Lost Love, Found Family
Edward had carried the weight of his thoughts for months—he wanted to leave. Not with shouts, not with shattered plates, not with tears. Just vanish, as if he’d stepped out for bread and never returned.
He and Eleanor had lived together for eight years. No children, no blazing rows, no fiery passions. Their life was smooth, like the tarmac on the high street of their little town. Every morning mirrored the last: coffee, toast, her neat handwriting in the diary. Once, he caught himself unable to remember how the previous Friday differed from this one.
Eleanor was the perfect wife. Too perfect, and it began to choke him. The house gleamed, dinner was always hot, everything done without his asking. Once, he thought of tea, and in the same moment, she walked in with a steaming mug.
“How do you guess?” he asked, masking his irritation.
“I just know you,” she said softly. “Because I love you.”
Edward nodded, but something tightened inside. He didn’t embrace her, didn’t kiss her—just muttered “thanks,” as if to a stranger. Feelings had faded silently, leaving emptiness. No anger, just indifference, more frightening than any fight. Eleanor seemed to understand. She visited his study less, touched him rarely, often went to bed alone.
One day, he noticed she’d stopped waiting for him by the door. Just retreated to the bedroom without a word, as if she’d already let him go.
—
Lucy crashed into his life like a spring gale. A young intern at their architecture firm, she was everything Eleanor wasn’t—vibrant, bold, with sparks in her eyes and laughter that made him feel alive. Her movements, her voice, even the way she tossed her pen onto the desk drew his gaze.
Edward noticed her at once but kept his distance. She was too young, too bright. Yet Lucy, sensing his interest, didn’t retreat. Lingering by his office, tucking her hair behind her ear, starting conversations that hid something more.
Soon, he thought of her constantly. Her voice echoed in his mind, her silhouette flashed in the office windows. For the first time in years, he felt alive. Guilt gnawed at him, but he brushed it aside: “Nothing’s happened.”
Until it did.
Late evening, an empty office, the lift. They were alone. Silence. Then Lucy stepped closer and kissed him—light, wordless.
“Wanted to try,” she whispered, slipping away with a smile.
Edward stood frozen, heart pounding like a schoolboy’s. His blood burned.
She made no further moves, but her glances, gestures, accidental touches pulled him like a magnet. She played the game subtly, never pushing. And he sank deeper, deaf to Eleanor’s voice across the dinner table.
Lucy filled his thoughts. He didn’t see how fantasies became betrayal.
They met at a roadside inn on the town’s edge. Rain tapped the windows, her perfume hung in the air. It happened quickly, feverishly. Edward felt free, as if shackles had dropped. He wasn’t a cheating husband—he was a man reclaiming his life.
Leaving, Lucy adjusted her hair and winked:
“We’re adults. No strings.”
He nodded, but unease stirred in his chest.
At home, dinner waited under a lid. Eleanor slept on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. He sat beside her, watching. She opened her eyes. They said nothing, but her gaze spoke volumes.
Edward wanted to explain—”I’m sorry,” “It’s not you,” “I’m lost”—but the words stuck. Eleanor didn’t ask. Just turned to the wall.
He hadn’t betrayed his wife—he’d betrayed the man who still waited for him.
Yet the next day, he drove to Lucy again.
—
Edward left for a business trip, delaying the inevitable talk with Eleanor. Lucy followed as if it were natural. Evenings blurred in his hotel room, erasing the past.
On the fourth day, he returned alone. Rain poured. Crossing the road, he saw a woman with a pram step onto the street. A car sped round the bend. Edward shoved them clear. The impact took him instead.
—
The coma lasted a week. The diagnosis was grim: spinal injury, risk of paralysis. Waking, he saw Eleanor. She sat by the bed, holding his hand. No tears, no words—just there.
Lucy visited on the fifth day. Lingered by the door.
“I’m too young for this,” she said coolly. “Not my fate.”
She left without a glance, as if closing a book.
Edward understood: she’d never known him. Never wanted to.
Eleanor stayed. Talked to doctors, cleared his tray, dozed in the chair by his bed. Her hand in his was all that anchored him.
After discharge, his life crumbled. Work let him go “gently.” He saw Lucy at the office with the new director. She passed without a look.
Treatment, medication, rehab—Eleanor, a schoolteacher, bore it all. One day, he noticed her sapphire ring was gone.
“It’s just a thing,” she murmured. “You matter more.”
—
Come spring, he took her to a riverside pub. Modest, with a fiddle playing and warm lamplight. Eleanor smiled, her eyes glowing with a warmth he’d once ignored.
“What can I do for you?” he asked as his tea cooled.
“I’d give my life for you,” she said. “But I need nothing. Just live.”
He took her hand, feeling its warmth for the first time in years.
A week later, Geoffrey Harrington—the businessman whose wife and child Edward had saved—called.
“I owe you,” he said firmly. “There’s a job. Desk work, no travel. I’ll teach you.”
Work brought purpose, income, hope. Edward felt needed again. But most of all, he wanted Eleanor back—not as his wife, but as the woman he’d loved and taken for granted.
He planned to propose anew. But she left first.
Morning brought breakfast as usual, his blanket straightened, a kiss on his brow. By evening, she was gone. A note waited:
“I knew about Lucy. The inn. I stayed silent because I lost our baby then. I didn’t want to live, but stayed for you. Now I leave for myself.”
Edward reread the words until they blurred. His hands shook, his heart thudded dully, but inside was hollow. The pain wasn’t sharp but smothering, like winter snow. He hadn’t known he’d destroyed something irreplaceable.
Days later, he found her. Knocked, pleaded. Eleanor answered—calm, in an old cardigan, eyes weary.
“Sorry. I didn’t know—” he began.
“You knew, Edward. You just didn’t care.”
The door shut softly, leaving him on the cold step.
—
Three years passed. Geoffrey’s business flourished; Edward became his right hand. Money, respect, trips abroad—all his. Yet each night, he returned to a flat that smelled only of loneliness. He stopped drinking tea in the mornings—without Eleanor, it meant nothing.
People called him cold, calculating. He didn’t argue. Ice lived where his heart had been.
Once, driving home, a song played on the radio. A woman sang, “I miss you…” Edward pulled over, gripping the wheel. The melody cracked his armour.
He called the station, requested a dedication. An hour later, the song returned:
“For Eleanor… If you’re listening—I miss you. Every day. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know if she’d hear. But he hoped, somewhere by an old wireless, she’d pause, and her eyes would shine.
For the first time, he wept—not from pain, but loss.
—
Late spring, he walked in the park. Slow steps, scanning faces, as he did more often. A boy of five—fair-haired, his anorak undone, stubborn gaze—barrelled into him.
“Dad?”
Edward froze. Breath locked. The boy took his hand:
“Dad, don’t you know me?”
A woman stepped from behind a tree, flustered:
“Tommy, that’s not your dad. Come on—”
But the boy pulled free:
“It’s Dad! Mum said he’d find us!”
Edward stared, recognising his own chin, his eyes. The woman herded the child away:
“Sorry, he imagines things—”
But Edward knew: this was his son.
—
A week of restless searching yielded nothing. Then fate intervened.
Late after work, he stopped at a chemist. A shout in an alley, a blow to the head, a mugging, an ambulance. The A&E reeked of antiseptic, lights humming.
The door opened. A woman in scrubs entered, scanning a chart. She looked up—and stilled.
“Edward?”
It was Eleanor.
She paled but approached. Cleaned his wound, bandaged it—gently, as she’d once made his supper. Her eyes were tired, but pain flickered there.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“LivingEdward reached for her hand, knowing this was his last chance to mend what he’d broken.
