On the day of our golden wedding anniversary, my husband confessed he had loved another woman all his life.
“Not that one, Colin, not that one! I told you a hundred times!”
Margaret Elizabeth waved her hand irritably toward the old record player. Colin, her husband, shrugged guiltily and went back to sorting through the stack of records neatly arranged on the carved oak dresser.
“What, then? This one? ‘Moonlight Serenade’?” He glanced at his wife doubtfully.
“What do you mean, ‘Moonlight Serenade’? I asked for ‘Lavender Blue’! The children will be here soon, the guests are arriving, and its as silent as a grave. Its our golden anniversary, for heavens sake! Fifty years! Do you even understand what that means?”
Colin sighed, his stooped shoulders sagging further. He had always been a quiet man, but with age, he had retreated even deeper into himself. Margaret had long grown accustomed to his silence, to that distant look in his eyes that always seemed to gaze past her, through the walls of their cosy two-bedroom terrace house. She had put it down to weariness, to age, to his nature. Fifty years was no small thing. One got used to everything.
At last, the familiar melody began to play. Margaret softened at once, smoothing the folds of her new champagne-coloured dressa gift from her daughter, Lucy. The room smelled of freshly baked pies and vanilla. On the large round table, draped in a crisp white cloth, the salad bowls were already set out, and crystal glasses glimmered 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 and put on your best shirt, for goodness sake. Dont embarrass yourself in front of the grandchildren.”
He nodded silently and left the room. Margaret was alone. She looked around at the fruits of her labour: the polished parquet floor, the starched curtains, the framed photographs lining the walls. There they were, she and Colin, so young in the black-and-white wedding portrait. Sheslender, laughing, with a wreath of daisies in her hair. Heserious, in a stiff suit, looking straight at the camera. Then a photo with their son, little Edward, in his arms. And another, all four of themEdward and Lucy, grown upon holiday in Cornwall. A whole life. Fifty years.
It felt like yesterday. She, a city girl, had come to the small village by assignment to teach at the local school. There, she met himthe quiet, awkward local engineer. He never spoke flowery words or brought armfuls of roses. He was simply therefixing her leaky tap, meeting her after work in the snow, bringing jars of his mothers pickled onions. His steadiness won her over more than any grand romantic gesture. And when he proposed, she had said yes without hesitation.
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. The children stood on the doorstep, arms full of flowers and noisy grandchildren in tow. The house filled with laughter, chatter, and bustle. Edward, her serious son, now a doctor, shyly handed them a holiday voucher for the Lake District. Lucy, her chatterbox daughter, read a tearful poem she had written herself. The grandchildren presented their clumsily drawn pictures.
Margaret beamed. She sat at the head of the table, beside Colin, feeling like a queen. Her life had been a success. She had a wonderful husband, marvellous children, a home full of love. What more could one ask for? She glanced tenderly at Colin. He sat stiffly in his best shirt, smiling. But the smile was strained, and his eyes were fixed on some distant point.
The evening flew by. The guests left; the children, after putting the grandchildren to bed, departed. The house fell quiet once more, save for the soft music from the old record player.
“That was lovely, wasnt it?” Margaret said as she cleared the dishes. “The children did us proud. And the grandchildren”
Colin didnt answer. He stood by the window, staring out at the night. Margaret went to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Whats the matter, Colin? Tired?”
He flinched at her touch, then slowly turned. In the dim glow of the lamp, his face looked strange, worn.
“Margaret,” he began, voice unsteady. “Margaret, I”
“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Are you unwell? Is it your blood pressure?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I have to tell you. I cant carry this any longer. Fifty years… its too long.”
Margaret froze, her hands dropping. A cold dread settled in her chest.
“Tell me what, Colin? Youre frightening me.”
He took a deep breath, eyes downcast. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth.
“On our golden anniversary… its only right. To be honest. Just this once.”
He fell silent, gathering his courage. The room was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the clock.
“Ive loved another woman all my life, Margaret.”
The words dropped like stones into still water. Margaret stared at him, uncomprehending. It couldnt be. It had to be some cruel, absurd joke.
“What?” she whispered. “Who?”
“Lillian,” he exhaled, and the name, spoken with such quiet longing, burned Margaret worse than a slap. “Lillian Hart. You remember her? We were in the same class.”
Lillian Hart. Of course she remembered her. The bright, lively girl with the thick blond braid and dimplesthe prettiest in school. All the boys had adored her. But she had married some officer and left the village right after graduation. Margaret had hardly seen her since.
“But… that was school,” she stammered, clinging to the thought like a drowning woman. “A childhood infatuation…”
“No, Margaret,” he gave a bitter smile. “Not childish. I meant to propose after I finished my National Service. I wrote to her. When I came back… she was already married. A month later, she left with her husband for Gibraltar.”
As he spoke, Margarets world crumbled. All fifty years of her happy marriage shrank into one great lie.
“Why… why did you marry me, then?” Her voice broke. Tears she hadnt noticed were streaming down her face.
“I was broken,” he murmured, as if to himself. “My mother said, ‘Stop moping, life goes on. Look, Margarets a fine girl. Clever, decent.’ So I thought… why not? You were good. Steady. I thought Id forget her in time.”
“And did you?” she cried, her voice raw with pain.
Colin said nothing. The silence was worse than any answer.
Margaret recoiled as if he were a leper. She looked at this grey, stooped old man and didnt recognise him. This wasnt her Colin, her dependable, quiet husband of fifty years. This was a stranger who had stolen her life.
“All this time…” she whispered. “When you said you loved me… you lied? When our children were born… you were thinking of her? When we built this home… went on holidays… all those years?”
“I was grateful to you, Margaret,” his voice was hollow. “I respected you. You were a wonderful wife, mother. I… grew accustomed to you. In my way, I did love you. But it wasnt the same. Not the kind that makes your heart stop.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. From a hidden compartment, he drew a tiny, faded photograph. Margaret peered over his shoulder. Lillian Hart smiled up at heryoung, carefree, her hair blowing in the wind.
“Ive carried it with me. Always.”
That was the last straw. Margaret turned and stumbled toward the bedroom. She collapsed onto the bed, still in her fine dress, and weptnot softly, but in great, soundless heaves that shook her whole body. The world had lost its colour. All that remained was emptiness and one word: deception.
She didnt know how long she lay there. Colin never came in. Perhaps that was for the best. She didnt want to see him. She didnt want to see anyone. Fragments of memories swirled like flies in her mind. There they were, planting an apple tree in the garden. He had said, “Well feed our grandchildren with these apples.” And all the while, perhaps, he was imagining planting that tree with Lillian. There they were, celebrating their new home. Friends shouted, “Kiss the bride!” He kissed her, but his eyes held that same quiet sorrow.
She rose, walked to the mirror. An old, tear-streaked woman stared back, her eyes lifeless. She traced the wrinkles, the grey streaks. Fifty years. She had given this man everythingher youth, her beauty, her love. And he… had merely lived beside her, keeping another woman in his heart.
That night, she didnt sleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Colin crept in later and lay on his side of the bed, careful not to touch her. A few inches
