Shadows of the Past: A Drama on the Doorstep
Oliver tiptoed into the flat, trying not to make a sound as he crossed the threshold of their old house on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Finally,” came his wife’s voice from the kitchen, soft but laced with mild worry. “You can’t keep staying so late at work. Fancy some supper?”
Oliver nodded silently and slumped into a chair. Eleanor—his wife—swiftly reheated the cottage pie, filling the kitchen with a comforting aroma.
“Darling, are you alright? You look a bit off,” she asked gently, studying his face with concern.
“Yeah, fine,” he muttered, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth. “It’s just… We need to talk.”
“Go on,” Eleanor said quietly but firmly, sitting opposite him.
“I’ve met someone else,” Oliver blurted out, bracing himself as if expecting a blow. He had no idea how Eleanor would react to his confession.
***
Earlier that evening, as Oliver was leaving, Imogen had pressed herself against him, clinging as if she couldn’t bear to let go. Her voice was breathy, almost pleading.
“Sweetheart, you *will* do it tonight, won’t you? Like you promised…”
“I don’t know,” Oliver mumbled, awkwardly returning the embrace. “But I’ll try…”
“Please do try,” Imogen whispered, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “Sooner or later, it has to happen…”
She kissed him, pulling him back into the warmth of the bedroom where time seemed to slow.
***
An hour later, Oliver trudged through the dark streets, his heart clenched with dread. How could he tell Eleanor? How could he look her in the eye—his rock for fifteen years—and admit he’d lost his head like some lovesick teenager? Worst of all, how could he justify tearing their family apart?
Images of their twin boys, Henry and Thomas, flashed in his mind. Their identical hazel eyes, full of trust, seemed to accuse him, as if they already knew his betrayal. Oliver shook his head, trying to dispel the thought.
He remembered how thrilled they’d been when they found out they were having twins—after the initial panic, of course. But Eleanor had been nothing short of magical. She could tell the boys apart with just a glance, juggling the household and raising them effortlessly. She’d breastfed them for nearly a year without complaint, never demanding more from Oliver than was fair.
After his long workdays, the house was always warm with supper, Eleanor’s smile, and the boys’ laughter. She had a knack for soothing tantrums and raising them to be respectful but not timid. She made sure they adored their father, and it worked—Henry and Thomas idolised him.
The boys had grown up wonderfully—by thirteen, they were independent, did well in school, played football, and had plenty of friends. Eleanor knew them all—names, addresses, hobbies. Their home was always open, and the twins loved bringing mates round. Oliver used to grumble about the noise, the chaos, the endless chatter. But Eleanor would say firmly:
“Our boys need to learn how to be good friends. And *I* need to know who they’re spending time with. It’s important, Oliver. Get used to it.”
She was right. As usual. The boys thrived, and their home stayed a cosy nest where everyone belonged.
But now… Could Imogen ever fit into their lives? Would the twins accept her? The thought sent a chill down Oliver’s spine. How could Henry and Thomas ever love the woman who’d stolen their father from their mum? They worshipped Eleanor. To them, his betrayal would be unforgivable—and they’d be right.
Eleanor didn’t deserve this. Fifteen years as the perfect wife, his closest friend, a devoted mother. Oliver had been happy—until Imogen appeared.
Imogen—young, dazzling, with a spark that had reignited something long forgotten. He’d fallen for her like a schoolboy, helpless against the rush. She’d consumed his thoughts, filled his heart, made him forget his age, his family, his duty. After just a week of stolen moments, he could think of nothing else. He only wanted to hold her, drown in her smile.
Was it his fault? Love was a storm no one could resist. But would Eleanor understand? Would she scream? Cry? Though—that wasn’t her style. She’d always been measured, wise. But what would happen after he spoke? Divorce? Because Imogen had made it clear—she wanted him to leave.
Oliver paused at the front door, slumping onto the bench. His legs felt weak, his heart pounding. He couldn’t face going inside.
***
Meanwhile, upstairs, Eleanor sat by the window, watching the dark street after putting the boys to bed. She’d known for weeks. Known he’d tell her tonight. She’d hoped it was just a fleeting crush—but no, it had gone too far.
“Poor thing, scared to come home,” she thought. “Torturing himself over the right words. Frightened, Oliver? I understand. You’ve no idea I’ve known all along. I’ve rehearsed this conversation, though I never wanted to start it. Fifteen years together, two sons… You were always honest, never gave me reason to doubt. But now—you’ve fallen in love. Happens to the best of us. But why’d you let it go this far? Think she’ll replace us? You’re wrong. A few months in, you’ll howl with loneliness. But if you’ve made your choice—go on. Say it. I’m ready.”
***
The door creaked softly. Oliver crept in, hoping everyone was asleep.
“Finally,” Eleanor’s voice floated from the kitchen. “You can’t keep staying so late. Hungry?”
Oliver nodded, his hope for delay crumbling. She served him cottage pie. He ate mechanically, barely tasting it, Imogen’s voice echoing: “*You’ll do it tonight?*”
After supper, he drifted to the sofa, flipping on the telly but staring blankly. His hands trembled; he clenched them between his knees. Eleanor finished washing up and joined him.
“Darling, are you alright? You’re not yourself,” she said gently, nudging him to begin.
“Yeah, fine,” he croaked. “It’s just… we need to talk.”
“Go on.” Eleanor’s gaze was warm, but her eyes held resolve.
“Look… don’t panic, alright? I…”
“Oliver, you’re scaring me,” she feigned concern, eyebrows knitting. “Out with it.”
“I… I don’t know how to say this…”
“Just say it.”
“I’ve met someone else!” he exploded, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for tears or yelling.
Eleanor’s reply stunned him.
“And?”
“What d’you mean, *and*?”
“What are you planning to do about it?” Her voice was steady, almost bored.
“I… I’m leaving. I know it’s rotten, but you’ve got to understand—I’m in love. Properly. But I won’t abandon you, I’ll help. The house stays yours, I’ll just take my things.”
“Properly?” She arched a brow. “So what we had wasn’t *proper*?”
“Don’t twist my words, you know what I meant,” he snapped.
“Of course I do.” She smiled, thoroughly unnerving him. “And I’m grateful.”
“*Grateful*?” He nearly choked. “For betraying you? For leaving?”
“For that too,” she said lightly, her smile unchanging.
“Are you taking the mick?”
“No, Oliver. I admire your courage. I couldn’t bring myself to start this conversation. Now… It’s brilliant you’ve confessed. Means mine won’t upset you too much.”
“*What* confession?”
“I’ve met someone too,” she said calmly. “Only two months, but… I think I’m in love. He’s… incredible.”
“You—” Oliver’s voice failed him.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, meeting his gaze. “And I’m happy. For the first time in ages, I feel like a woman again.”
“You’ve got two children!” he burst out, though he wasn’t sure why.
“And that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy,” she replied firmly.
Oliver froze, stunned. After a long silence, he rasped, “So… that’s it? Should I go?”
“Now? In the middle of the night?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Then go. Thanks for the chat. My conscience was killing me…”
Oliver stuffed clothes into a bag without looking up. At the door, he turned. Eleanor stood motionless, still smiling faintly. She always used to kiss him goodbye.
“Right… I’m off.”
She nodded.
The door slammed. Eleanor flinched—then thought, “You’ve got one chance. Come back now.”
Outside, Oliver collapsed onto the bench, head in his hands. He didn’t knowOliver stared at the door for what felt like an eternity, then slowly stood up, brushed the dampness from his cheeks, and reached for the doorknob again.
