“Hello, are you listening? I just want to open your eyes…”
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. “I can’t forgive him. I can’t just overlook betrayal like that. On the other hand, haven’t I lived well all these years? A flat in central London, a comfortable life. Nothing to complain about. And yet…”
***
At school, Eleanor had been a straight-A student. That’s simply how her parents raised her—everything had to be done properly.
Edward, on the other hand, scraped by with average marks in most subjects except maths. There, he was brilliant, winning every competition. He was always dishevelled, with a terrible habit of running his fingers through his hair when frustrated. A slight hunch, thick-framed glasses—the picture of a bookish type. Girls didn’t interest him; theorems and equations were all he cared about.
One breaktime, someone accidentally bumped into him. His glasses fell and shattered. In class, he squinted at the chalkboard, struggling to see. Eleanor suddenly noticed his profile—like some Greek general’s—strong jaw, straight nose, well-defined lips, lashes framing his eyes.
A nudge to her shoulder made her flinch.
“He’s actually quite handsome without those glasses,” her friend Lucy whispered.
Eleanor looked away, embarrassed, but minutes later, her gaze wandered back. After lessons, she approached him and told him he looked better without glasses.
“Ever tried contacts?”
The next day, he arrived at school without glasses—and without squinting. She realised his parents had bought him lenses.
“Better?” he asked her at break.
“Much,” Eleanor smiled.
From that day on, they were inseparable. He’d ramble about theorems, she’d listen with adoring eyes. She helped him with English and literature.
As a maths champion, universities clamoured for him. Because of Edward, Eleanor changed her plans to study literature in her hometown and followed him to London.
As university drew to a close, her parents insisted she return home. She’d lost hope of staying with Edward—until, just before she left, he clumsily dropped to one knee and proposed, ring box in hand like something from an old film.
Edward started a PhD, then lectured first-years. They were given a tiny room in the faculty housing—a cramped flat with a small kitchen and bathroom.
An average student, Eleanor’s only path was teaching. A year and a half later, she had a daughter and never returned to work. Edward defended his thesis, won a prestigious award for proving some complex theorem. Eleanor stayed home, raising their girl.
Edward’s papers were published internationally. Harvard invited him to lecture. A doctorate in mathematics marked the next step in his career. Eleanor took pride in his success—she’d played her part. They moved from faculty housing to a flat in central London.
Friends called them the perfect couple, held them up as role models. Eleanor’s life revolved around Edward and their daughter Beatrice, who grew into a beauty and married a promising young artist.
Then, in a single day, it all fell apart. Eleanor was about to start lunch when the phone rang. She answered warmly.
“Are you Edward Somers’ wife? I’m calling to warn you. Your husband is cheating. Don’t hang up,” the stranger urged, though Eleanor hadn’t moved to do so. “He had an affair with my daughter. She was in pieces when he left her. Now he’s seeing a young lecturer. They attend conferences together… Hello, are you listening?”
The line had long gone dead, but Eleanor still held the receiver. She wasn’t one for gossip—she needed proof. She went to the university, found his lecture hall, and waited.
When the doors opened, students poured into the corridor. Edward passed her without a glance—he never looked around. As he entered his office, she waited a moment, then opened the door. He was kissing a beautiful young woman…
***
“What do I do now?” she asked herself for the hundredth time, staring at the floral wallpaper.
Eleanor flinched as the key turned in the lock.
“I didn’t make lunch,” she panicked out of habit, then steadied herself. “Why bother? Let his new woman do it.” She pulled a suitcase from the cupboard and started packing.
“Taking all your dresses to the dry-cleaner’s?” Edward asked, stepping into the bedroom. His tone wasn’t surprise—it was mockery. She met his gaze directly.
“These are *your* clothes. You’re the one leaving.”
“Why? Where?” Now, finally, he was shocked.
“You’re seriously asking? I saw you with her today… She’s pretty. You could’ve told me yourself instead of waiting for strangers to do it.”
“Told you what? What strangers?” Now he was nervous.
“Kind souls who informed me about your affairs with students, young lecturers. Admit it. Be a man.”
“I don’t understand…” Edward looked away.
Eleanor sat on the bed, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.
“Eleanor—” He reached for her shoulder.
She jerked away.
“I gave my whole life to you, freed you from every distraction so you could prove your theorems, look respectable. And you… You thought I’d never leave. I’ve got nothing. All this—” She gestured around the room, “—bought with your money. All I know is keeping house. You stopped seeing me—like I was furniture.”
“Where would I go? You’ve got options. Think your mistress will agree to sell this flat?” She snapped the suitcase shut and pushed it toward him. “That’s it. Go to her.”
“You’re wrong. *I’m* not leaving. If you want out, *you* go.”
The words knocked the breath from her. She stared, lungs frozen.
“You’ll bring her here? Into our flat? Into our *bed*? God, I don’t even know you anymore.”
For a moment, they locked eyes. Then Eleanor walked out. She waited for him to stop her. He didn’t.
Dazed, she stepped outside and collapsed onto a bench, legs giving way. The shock of the last few hours hit her.
“Eleanor, dear—are you ill?” A neighbour paused beside her.
She shook her head. Digging into her handbag—she never left without it—she called a cab. No use sitting here, making a spectacle.
“Mum? Are you alone? What’s wrong?” Beatrice asked when Eleanor arrived at her doorstep.
“I’ve left your father. Can I stay here while I figure things out?” She sank onto a footstool.
“*Left* him? Why?”
“He’s got a young mistress. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen. He’s a public figure. I won’t have people whispering behind my back. They’ll all know soon.” She covered her face.
Beatrice brought her water.
“Of course you can stay, but… Victor works from home, he hates interruptions. He won’t even let *his* mum visit unannounced. Maybe… go back? Or a hotel?”
Eleanor couldn’t believe her ears. She’d shielded Beatrice from every hardship. Now her own daughter wouldn’t let her past the entryway. Well. She’d raised her that way.
“You’re right. A hotel’s smarter.” She stood.
“I’ll call you a cab—someplace nice but affordable.”
“Thanks.” Eleanor walked out.
Why was this happening? When had she lost her daughter? Should she have stayed, demanded the flat be sold? But crawling back was humiliating. She checked into a hotel.
Morning came before she remembered why she wasn’t at home. Then it all crashed over her again. Fifty years old. Unwanted—even by her own child.
She wasn’t hungry, though she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Sitting here wallowing was unbearable. She walked out, sat on a park bench. *What now? How will I live? All I know is keeping house. My savings won’t last.*
Her eyes landed on a discarded paper—*Jobs for You*. Someone had circled ads; others were torn out. She skimmed. Live-in nanny, housekeeper positions. *”Professor’s wife becomes a maid.”* The thought sickened her. *Tutoring?* Edward had travelled often; she’d practised English with him. At least she had that.
She bought a fresh paper and returned to the hotel. Many sought English tutors. She picked ads with no age or experience requirements.
But she couldn’t call. Her phone was nearly dead. Tomorrow, once Edward left for work, she’d go home, grab essentials and her charger. Her mood lifted—suddenly, she was starving.
Next morning, she returned. First thing, she plugged in her phone and packed. It rang—unknown number. She hesitated. If Edward or Beatrice had grown a conscience, why hide behind a blocked ID?
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Somers? Your husband’s in cardiology… Heart attack… He asked me to call you.”
She almost asked *why her*—wasn’t there a new Mrs. Somers?—but just headed to the hospital. Edward brightened whenShe stepped onto the train home, the weight of the past slipping away as the countryside blurred outside the window, and for the first time in years, she breathed freely.
