing 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. We’ll graduate and just… go our separate lives. Listen—what if we don’t?”* he’d asked one day.
*”What are you suggesting?”* Eleanor had countered.
*”Marry me,”* Oliver blurted out.
*”Is that a proposal?”* Her voice turned serious. *”I thought you’d never ask. Fine—I’ll say yes.”*
*”Really?”* His face lit up.
*”Why are you so chuffed? Proposing isn’t enough. We’ve got to love each other.”*
*”We’ve spent years side by side. Who says I don’t love you? Do you? Love me, I mean?”*
She’d asked herself that question a hundred times. The answer was always yes. It would’ve killed her if he’d fallen for someone else. By the end of summer, they’d married. Eleanor had lived with her parents, while Oliver had moved to the city for uni.
Both sets of parents pooled their savings to buy the young couple a one-bed flat. Without even discussing it, they’d agreed to wait before having kids. It all felt like make-believe to Eleanor at first—playing house. But time passed, they were happy. Two years later, Oliver and his mate Victor started a small business together.
Eleanor played it safe, staying at her old job. If things went south, at least she’d still have an income. But Oliver and Victor made it work. Eventually, she joined them, handling the books to keep everything transparent.
Two more years, and they upgraded to a spacious flat, bought a car, took holidays abroad once or twice a year—always returning with armfuls of photos and videos. After Oliver’s death, Eleanor deleted every file from her computer desktop. She couldn’t bear to look at them without breaking down.
She remembered that awful day in perfect detail. A lazy Sunday morning, breakfast together. Then his phone rang, and suddenly he was rushing to leave.
*”Where are you off to?”* she’d asked.
*”Victor messed up—client’s pulling funding. Got to sort it.”* He pecked her cheek at the door and was gone.
If only she’d known it was the last time she’d see him. No premonition, no dread. Later, she’d torment herself for letting him go alone.
An hour later, the police called. A car accident. She needed to come to the hospital. She grabbed a taxi, heart racing. If Oliver had died, they’d have said so outright. She clung to that hope—until the officer met her at the morgue.
With Oliver gone, Eleanor’s life ended too. Victor handled the funeral, told her not to worry, to take all the time she needed…
She changed out of her shorts and vest—Oliver’s favourite loungewear, said she looked sexy in them.
It had been over two months. Time to crawl out of her cave. She had to pull herself together. She owned half of Oliver’s business now. Monday was coming—the perfect time to take the first step. And if she couldn’t handle it? She’d let Victor buy her out, take a holiday, find a new job.
She stepped outside, bin bag in hand. The air wasn’t as biting as it had looked from the window. After dumping the rubbish, she wandered aimlessly until the chill drove her into a shop. She emerged with a cornflower-blue dress—couldn’t resist. She needed something to wear to work; her old clothes hung off her like sacks.
Her friend Tanya once said if *she’d* died instead of Oliver, he wouldn’t have buried himself alive. Eleanor had agreed. Oliver would’ve grieved, sure, but he’d have thrown himself back into work. Men were different—less fragile.
The next day, the office greeted her with pitying glances and hushed whispers. The paperwork piled up—her hand ached from signing. The first few she read carefully, then skimmed the rest.
She took the bus home. Oliver’s car had been totalled. Halfway, she got too warm, hopped off early, and decided to walk. The breeze tugged at her silk scarf. Just through the park now, then home.
*”You dolled yourself up quick. Raking in your husband’s money, must be nice. Don’t care if that child starves, do you?”*
Eleanor froze. The voice came from a woman in her seventies, perched on a bench, staring right at her.
*”Are you talking to me?”*
*”Who else? You’re Eleanor Victoria Benton. Oliver Benton’s widow. Aren’t you?”* The woman’s beady black eyes bore into her.
*”What child?”* She should’ve walked away, but curiosity won. She stepped closer.
*”His child. Your husband’s.”* The woman smirked.
*”What nonsense! Oliver and I didn’t have children.”*
*”Not with you. With Daisy. Sit down before you faint.”*
Eleanor sank onto the bench. The woman nodded approvingly.
*”Your husband was shagging my neighbour Daisy. Got her pregnant, swore he’d support the kid. Sent money regular-like. Never showed his face, though. Daisy’s got no family. Asked me to watch little Alfie sometimes. I don’t mind—lonely old bird like me. But when your man died, she was left with nothing. Thought you ought to know. You’re a woman—mother or not, you should help.”*
*”That’s impossible. You’ve got the wrong person.”*
*”My mind’s sharp as a tack. Your husband was decent—helped out. But think: you’ve got the flat, the money. That child’s done nothing wrong.”* She shoved a scrap of paper into Eleanor’s hand. *”Address and number. Go talk to her yourself.”*
Eleanor took it numbly.
*”Oliver would’ve told me…”*
*”I saw him at Daisy’s with my own eyes. Swear on the Bible.”* The woman leaned in. *”Don’t make this go to court. How’ll you live with yourself if your husband’s child grows up in care?”*
Eleanor bolted, shoving the note in her pocket. She was shaking by the time she got home.
She replayed the woman’s words. It couldn’t be true. She’d have noticed if Oliver had changed. She nearly called Daisy—but couldn’t. Instead, she rang Tanya, begging her to come over.
*”What do I do?”* Eleanor asked after spilling everything.
*”Wives are always the last to know,”* Tanya mused. *”But I can’t see Oliver cheating. Something’s off. Don’t call Daisy—she’ll twist you up. These types’ll do anything for cash.”*
*”I’ve got a mate—ex-police, now a PI. Helped my colleague drag her kid out of some gang. I’ll ring him.”*
After some negotiating, Tanya hung up. *”Paul’s coming. Tell him everything.”*
Eleanor groaned. *”I’m losing my mind.”*
*”You’re not. This reeks of a scam. Some single mum heard about Oliver’s death and saw a payday. Too chicken to approach you herself, sent some batty old woman. Maybe she’s got a bloke in on it too. Saw something like this on telly.”*
*”You think?”* Hope flickered.
*”We’ll seeEleanor handed the evidence to Victor the next day, watching his smug facade crumble as she revealed the truth—Oliver had been innocent all along, and Victor’s greed had finally caught up with him.
