“I thought you weren’t coming back…” — a tale of one return
When Andrew came home from work, he dropped his briefcase by the door, kicked off his shoes, and shuffled into the kitchen.
“What’s for supper?” he asked out of habit.
Penelope didn’t even turn around.
“Nothing. Not that it matters. I spoke to the landlady today. Told her we’re moving out by month’s end.”
Andrew froze.
“What? We agreed we hadn’t found another place yet.”
“Why bother looking?” She turned with a smirk. “We’re moving in… with your ex-wife, Eleanor.”
He sank onto a chair, stunned.
“Penelope, have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all. You said yourself half the flat still belongs to you. We’ll save money, I’ve already found a nursery for Oliver nearby, and the shops are just round the corner.”
Andrew struggled to breathe. For years, he hadn’t felt in control of his life. Work paid poorly, the construction job he’d pinned his hopes on was delayed, and money was running desperately thin.
Things with Penelope had been sour for ages. She was younger, demanding, and accustomed to luxury. Once, it had been alluring. Now, it was exhausting.
After a long hesitation, he rang Eleanor.
“We’re in a bind. Need somewhere to stay for a few months.”
“It’s your home too, Andrew. Of course, come over,” she replied calmly.
When they arrived, Penelope glanced around the flat and wrinkled her nose.
“Bit gloomy,” she muttered, striding through in her shoes. “It’ll do.”
Eleanor endured it all in silence. But when it came to the kitchen, she laid down the rules.
“We take turns cleaning. Cook your own meals. Fridge is shared—but with separate shelves.”
Penelope was livid.
“We didn’t sign up to live by your rules!”
“And we didn’t sign up to run a boarding house,” Eleanor replied, voice steady.
The next month was a nightmare. Penelope needled Eleanor, hinting she should leave. But Eleanor held firm. Andrew stayed silent—he knew this was his fault.
One day, Eleanor announced,
“I’m visiting my parents for a bit. Just… please don’t wreck the place.”
Penelope barely hid her glee. The very next day, she brought it up again.
“I’ve commissioned a designer, picked out tiles—need to pay the deposit—”
Andrew snapped.
“Have you gone mad? We never discussed this! I won’t pay a penny!”
“And who are you to decide?” she shot back. “You stopped being a husband years ago. Now you’re just an empty wallet.”
That evening, she packed her bags.
“Oliver and I are going to Bath. If you want us back, come fetch us. And bring money.”
Andrew silently pulled out his card and tossed it into her suitcase.
“I’ll see my son on Sundays.”
When the door closed behind them, Andrew felt free for the first time in years. He stood by the window, staring at the river below.
A week later, Eleanor returned. Quiet as ever. He heard the bath running and rushed in, forgetting someone else was home again.
“Sorry—” he mumbled when he saw her.
She walked to the kitchen, and without turning, he confessed,
“I think I still love you.”
“And I, Andrew. But there’s no going back. Only starting over.”
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
“Ready, he says…” She gave a wry smile. “Suppose I’ll be supporting you again, then. Hungry?”
“Starving. Haven’t eaten all day.”
“Then peel the potatoes. Around here, we do things ourselves, you know.”
