He Loved, But Not Me
Elizabeth stood by the window, gazing into the garden where her husband, Oliver, was deep in conversation with their neighbour, Rebecca. Again. This had become a daily occurrence. They lingered near Rebecca’s car, her hands animated as she spoke, while Oliver listened intently, nodding, occasionally laughing.
Elizabeth stepped back to avoid being seen. A familiar ache settled in her chest—not jealousy, no. Something heavier. Understanding.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” asked their daughter, Emily, peering into the kitchen. “He promised to help me with my maths.”
“In the garden,” Elizabeth replied, keeping her voice steady. “He’ll be in soon.”
Emily nodded and dashed back to her room. Elizabeth flicked the kettle on and reached for the biscuit tin. Her hands moved automatically while her thoughts wandered far away.
When Oliver finally came inside, his smile was soft, distant—the one he only ever wore after talking to Rebecca.
“Hi,” he said, heading to the kitchen. “Any tea?”
“Just made some.” Elizabeth set a cup before him. “Long chat with Rebecca?”
“Not too long. She was telling me about her new job. She’s started at a marketing firm—at her age! Impressive, isn’t it?”
His voice brimmed with admiration, as if Rebecca’s success were his own. Elizabeth stirred sugar into her tea, silent.
“What will she be doing?”
“Client relations manager. She’s got the education, the experience—she’s really landed on her feet after the divorce. Strong woman, that one.”
_Rebecca._ Always Rebecca. Their neighbour, who had moved in across the street six months ago. A striking woman in her early forties, recently divorced, childless. Successful, independent, fascinating.
All the things Elizabeth had once been, before becoming a wife and mother. Not that she regretted her choices, but sometimes…
“Emily’s waiting for your help with maths,” she reminded him.
“Ah, right, nearly forgot.” Oliver drained his tea and headed upstairs.
Left alone, Elizabeth picked up his empty cup. A few tea leaves clung to the bottom. Her grandmother had once taught her to read fortunes in them, but she didn’t need divination now. The present was clear enough.
Oliver was in love. Not with her—his wife of seventeen years—but with Rebecca. He didn’t realise it yet, or perhaps refused to admit it, but Elizabeth saw the signs. The new shirts, the extra care with shaving, the way he found excuses to be outside whenever Rebecca returned from work. The light in his eyes when he spoke of her.
That light had once been for her.
“Mum, Dad said you went to uni too,” Emily said later, her maths book in hand. “Why don’t you work now?”
The question caught Elizabeth off guard. Emily’s curiosity was earnest—the fearless honesty of a fourteen-year-old.
“I worked when you were little,” Elizabeth replied. “Then I chose to focus on home and family.”
“Isn’t it boring?”
Boring? She’d never considered it. After Emily’s birth, she’d slipped into the rhythm of motherhood and never returned to the office. Oliver earned well; they wanted for nothing. It had felt right—being there, caring for her family.
“No,” she told Emily. “I’ve plenty to do.”
“Auntie Rebecca says women should be independent. That you shouldn’t lose yourself in family.”
Elizabeth stiffened. When had Emily spoken to Rebecca about such things?
“When did she tell you that?”
“Yesterday, near the front gate. She asked about school, and we got talking. She’s interesting, isn’t she? So well-travelled, knows loads.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “Very interesting.”
That evening, as Emily did homework, Elizabeth and Oliver sat in the lounge. He scrolled through an article on his tablet; she flipped through a magazine. A picture of domestic peace, if not for the thick silence.
“Oliver,” Elizabeth finally said. “We need to talk.”
He glanced up. “About what?”
“Us. Our family.”
“What’s wrong with us?”
Elizabeth hesitated, weighing her words. How to tell your husband you see him falling for another woman? How to explain you’ve become invisible in your own home?
“I think we’ve grown apart,” she said carefully.
“What makes you say that?” Oliver frowned. “We’re fine. No problems.”
“When did we last have a real conversation? Not about bills or chores—properly.”
“Dunno. Does it matter?”
The indifference in his voice told her the discussion was over. Oliver saw no issue because he didn’t want to.
“I suppose not,” she said, returning to her magazine.
