On the day of our golden wedding anniversary, my husband admitted he’d loved someone else his whole life.
“Not that one, Colin, not that one! I told you a hundred times!”
Margaret waved her hand irritably at the old record player. Colin, her husband, shrugged guiltily and went back to flipping through the stack of vinyls neatly arranged on the antique dresser.
“This one? ‘Sweet Caroline’?” He glanced at her uncertainly.
“What on earthI said ‘Lavender Blue’! The kids will be here any minute, the guests are arriving, and weve got silence like a funeral. Its our golden anniversary, for heavens sake! Fifty years! Do you even understand what that means?”
Colin sighed, his stooped shoulders drooping further. Hed always been a quiet man, but 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 past her, through the walls of their cosy little semi-detached in Surrey. Shed blamed it on fatigue, on age, on his nature. Fifty yearsthat was no joke. You got used to everything.
Finally, the familiar melody started playing. Margaret softened immediately, smoothing the wrinkles from her new champagne-coloured dress, a gift from their daughter Emily. The house smelled of freshly baked scones and vanilla. The dining table, covered in a crisp white cloth, was set with salad bowls and crystal glasses that shimmered 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 of the room. Margaret was left alone. She looked around at the fruits of her labourthe polished oak floors, the starched curtains, the framed photos on the walls. There they were, young and bright-eyed, in black and white from their wedding day. Herslender, laughing, with daisies woven into her hair. Himserious, in a sharp suit, staring straight into the camera. Then photos of their son, little Thomas in his arms. Then the four of them, with grown-up Thomas and Emily, on holiday in Cornwall. A whole life. Fifty years.
It felt like yesterday. Her, a city girl, sent to teach in a small village school. Meeting him, the local engineer, quiet and a little awkward. He never showered her with sweet words or bouquets. He just stayed. Fixed her leaky tap, walked her home through snowstorms, brought jars of his mothers homemade jam. His steadiness won her over more than any grand romance ever could. And when he proposed, shed said yes without hesitation.
The doorbell snapped her out of her thoughts. The kids burst in with armfuls of flowers and noisy grandchildren. The house filled with laughter, chatter, the usual chaos. Thomas, their serious sonnow a doctorsheepishly handed them a spa weekend voucher. Emily, their bubbly chatterbox of a daughter, tearfully recited a poem shed written. The grandkids proudly presented their scribbled drawings.
Margaret beamed. Sitting at the head of the table beside Colin, she felt like royalty. Her life had been good. A wonderful husband, amazing children, a home filled with lovewhat more could she want? She glanced at Colin affectionately. He sat straight-backed in his best shirt, smiling. But the smile seemed strained, and his eyes were distant again.
The evening flew by. The guests left, the kids bundled the sleepy grandkids into the car, and the house fell quiet once more. Only the soft hum of the record player remained.
“Lovely evening, wasnt it?” Margaret said as she cleared the table. “The kids did us proud. And the grandkids”
Colin didnt answer. He stood by the window, staring at the night outside. Margaret came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Colin? You alright?”
He flinched at her touch, turned slowly. In the dim lamplight, his face looked unfamiliarhaunted.
“Maggie,” he began, voice trembling. “Maggie, I”
“What is it?” Her stomach twisted. “Are you feeling ill? Your blood pressure?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I have to tell you. I cant carry this anymore. Fifty years its too long.”
Margaret froze, her hands falling to her sides. A cold dread settled in her chest.
“Tell me what, Colin? Youre scaring me.”
He took a deep breath, his eyes flickering away. His fingers nervously fidgeted with 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 ticking of the grandfather clock.
“Ive loved someone else my whole life, Maggie.”
The words dropped like stones into still water. Margaret stared. She must have misheard. This couldnt be real. Some cruel, absurd joke.
“What?” she whispered. “Who?”
“Lydia,” he exhaled, and the way he said that nameso tender, so achingcut deeper than any slap. “Lydia Whitmore. Remember her? We were in school together.”
Lydia Whitmore. Of course she remembered. The bright, laughing girl with the thick blonde plait and dimples. The prettiest in their year. Every boy fancied her. But shed married some army chap and moved away right after graduation. Margaret hadnt seen her since.
“But that was school,” she stammered, clinging to the thought like driftwood. “A childhood crush”
“No, Maggie,” he gave a bitter smile. “Not a crush. I was going to propose after my National Service. Wrote to her. When I got back she was already married. Left for Germany with her husband a month later.”
As he spoke, Margarets worldso safe, so certaincrumbled. Fifty years of marriage shrivelled into one long lie.
“Then whywhy did you marry me?” Her voice broke. Tears she hadnt felt were already on her cheeks.
“I was broken,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Mum said, ‘Stop moping, life goes on. Look at Margaretsuch a good girl. Clever, decent.’ So I thought why not? You were good. Safe. I thought Id forget her.”
“And did you?” she choked out, fury and pain tangling in her voice.
Colin said nothing. That silence was worse than any answer.
Margaret stumbled back as if burned. She stared at this grey, stooped old man and didnt recognise him. This wasnt her Colin. Not her steady, quiet husband of fifty years. This was a stranger whod stolen her life.
“All this time” she whispered. “Every time you said you loved methat was a lie? When our children were born you were thinking of her? When we built this house, when we went on holidays always?”
“I was grateful to you, Maggie,” his voice was hollow. “I respected you. You were a wonderful wife, mother. I grew fond of you. In my way, I did love you. But not like that. Not the heart-stopping kind.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a battered old wallet. From a hidden compartment, he slid out a tiny, faded photograph. Margaret peered over his shoulder. Lydia Whitmore grinned backyoung, carefree, windswept hair flying.
“I carried this. Always.”
That was the final blow. Margaret turned and staggered to the bedroom. She collapsed onto the bed, still in her nice dress, and sobbed. Not delicate tears, but silent, heaving gasps that shook her whole body. The world lost colour, sound. Only emptiness remained, and one word: lie.
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 buzzed like fliesplanting the apple tree in the garden (“Well feed the grandkids with these,” hed said, but had he been picturing Lydia beside him?), their housewarming (friends cheering as they kissed, but his eyes still shadowed).
She forced herself up, faced the mirror. A wrinkled, tear-streaked woman stared back. She touched the lines by her eyes, the grey streaking her hair. Fifty years. Shed given this man everythingher youth, her love, her life. And he hed just existed beside her, keeping another woman in his heart.
She didnt sleep. Lay staring at the ceiling. Colin crept in later, perched on the very edge of the bed, careful not to touch her. The inches between them might as well have been miles.
Morning came. Margaret got up at six, like always. Made tea, buttered toast. Moved like a wind-up toy. When Colin entered the kitchen, she didnt look up. Just set his cup down and sat opposite.
“What now?” she asked, voice flat.
“I dont know, Maggie,” he looked wrecked.
