Ah, my dear children, gather close, and I’ll tell you a tale that was once shared with me by a fellow lodger here in this care home. They say the old have nothing but stories to pass the time, and this one—well, it’s about a woman named Eleanor, her husband Gregory, and how she reclaimed herself. Listen well, for it’s no ordinary tale.
One evening, Eleanor sat scrolling through her tablet, gazing at a picture of turquoise waters and sand as white as fresh snow. “Gregory, look at this!” she said. “They say the hotel’s wonderful—just imagine waking up to that…”
But Gregory barely glanced up from his phone. “Eleanor, I’ve made a decision,” he muttered.
She blinked. They’d only just begun discussing their holiday, counting pennies from their shared savings. Eleanor had denied herself even a café latte, all for the sake of their dream trip. “What do you mean?” she asked, forcing a smile. “Found something better?”
“I’m going to the Maldives. Alone,” he said flatly, eyes still fixed on his screen.
The air left her lungs. A cold, slimy dread crawled up her neck. “Alone?” Her voice trembled. “We were supposed to—I saved for this!”
At last, he looked up—his eyes like ice, not a flicker of warmth. “Don’t make a scene, Eleanor,” he said, lips twisting. “Take a look at yourself.”
She shrank as if struck. She wasn’t overweight—just soft, womanly. She went to the gym three times a week, chose her meals carefully, but she hadn’t starved herself like the models he followed online. “What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, though she already knew.
He’d criticised her before—her stomach wasn’t flat enough, her hips too wide, her joy too childish. Now, Gregory smirked, as if relishing the moment. “I’m going alone. You should be losing weight, not lounging on beaches. I won’t be embarrassed by you in public.”
The words stung like slaps. Eleanor stared at this stranger—ten years of marriage shattered in an instant. No tears came, only emptiness. All those sacrifices, all those dreams—gone. “I see,” she said, her voice hollow.
Satisfied, Gregory returned to his phone, thinking he’d won. But Eleanor walked to the window, watching the bustling city below—cars, people, life. And then, suddenly, she felt free. She pulled out her phone, checked the secret account Gregory knew nothing about. It held twice what his Maldives trip cost. She texted her friends: “Girls, who’s joining me in Zanzibar next week?” Replies poured in like falling stars.
For two days, Gregory scarcely noticed Eleanor’s absence. He packed his swim trunks, bragged to mates, drafted captions for photos he hadn’t taken yet. He assumed she was at her mother’s, weeping, soon to crawl back begging forgiveness. He didn’t call. Meanwhile, Eleanor packed her things, bought her tickets. When Gregory fussed over misplaced shirts, he barely registered how she’d always folded them just so.
At the airport, he opened social media—and froze. There was Eleanor, radiant in a sundress, laughing with friends against a backdrop of palm trees and ocean. The geotag: Zanzibar. A joke? No—Katherine with a cocktail, Olivia pulling a face, and Eleanor grinning as she hadn’t in years.
Rage burned through him. How dare she? With whose money? He checked their joint account—untouched. She had her own? Secrets? That stung worse than the sunburn he’d later nurse. “Traitor!” he hissed, drawing stares. The entire flight, he messaged her—first furious, then demanding answers. Silence.
Meanwhile, Eleanor breathed deep. The ocean, the fruit, the laughter—she’d blocked Gregory before takeoff. On the third day, her friends convinced her to try diving. She hesitated, but the instructor, Anthony—tall, kind-eyed—eased her fears. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he said.
Underwater, she forgot everything—the fish dazzled her. When they surfaced, she was changed. “You smile when you’re unafraid,” Anthony said. “You should do it more often.”
That evening, over coffee, he asked about her—not her weight, not her flaws—just her. Meanwhile, Gregory hurled his phone across his bungalow—his card declined. The bank said Eleanor’s approval was needed. The ocean lost its charm. He was trapped in a cage of his own making.
He flew home economy, begging his father for the fare, enduring lectures. He’d storm in, he decided, make Eleanor grovel. But home was spotless, smelling of lemons, his bags neatly stacked. Eleanor emerged—sun-kissed, calm. “Oh, you’re back,” she said, as if he’d popped out for milk. “I’ve packed your things. Call a cab.”
“What is this?” he spat. “You think you can—”
“I think I can live,” she replied. “I filed for divorce online. Here’s my solicitor’s card.”
He didn’t take it. “The flat’s mine!” he shouted.
“Of course,” she nodded. “I’ve found another. Friends helped. No scenes—I’ve had a lovely holiday.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder. Gregory grabbed her wrist. “Where are you going?”
“In Zanzibar, I met someone,” she said. “He taught me not to fear depth—in diving, and in life. He saw me.”
Downstairs, Anthony waited. “Goodbye, Gregory,” she said. “Lose the weight yourself, if it matters so much.”
The door slammed. Gregory stood among suitcases, catching his reflection—not the alpha he’d imagined, but a pitiful man who’d wrecked everything.
Two years later, a café smelled of cinnamon. Eleanor stirred cocoa, smiling at Anthony as he held up knitted booties. “Too bright?” he asked. “Maybe beige?”
“She won’t care, as long as they’re warm,” Eleanor laughed.
Anthony had moved to her, sold his diving school. Their daughter kicked in Eleanor’s belly. She didn’t weigh herself, didn’t scold herself for sweets. She lived.
Then Gregory walked in—gaunt, grey. “Eleanor?” He forced a smile. “You’ve… filled out. I told you not to let yourself go.”
She glanced at him, at her belly, and smiled. “It’s called pregnancy, Gregory. People usually congratulate you.”
He deflated. Anthony returned with croissants, wrapping an arm around Eleanor. “Everything alright?” he asked, eyeing Gregory.
“Fine,” Gregory muttered. “Just an old acquaintance. I should go.”
Eleanor watched him leave, feeling only relief. “Who was that?” Anthony asked.
“No one,” she said. “Just a shadow from the past.”
She bit into her croissant, gazing out the window. Ahead lay life—warm, full of love and booties. Free of those who’d made her ashamed.