The next day, Elizabeth joined the gym—something she’d long considered but never pursued. Now, with Emily older and home duties lighter, she had time.
In the changing room, she bumped into Rebecca.
“Elizabeth!” Rebecca beamed. “What a surprise! Taking up fitness?”
“Thought it was time,” Elizabeth said with a smile.
Rebecca looked radiant in her workout gear—toned, ageless. Elizabeth couldn’t help comparing herself, her spirits sinking.
“Fancy partnering up?” Rebecca suggested. “More fun with company.”
“Alright,” Elizabeth agreed, though her gut resisted.
They exercised, then went to a nearby café. Rebecca stirred her coffee, sighing.
“You’ve no idea how glad I am to have a friend here. After the divorce, I felt so alone.”
“Why did you split?” Elizabeth asked, though it was intrusive.
“He cheated,” Rebecca said simply. “Hardly even hid it. Assumed I’d endure it for the sake of the marriage.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No. Why live with someone who doesn’t respect you? Better alone than in a sham.”
Elizabeth sipped her tea, turning the words over. Did Oliver respect her? Or had she become just part of the furniture—a convenient homemaker?
“You and Oliver seem solid,” Rebecca remarked.
“Yes,” Elizabeth lied, the word sticking in her throat.
“He’s a good man,” Rebecca mused. “Kind, thoughtful. You’re lucky.”
There was warmth in her voice—more than neighbourly regard.
“Yes,” Elizabeth echoed, swiftly changing the subject.
Later, Elizabeth stood before the bedroom mirror. Forty. Not old, but no longer young. Soft curves from childbirth that never faded. Tired eyes lacking their old sparkle.
Beside her, their wedding photo sat on the dresser. Young, happy, in love. Oliver had looked at her like she was his universe.
Now Rebecca was.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?” Emily called from the doorway.
“I’ll cook soon,” Elizabeth said, turning away.
Over dinner, Oliver chatted about work. Elizabeth half-listened, pushing salad around her plate until he paused.
“How was your day?”
“Went to the gym. Got to know Rebecca better.”
“Really?” Oliver perked up. “How is she?”
“Fine. She spoke about the divorce.”
“Tough break,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “She’s resilient, though. Strong woman.”
That admiring tone again. Emily, too, noticed the shift in her father’s voice.
“Dad, why do you care so much about Auntie Rebecca?” she asked bluntly.
Oliver reddened.
“I don’t. Just hate seeing people struggle.”
“Right,” Emily said, letting it drop.
But Elizabeth saw the doubt in her eyes. Children sensed lies better than adults.
After dinner, Oliver called her to the sofa.
“Look at these flats in the new development,” he said, showing her his screen. “Maybe we should move?”
“Why?” Elizabeth frowned. “This house suits us.”
“Just an idea. Might find something better.”
She glimpsed the listings—near where Rebecca now lived.
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said. “Emily’s settled at school, my friends are here.”
“Yeah, suppose you’re right,” Oliver conceded reluctantly.
Later, washing dishes, Elizabeth’s mind churned. Oliver was already imagining life closer to Rebecca. Still fantasy, but a start.
That weekend, shopping with Emily, her daughter paused by a clothing rack.
“Mum, why don’t you buy pretty things?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything’s so plain. Auntie Rebecca always wears bright, stylish stuff.”
“She has a different life,” Elizabeth said. “Needs to dress smart for work.”
“Don’t you? Even for Dad?”
The question struck home. When had she last dressed to impress him?
“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “Let’s look.”
They chose a blue dress and a blouse. At home, Elizabeth modelled them.
“Mum, you’re gorgeous!” Emily said. “Show Dad!”
She wore the dress to dinner. Oliver noticed but barely reacted.
“Nice,” he said. “Special occasion?”
“Just felt like it.”
No admiration, no spark. His apathy broke something inside her.
On Monday, she met Rebecca by the front gate. Distraught, Rebecca confessed work troubles—her boss criticised her performance.
“Could you ask Oliver to pop round tonight?” Rebecca askedElizabeth agreed, knowing this would finally force Oliver to choose, and when he left that evening without looking back, she closed the door softly, understanding that sometimes love ends not with a shout but with quiet acceptance, and that was alright.
