*Destiny*
“Just spoke to Cynthia. Can you believe it? Andrew’s gone off the rails again,” said Margaret, as the telly cut to an ad break during her favourite soap on ITV.
She glanced at her husband. He was half-reclined against the raised pillows, watching the commercials with mild interest.
“Dave, you listening? Andrew’s at it again,” she repeated when he didn’t respond.
“I heard. What’s it to you?” he asked.
“What d’you mean? Cynthia’s my friend. I’m worried for her. Has Andrew said anything to you?” Margaret studied her husband’s profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages, either. And if you ask me, your friend’s a right drama queen. I’d steer clear too. Drop it, the show’s back on.”
“Oh, so it’s *her* fault now? That what he told you? Cynthia’s the problem, is she? Always the woman’s fault with you lot—anything to excuse your own rubbish behaviour. And who made her that way? He’s been at it for years!” Margaret pursed her lips as her husband glared at the screen.
“Listen, you moan at me often enough. How many times have I told you to wipe your feet? Track mud and sand all through the house. Never rinse the bath after… So am I a drama queen too? Maybe you’re at it as well? Keeping Andrew company?” She stared him down.
“Right, here we go. Now it’s my turn,” David sighed, tossing the duvet aside and getting up. “I’ll finish this episode in the kitchen.”
“I just feel sorry for her,” Margaret called after him.
“They were so in love once. He used to climb up to her second-floor flat with flowers. What’s wrong with you men? Never satisfied,” she shouted toward the open door.
“All sweet-talk when you’re courting—‘darling,’ ‘love,’ ‘treasure.’ Then the moment you find a mistress, we’re suddenly ‘hysterical,’” she muttered to herself, as if he could hear. “Cynthia forgave him so many times. First time, he was on his knees, swearing he’d never stray again, crying his eyes out. She stayed for the kids. Andrew’s not a bad bloke, but he’s drained the life from her. Reckon he’ll keep at it till his bits fall off…” She trailed off, listening. The kitchen was silent.
*Maybe David’s cheating too? Why’d he snap like that? Hit a nerve? Nah, he’s lazy. Andrew at least hits the gym. Mine’s got a belly, a receding hairline…*
But the seed of doubt took root, sprouting unease. Margaret stopped watching the telly, indifferent to the show now. She slipped on her slippers and walked to the kitchen. David sat on a chair, legs crossed, blowing smoke toward the cracked window. A draft crept in, making her shiver.
“Since when d’you smoke?”
He startled, ash tumbling onto the table.
“Blimey, scared me,” David said, brushing the ash onto the floor. “Maybe I’m upset too. Andrew and I go way back.”
“Then talk to him. How’s he setting an example for his boys?” Margaret 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 choices.” He took a final drag, stubbed out the cigarette, then shut the window.
“Let’s sleep.” He brushed past her.
Margaret shook her head, switched off the light, and followed. David lay turned away from her side of the bed. The news played softly. She turned off the telly and lay down. Lately, they’d been falling asleep like this—backs to each other.
They’d met at uni, smitten from the start. Married two years later. Life rolled on—rows, make-ups, the usual. Their daughter grew up, graduated, moved to London. Margaret never thought much about happiness. But she *had* been happy. Friends divorced, remarried. Everyone had their story. Yet here they were—27 years together, 25 married. A quarter-century.
Her thoughts circled back to Cynthia. Her voice still rang in Margaret’s ears: *Why’s he doing this? I gave him everything. Had his children. Now no youth, no husband, alone in my old age…*
Across the bed, David lay wide-eyed in the dark, swallowing sighs, barely moving.
Two days later, David was late from work. Margaret didn’t fret—it happened. Traffic, mates, overtime. His mood always told the tale: cheerful and tipsy meant pints with pals; grumpy meant work stress.
Finally, the key turned in the lock. She heard him undress—no usual huffing. Then footsteps to the kitchen.
When she entered, David sat rigid against the wall, wound like a spring. Her stomach dropped. That same unease from before stirred. He stared ahead, tense, like a man bracing for bad news.
“Something wrong?” she asked softly, dread pooling in her chest, leaking into her eyes. “Want dinner warmed?”
“No, I ate.” He stood, avoiding her gaze, and left.
A faint whiff of perfume clung to him. Unfamiliar, yet known. She’d caught it before.
Margaret waited in the lounge, but he never came. Ill? Asleep already? She peeked into the bedroom. David sat on the edge of the bed, still in his suit, head bowed, hands locked on his knees.
“Dave…”
“Sit,” he said.
She obeyed, catching that scent again, the tension radiating off him. She already knew.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else,” he finally said.
“You’re leaving?”
Stupid question. Men only say this when they’ve decided.
“Yeah. I can’t fight it. Think about her all the time.”
*All the time. So it’s been going on. And here I was, thinking it was just lads’ nights.* She scoffed.
“If you go, I won’t take you back like Cynthia did.”
“I know. It’s decided. Can’t keep deceiving you. I’ll pack and go.”
She wanted to ask—*What about me? Our daughter? Twenty-five years?* But suddenly, she didn’t care. Always thought it wouldn’t happen to them. But she’d known—if he strayed, she’d never tolerate it. No “holding on” like Cynthia.
She left, shutting the door softly. Listened to hangers clinking, a suitcase zipping. Then he emerged, still suited, pausing beside her.
“Sorry.”
Margaret bit back tears and screams. No scenes. Let *her* ask how the wife let him go. Dignity intact. She’d cry later.
The door clicked shut. Sobs wracked her—anger, self-pity. Once the shock ebbed, she called Cynthia. Only she’d understand. They wept over lost youth, shared fates.
When their daughter phoned, Margaret said nothing. Told herself solitude suited her. No cooking, no mopping muddy floors, no snoring to keep her awake. She tackled long-neglected chores. Stress demands action, not stewing.
She waited for David to return. Knew she’d never forgive, but waited anyway. He didn’t. Not in a month, not in two. One evening, she logged into Facebook—untouched for ages.
Two messages. A stranger, “James,” wanted to chat. If free, he’d wait.
Her profile pic—a decade old. Smiling, happy. Used to get messages from foreign blokes whenever she updated it. Always deleted them.
Zooming in on James’s avatar—a stock image. No posts, no info. Odd. She nearly ignored it. Then—*Why not? Vent, spite David. Let him see I’ve moved on too.*
She wrote: *Married, but don’t mind polite chat. No innuendos.* They hadn’t divorced yet.
The exchanges began. James rambled, waxed poetic. Quoted Auden, Larkin. She grew fond of his letters—missed them when they lagged, fretted he was ill.
*Know what destiny means? “Destiny” comes from Latin—‘to determine.’ But also ‘destinare,’ to fix. Without purpose, we float. ‘Not meant to be’ means the soul wasn’t ready…*
His confessions followed: He’d hurt his wife, betrayed her. Felt hollow. Missed his old life, her steadiness…
Strange, how it mirrored her own split. She sympathised but didn’t share. Just vented about men’s fickleness.
Two months passed. She asked for a real photo. Didn’t care about looks—just wanted a face to the words. Or was he hiding something?
James changed his picture. Margaret scoffed. *Too ordinary. His letters were sharper.*
He replied he’d send a real one if she updated hers—hers wasShe hesitated, then finally sent the selfie—her real, tired, hopeful face—and waited, realizing that sometimes, love means choosing to see each other anew, flaws and all, and that forgiveness might just be the bravest destiny of all.
