Elizabeth woke a few minutes before her alarm. She lay still, bracing herself for another day, just like yesterday, the week before, the month, the year. Her life ran smoothly, predictably, without surprises.
Except—yes—there had been one, years ago. Their son had sprung it on her and her husband. He’d gotten into university and declared he wanted to live alone. She’d panicked, begged him to stay. But he’d threatened to drop out and join the army. What could they do? They relented, even paid his rent. After graduation, he found work and refused their help.
Elizabeth rose carefully, not to wake her husband, and slipped into the kitchen. Soon, the flat filled with the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee, proper coffee, not that instant rubbish.
When her husband entered, smelling of shower gel, a steaming cup and a plate of toast waited for him. No eggs, no porridge—he wouldn’t touch them. He ate in silence, then left without a word.
“I’ll be late tonight. Faculty meeting,” he called from the hall.
Elizabeth followed, straightened his tie, adjusted his collar, brushed invisible lint from his shoulder—her ritual, the final stroke on a painting. In winter, it was his scarf. In summer, his tie. And always that flick of the fingers across his jacket, his coat, whatever the season demanded.
After he left, she tidied up, drank tea with lemon, and settled at her laptop. She worked from home, translating articles and books from French and German. The work flowed easily today; the book was engaging. She paused often, consulting dictionaries for just the right word—until the phone rang.
“Elizabeth? It’s Margaret from the department.”
The flat voice of her husband’s colleague conjured an image: a tall, plain woman in her late forties.
“Hello. What’s wrong? Is it about James?” Her pulse quickened.
“No, no, he’s fine.” A pause. “I need to speak with you. I’m nearby—could I pop in?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, though she wondered how Margaret had time during lectures.
Five minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Elizabeth let her in.
“Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I haven’t much time.”
They sat in the living room.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked.
“I hate to say this, but I can’t stay silent. Your husband is… involved with a student. A sweet girl, about twenty. Lives with her disabled mother.”
“Spare me the details.”
Margaret sighed. “I overheard a phone call. The girl’s pregnant. He promised to stand by her.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
“He’s had affairs before. With Veronica from the department, with Nina from sociology… This isn’t the first. Remember that conference in Austria three months ago? He never went. Rented a cottage outside Cambridge with her instead.”
“How do you know that?” Elizabeth’s voice was ice.
“You don’t believe me. You think I’m a bitter spinster, jealous.” Margaret’s lips thinned. “But imagine if this got out—a man his age, a grandfather, with a student? It’s grotesque.”
Elizabeth stood. “Thank you. I’ve heard enough.”
Margaret left. Elizabeth sat motionless, staring at the wall. Work was impossible. The calm had lasted too long. She’d expected something like this—but a student? How could he?
Years ago, her father had brought home an awkward, skinny student with thick glasses—his thesis advisor. They’d talked for hours in the study, then shared supper.
“He’s brilliant. A rare talent. He’ll go far,” her father had said.
The boy ate silently, stealing glances at Elizabeth. She’d been at university then, studying languages. His name was James. From a small northern town, her father had taken him under his wing—secured his postgraduate position, guided his research. Soon, he was practically family.
One evening, after she’d started translating, he’d visited.
“Dad’s at a symposium in Edinburgh. He won’t be back all week,” she’d said.
“I came to see you.” His ears turned red as he adjusted his glasses.
“Oh?” She’d smirked. “Need a translation?”
“I’d like to take you to an exhibition. Monet, Turner…”
She’d wanted to go—but none of her friends cared for art. So she went.
He surprised her. He spoke eloquently about the paintings, shared fascinating stories as they walked home. She barely noticed the glasses. Not love—but interest.
Her father had nudged her. “He’ll give you the life you’re used to. Serious, clever. You’ll be happy.”
When James proposed, she said yes. Then her father died suddenly. James took over his department, finished his thesis. They married a year later.
After her father’s death, her mother fell ill. She died when Elizabeth was pregnant. A new life began—working from home, raising their son, managing the house. She adjusted. And for years, she thought James loved her.
“You were wrong about him, Dad,” she murmured now. “He used us. Took your name, your flat, your job—and betrayed me all along.”
James’s lectures were legendary. Students never missed them. He spoke with passion, drama, wit—performances, not lessons. Even Elizabeth had loved listening. The thick glasses were long gone, replaced by contacts.
She stirred sugar into her tea—two spoonfuls, a rare indulgence—and fetched a biscuit. Lately, she’d watched her weight. But today called for sweetness.
Then she packed his suitcase and left it by the door.
“Going somewhere?” James asked when he returned. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” The light flicked on. Elizabeth blinked.
“No. You are.” Her voice was calm. “The flat is mine—my parents’. You’ll live with your… Lucy, was it? She’s having your child. You promised to care for her. So go.”
“Rubbish. What student? What child?”
“Don’t. This isn’t a soap opera. Just leave.”
He slammed the door. She cried then—for herself, for lost years. She’d given him everything. And he—
Days passed in a haze. Then their son visited, begging her to forgive James.
“Have you seen how they live? A tiny flat with her disabled mother. Where will the baby sleep?”
She cut him off. “He should’ve thought of that. He had everything—even an unloved wife. Now he’s got nothing but a pregnant girl. He chose this.”
“Will you be all right alone?”
“I’ll manage. Move in if you’re worried.”
He did—first to support her, then for good. Four months later, James collapsed mid-lecture. A heart attack.
At the funeral, they praised him. No one mentioned the affairs. Elizabeth felt no guilt. Though his exile had likely hastened it—he wasn’t used to hardship.
A month later, their son brought Lucy home. She hid behind him, wide-eyed.
“Mum, she’s staying. The baby’s due soon. I’m sorry, but it’s Dad’s child. If you send her away, I go too.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Couldn’t.
“Fine.” She walked out.
Next morning, she packed.
“I’ll stay at the cottage till autumn. I can’t look at her. I need to think.” She met her son’s eyes. “Take me there.”
“Mum, I feel like a monster. Kicking you out of your own home.”
“My decision. No one’s kicking me.”
The cottage soothed her. For the first time since James’s death, she slept deeply—even overslept. Working in the quiet was bliss.
“Hello there!” A man’s voice called from beyond the fence as she wandered the overgrown garden.
She frowned. “Can I help you?”
“Actually, yes.” He hesitated. “Your plot’s huge, and mine’s cramped. Mind if I plant potatoes behind your cottage? I’ll pay you in kind—some of the harvest.”
She agreed. The garden was wild anyway. She’d only stay a few weeks.
Next morning, sipping tea, she watched him out back—shirtless, tanned, digging with easy strength. He straightened, saw her, and waved. Flustered, she stepped back.
She found herself watching him often. One day, she asked how he reached her garden—the gate was locked.
“Loose board,” he said, pointing. Then, “You’re not here for gardening, are you?”
She told him everything—James, the student, the baby, her exile.
“Sell your flat,” he said simply. “Downsize.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that?
He left as she pondered.
“I made too much dinner. Care to join me?” she blurted.
They talked for hours. For the first time in years, she laughed. Then her son called.
“Mum, come home. It’s not the same without you.”
The following spring, as she knelt beside him planting new roses, Elizabeth realized she had stopped counting the years she’d wasted and started counting the mornings she couldn’t wait to begin.
