**Fate**
“Spoke to Emily today. Can you believe it? Andrew’s gone off again,” said Margaret as the TV ads paused the drama playing on BBC One.
She glanced at her husband. He was half-reclining against the raised pillows, watching the ads with mild interest.
“Vic, are you listening? Andrew’s at it again,” she repeated when he didn’t respond.
“I heard you. What’s it to you?” he muttered.
“How can you say that? Emily’s my friend. I worry for her. Has Andrew mentioned anything to you?” Margaret studied his profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages. And to be honest, your friend’s a bit of a drama queen. Can’t blame him for straying. Let’s drop it—the show’s back on.”
“Oh, so it’s *her* fault, is it? That’s what he told you? The woman’s always to blame, isn’t she? Easier than admitting he’s just another straying tomcat. And who made her like this? Years of him running around!” Margaret pursed her lips while Victor kept his eyes fixed on the screen.
“You know, I nag you all the time. How many times have I told you to wipe your feet at the door? You drag mud and sand everywhere. Never rinse the bath after yourself… So am I a drama queen too? Maybe you’re stepping out on me as well? Keeping Andrew company?” She glared at him.
“Here we go. Now it’s my turn.” Victor threw off the duvet and got up. “I’ll finish this episode in the kitchen.”
“I just feel sorry for my friend,” Margaret called after him.
“They used to be so in love! He climbed up to her second-floor window with flowers once. What’s wrong with you men? Never satisfied?” she shouted toward the open doorway.
“When you’re courting us, we’re your ‘sweethearts,’ your ‘darlings.’ But find a mistress, and suddenly we’re just ‘dramatic’?” She muttered to herself, as if he could still hear. “Emily forgave him so many times. First time, he was on his knees, swearing he’d never cheat again, crying his eyes out. She stayed for the kids. Oh, Andrew’s a *good man*—he just sucked the soul out of her. Guess he’ll keep at it till the day he drops…” She trailed off, listening. No sound came from the kitchen.
*Maybe Victor’s cheating too? Why else would he snap like that? Hit a nerve? No, he’s too lazy. At least Andrew takes care of himself, goes to the gym. My Vic’s got a belly, his hair’s thinning…*
But the seed of doubt had taken root. Margaret no longer watched the TV, her interest in the show long gone. She slipped on her slippers and walked to the kitchen. Victor sat cross-legged on a chair, smoking, blowing wisps toward the cracked window. A draft crept in, making her shiver.
“Since when do you smoke?”
He jerked, ash tumbling onto the table.
“Blimey, you scared me.” Victor brushed the ash onto the floor. “Just… stressed, I suppose. Alex and I go way back.”
“Then *talk* to him. Has he no shame? What kind of example is he setting for his boys?” Margaret grabbed the ashtray from the windowsill and set it in front of him.
“As if he’d listen. Not my place to meddle. His life, his choices.” He took one last drag, stubbed out the cigarette, then shut the window.
“Let’s sleep.” He brushed past her.
Margaret shook her head, turned off the light, and followed. Victor lay on his side, back turned, the glow of some late-night talk show flickering. Margaret switched off the TV and the lamp. Another night spent facing opposite walls.
They’d met during the happiest years of university, head over heels. Married two years later. Life had its ups and downs, like anyone’s. Their daughter grew up, graduated, moved to London. Margaret never thought much about happiness—yet she *had* been happy. Friends divorced, remarried, each with their own story. But they’d stayed—27 years together, 25 married. A quarter-century.
Her thoughts drifted back to Emily. Her voice still echoed: *Why does he do this to me? I gave him everything. Raised his children. Now no youth, no husband—left alone in my old age…*
On the other side of the bed, Victor lay staring into the dark, holding his breath, refusing to sigh.
Two days later, Victor was late from work. Margaret didn’t fret—this happened sometimes. Traffic, a quick pint with mates, overtime. She could usually guess the reason by his mood. Tipsy and cheerful? Drinks with friends. Grumpy? Work troubles.
Finally, the key turned in the lock. She heard him undress—no usual huffing or shuffling. Then footsteps to the kitchen.
When she entered, Victor sat slumped against the wall. But his posture wasn’t relaxed—he was coiled tight. She felt his tension in the air. Her stomach dropped. The same unease from that night stirred inside. Victor stared ahead, as if weighing something heavy.
“Something wrong?” she asked softly, dread spreading through her, leaking into her voice. “Shall I warm up dinner?”
“No, I’m fine.” He stood, avoiding her gaze, and left.
Margaret caught the faintest trace of perfume—foreign, yet familiar. She’d smelled it before.
She waited in the living room, but Victor never came. Sick? Gone straight to bed? She checked the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed in his suit, hands clasped on his knees, head bowed.
“Vic…”
“Sit,” he said.
She obeyed, perching at a distance, catching that scent again. She already knew what he’d say.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else,” he finally admitted.
“You’re leaving?”
She didn’t need to ask. Men only said this when they’d already decided.
“Yes. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
*Constant thoughts. So it’s been going on a while. And here I was, naïve, thinking it was just the lads…* She scoffed.
“If you go, I won’t take you back. Not like Emily.”
“I know. I’ve made up my mind. I can’t keep lying. I’ll pack and leave tonight.”
She wanted to ask—what about *her*? Their daughter? Twenty-five years? But suddenly, none of it mattered. She’d *never* thought it would happen to them. Yet she knew—if he cheated, she wouldn’t forgive. She wouldn’t cling, like Emily.
She walked out, shutting the door softly. The sounds followed—hangers clacking, a zipper closing. Then footsteps. Victor paused beside her.
“Sorry.”
Margaret swallowed her tears, her scream. No scenes. The other woman would ask how the wife took it—she’d keep her dignity. She’d cry *after* he left.
The moment the door shut, she broke. Hurt, self-pity, anger. When the shock faded, she called Emily. Only *she* would understand. They wept together—over lost youth, over fate.
She told her daughter nothing. Claimed she *liked* living alone. No cooking, no mopping muddy footprints, no snoring. She caught up on chores, distracted herself.
Yet she waited. Knew she couldn’t forgive—but waited. He never came back. Not after a month, not after two. One evening, she opened her laptop, logged into social media—a relic from a decade ago.
Two unread messages. A stranger—*Fletcher*—wanted to chat. His profile picture was clearly stock. No posts, no friends. Weird.
She almost ignored him. Then—why not? A distraction. Rejected his advances but replied.
Their exchanges grew deep. He quoted Keats, Larkin. Rambling, sometimes profound.
*Know what ‘fate’ means? Latin root—‘fatum’—‘that which is spoken.’ Destiny decreed. But also ‘fari’—to speak. So fate’s not just what happens—it’s what we* say *happens…*
She waited for his messages. Missed them when they didn’t come.
After months, she asked for a real photo. He sent one—too plain, she teased. Not the wit she’d imagined.
*Send me a current one too. Your picture’s ten years old.*
Cheeky. Almost like he knew her. Still, she styled her hair like the old photo, even put on lipstick. Practiced smiles in the mirror. But didn’t send it.
Then he sent verse:
*”Still the snows erase each trace, freeze the blood within the vein. Too soon the rooks return to place, too late does love awake again.”*
Panic. *No.* She couldn’t handle declarations. Sat frozen, debating how to end it. But sheShe listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing in the hospital bed, fingers laced with his, and realized that sometimes love means choosing to stay—even when every other path seems easier.
