On the day of our golden wedding anniversary, my husband confessed hed loved another woman his whole life.
“Not that one, Colin, not that one! Ive told you a hundred times!”
Margaret sighed irritably, waving a hand at the old record player. Colin, her husband, shrugged guiltily and went back to flipping through the stack of vinyls neatly arranged on the oak sideboard.
“What, then? This one?” He held up a worn record sleeve. “Moon River?”
“For heavens sake, not Moon River! Lavender BlueI asked for Lavender Blue! The kids will be here any minute, guests are coming, and its silent as a grave. Golden wedding, Colin! Fifty years! Do you even understand what that means?”
Colin exhaled, his stooped shoulders slumping further. Hed always been a quiet man, and with age, hed retreated even more into himself. Margaret had long grown used to his silence, to that distant look in his eyes that always seemed to gaze right through her, past the walls of their cosy two-bedroom terrace house. Shed chalked it up to exhaustion, to age, to his nature. Fifty years was no joke. You got used to things.
Finally, the familiar melody floated through the room. Margaret softened instantly, smoothing the creases from her new champagne-coloured dressa gift from their daughter, Emily. The air smelled of roasted chicken and apple pie. On the large round table, draped with a crisp white cloth, plates and crystal glasses gleamed in the evening sunlight. Everything was ready for the celebration. Their celebration.
“Thats more like it,” she muttered, more out of habit than irritation. “Go put on your proper shirt, at least. Dont embarrass yourself in front of the grandkids.”
He nodded silently and shuffled out. Margaret was alone. She glanced around at the fruits of her labour: the polished hardwood floors, the starched curtains, the framed photos on the walls. There they were, young and hopeful, in the black-and-white wedding photo from 1972. Herslender, laughing, with daisies in her hair. Himserious in his stiff suit, staring straight at the camera. Then one with baby James in his arms. Another with Emily and James grown up, all four of them on holiday in Cornwall.
A whole life. Fifty years.
It felt like yesterday. Her, the city girl, sent to teach in a tiny village school. Meeting him, the local engineer, awkward and reserved. He never showered her with grand gestures or bouquets of roses. He was just there. Fixed her leaky tap, walked her home through snowstorms, brought jars of his mothers homemade jam. His steadiness won her over more than any flowery romance ever could. And when he proposed, she said yes without hesitation.
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. The kids burst in, arms full of flowers and noisy grandkids. The house filled with laughter and chatter. James, their serious sonnow a doctorsheepishly handed them a voucher for a spa weekend. Emily, their chatterbox daughter, tearfully recited a poem shed written. The grandkids thrust clumsy crayon drawings into their hands.
Margaret beamed. She sat at the head of the table beside Colin, feeling like a queen. Her life had been good. A wonderful husband, brilliant children, a home full of love. What more could she want? She glanced at Colin. He sat straight-backed in his best shirt, smilingbut it was strained, his eyes fixed on some distant point.
The evening flew by. Guests left, the kids bundled the tired grandkids into cars, and silence settled again. Only the soft crackle of the record player remained.
“Lovely evening, wasnt it?” Margaret said, clearing plates. “The kids did us proud. And the little ones”
Colin didnt answer. He stood by the window, staring at the night sky. She walked over and touched his shoulder.
“Colin? Whats wrong? Tired?”
He flinched at her touch, turned slowly. In the dim lamplight, his face looked gaunt, unfamiliar.
“Margaret,” he began, voice unsteady. “Margaret, I”
“What is it?” Her stomach tightened. “Are you ill?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I need to tell you. I cant carry this anymore. Fifty years its too long.”
Her hands fell limp. A cold dread pooled in her chest.
“Tell me what? Youre scaring me.”
He took a shaky breath, avoiding her eyes. His fingers twisted the edge of the tablecloth.
“On our golden anniversary seems fitting. To be honest. Just once in my life.”
He paused, gathering himself. The room was silent except for the tick of the mantel clock.
“Ive loved someone else all these years, Margaret.”
The words dropped like stones into a well. She stared, uncomprehending. It couldnt be real. Some cruel joke.
“Who?” she whispered.
“Lydia,” he breathed, and the namespoken with such aching tendernessburned worse than a slap. “Lydia Hart. Remember her? We were in school together.”
Lydia Hart. Of course she remembered. Vibrant, golden-haired, dimpled from always laughing. The girl every boy fancied. Shed married some army chap and left the village right after graduation. Margaret hadnt seen her since.
“But that was school,” she stammered, clinging to the thought like driftwood. “A childhood crush”
“No.” He gave a bitter half-smile. “Not just a crush. I was going to propose after my National Service. Wrote to her. When I came back she was already married. Left with him for Germany a month later.”
As he spoke, her world crumbled. Fifty years of marriage shrank into one great lie.
“Why why did you marry me, then?” Her voice broke. “If you loved her?”
“I was shattered,” he murmured, more to himself. “Mum said, Get on with it. Margarets a good girl. Clever, kind. So I thought why not? You were good. You were right. I thought Id forget her.”
“And did you?” she cried, voice raw with pain.
Colin said nothing. His silence was answer enough.
She recoiled as if he were diseased. This wasnt her Colin, her steady, quiet husband of fifty years. This was a stranger whod stolen her life.
“All this time” she whispered. “When you said you loved mewere you lying? When the children were born, were you thinking of her? When we built this house, went on holidaysalways?”
“I was grateful to you,” he said dully. “I respected you. You were a wonderful wife, mother. I I grew fond of you. In my way, I did love you. But not like that. Not the way that stops your heart.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a battered old wallet. From a hidden compartment, he withdrew a tiny, faded photo. Lydias face smiled upyoung, windswept, radiant.
“I carried her with me. Always.”
Margaret turned and stumbled to the bedroom. She collapsed onto the bed, still in her party dress, and sobbed. Not delicate tears, but silent, heaving gasps that wracked her whole body. The world had gone grey. Nothing left but emptiness and one word: fraud.
She didnt know how long she lay there. Colin didnt come in. Maybe that was for the best. She didnt want to see him. Didnt want to see anyone. Memories swarmed like wasps: planting the apple tree in the garden”Well feed the grandkids with these,” hed said. Had he been picturing Lydia beside him? Their housewarming party, friends shouting “Kiss the bride!”his lips on hers while his eyes held that same quiet sorrow.
She stood, faced the mirror. A tear-streaked, ageing woman stared back. She traced the lines on her face, the grey in her hair. Fifty years. Shed given this man everything. Her youth, her love, her whole self. And he hed just lived beside her, keeping another woman in his heart.
She didnt sleep that night. Just lay staring at the ceiling. Colin crept in later, perched on the very edge of the mattress, careful not to touch her. The inches between them might as well have been miles.
Morning came. She rose at six as usual, mechanically made tea and toast. When Colin entered the kitchen, she didnt look up. Just set his cup down and sat opposite.
“What now?” Her voice was flat.
“I dont know,” he admitted, looking wrecked. “Im sorry. I shouldnt have told you. Maybe it wouldve been better if”
“Better?” She laughed hollowly. “Better to live a whole life deceived? Do you have any idea what youve done? Youve cheapened all of it. Every memory.”
“Not all of it!” he burst out. “The childrentheyre real. The grandkids, this house, everything we builtthats real.”
“And
