Fate
“Guess who I spoke to today? Lucy. Alex is at it again,” said Theresa, as an ad break interrupted the soap opera on ITV.
She glanced at her husband. He was half-reclined against a propped-up pillow, watching the adverts with mild interest.
“Vic, are you even listening? Alex is being a complete prat,” she repeated when he didn’t respond.
“I heard you. What’s it to you?” he muttered, eyes still on the telly.
“What do you mean? Lucy’s my friend. I care about her. Has Alex said anything to you?” Theresa studied his profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages. And between you and me, your friend’s a drama queen. I’d stray too if I were him. Now drop it—the show’s back on.”
“Oh, is that so? Did he tell you that? So Lucy’s the problem, then. Typical. Blame the woman, won’t you? Easier than admitting you lot are just a bunch of tomcats. And who made her like that? He’s been at it for years!” Theresa pursed her lips as Vic stared stubbornly at the screen.
“Listen, I nag you all the time too. How many times have I told you to wipe your feet? You trail mud and sand everywhere. Never rinse the bath after yourself… Am I a drama queen too? Maybe you’re cheating as well? Keeping up with the lads?” She fixed him with a glare.
“Right, here we go. Now it’s my turn.” Victor threw off the duvet and stood up. “I’ll finish this episode in the kitchen.”
“I just feel bad for her,” Theresa called after him.
“They used to be so in love. He’d climb up to her second-floor flat with flowers. And now what? Not man enough for you lot anymore?” she shouted toward the open door.
“When you’re courting us, we’re ‘love’ and ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart.’ The second you find a mistress, we’re suddenly ‘hysterical,’” she muttered to herself, as if he could still hear. “Lucy’s forgiven him so many times. First time, he was on his knees, swearing on his life he’d never stray again, crying like a baby. She took him back for the kids’ sake. Alex is a decent bloke, but he’s worn her down. Guess he’ll keep at it till he drops dead…” She fell silent, listening. Not a sound came from the kitchen.
*Or maybe Vic’s cheating too? Why’d he bolt like that? Hit a nerve? Nah, he’s too lazy. Alex at least hits the gym. Mine’s got a belly and a receding hairline…*
But the seed of doubt had taken root, sprouting anxiety. Theresa lost interest in the telly, stood up, shoved her feet into slippers, and headed to the kitchen. Vic sat cross-legged on a chair, smoking, blowing tendrils of smoke toward the cracked window. A draft swept in, making her shiver.
“Since when do you smoke?”
He startled, ash tumbling onto the table.
“Blimey, you scared me.” Vic blew the ash onto the floor. “Maybe I’m upset too. Alex and I go way back.”
“Then talk to him. Isn’t he ashamed in front of the kids? What kind of example is he setting?” She grabbed the ashtray from the windowsill and set it in front of him.
“Like he’d listen. Not my place to lecture him. His life, his mess.” Vic took one last drag, stubbed out the cigarette, then closed the window.
“Let’s get to bed.” He walked past her without a glance.
Theresa shook her head, switched off the light, and followed. Vic lay on his side, turned away from her half of the bed. The news was on now—some bloke ranting about politics. She turned off the telly and the lamp, lying stiffly beside him. They’d been falling asleep like this for months, backs turned, miles apart.
They’d met at uni, head over heels, couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Married two years later. Life happened—arguments, make-ups, the usual. Their daughter grew up, graduated, moved to London. Theresa never thought much about happiness. But she’d been happy. Friends divorced, remarried, each with their own sob story. Meanwhile, they’d been together twenty-seven years, married twenty-five. A quarter of a century.
Her thoughts circled back to Lucy. Her voice echoed in Theresa’s ears: *”Why does he do this to me? I gave him everything. Had his kids. Now I’ve got no youth left, no husband, just facing old age alone…”*
On the other side of the bed, Victor lay wide-eyed, staring into the dark, swallowing sighs, trying not to move.
—
Two days later, Vic was late home from work. Theresa didn’t fret. Happened all the time. Traffic, mates, overtime. She could usually guess why by his mood. Cheery and tipsy? Pub with the lads. Grumpy? Work stress.
Finally, the lock turned. She heard him undoing his coat—no usual grunts or sighs. Then footsteps to the kitchen.
When she walked in, Vic was slumped against the wall, tense as a coiled spring. Her stomach dropped. That same creeping dread from before. He stared ahead, like a man bracing for bad news.
“Everything alright?” she asked softly, anxiety already spilling into her voice. “Want me to heat up dinner?”
“No, I’m good.” He stood, avoiding her eyes, and left.
Theresa caught a whiff of perfume. Not hers. But familiar. She’d smelled it before.
She waited in the living room, but Vic never came back. Sick? Gone straight to bed? She peeked into the bedroom. Still in his suit, he sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, head bowed.
“Vic…”
“Sit down,” he said.
She obeyed, catching that strange scent again, thick with tension. She already knew what he’d say.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else,” he finally admitted.
“You’re leaving?”
A pointless question. Men only say this when they’ve already decided.
“Yeah. I can’t fight it anymore. She’s all I think about.”
*All I think about. So it’s been going on a while. And here I was, naive, thinking it was just the lads.* She smirked.
“If you leave, I won’t take you back. Not like Lucy.”
“I know. I’ve made up my mind. I can’t keep lying. I’ll pack my things.”
She wanted to ask—*What about me? Our daughter? Twenty-five years?* But suddenly, none of it mattered. She’d always thought they were different. Knew she’d never tolerate cheating. Wouldn’t “keep him on a leash” like Lucy.
She left, shutting the door softly. Listened to hangers clacking, a suitcase zipping. Then Vic emerged, still in his suit. He paused beside her.
“Sorry.”
Theresa bit back tears, swallowed screams. No hysterics. Let the other woman wonder how calmly she’d let him go. Save the crying for later.
The second the door clicked shut, she sobbed—for humiliation, for self-pity. When the shock faded, she called Lucy. Only she’d understand. They wept together over lost youth, over the raw deal life handed women.
She lied when their daughter called. Pretended she loved living alone. No cooking, no muddy footprints, no snoring. Finally tackled all those chores she’d put off. Stress needed an outlet, after all.
She waited for Vic to come back. Knew she’d never forgive, but waited anyway. Weeks passed. Nothing.
One evening, she logged into Facebook—dusty with neglect. Two unread messages. A stranger named Edward wanted to chat. His profile pic was clearly stock—no other posts, no info.
Theresa almost ignored it. Then thought, *Why not?* Let Vic see she was moving on too.
She replied—*Married, but open to harmless chat. No innuendos.* (Technically true—they weren’t divorced yet.)
And so it began. Edward rambled about life, sometimes profound, sometimes messy. Quoted Auden, Larkin. She lived for his messages. If days passed without one, she worried.
*”Ever think about fate?”* he wrote once. *”It’s ‘doom’ and ‘soul’ smashed together—the judgment we earn. No soul without a self. ‘Meant to be’ just means ‘deserved.’ Funny, isn’t it?”*
Then came confessions. How he’d hurt his wife. Betrayed her. Felt unworthy. How new love wasn’t all sunshine—how he missed the quiet comforts of home…
Theresa froze. *Sounds like us.* But she didn’t share her own story. Just ranted about feckless men.
Two months in, she asked forTwo years later, as they sat on a park bench watching their granddaughter chase pigeons, Theresa handed Vic a crumpled printout of Edward’s messages and said, “Next time, just write me a bloody note instead of faking a midlife crisis.”
