Shadows of the Past: A Tale of Love and Forgiveness

In the quiet town of Ashford, where ancient oaks cast shadows over narrow cobbled lanes, Simon muttered under his breath, “Oh, go on then, have a proper cry!”

They pulled up to the house. Emily, his wife, sat in the car, leaning heavily against the door. Simon rolled his eyes. “Here we go, expected to play the gentleman again.” But before he could move, she was already struggling out on her own. He yanked the door handle in irritation, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Watch your step, clumsy!” he grumbled, steering her inside.

He dropped the shopping bags by the doorstep, waited as Emily limped to the bedroom, then announced, “I’ll be back late.”

Without another word, he turned and left. He started the car and drove aimlessly through the town, trying to drown his frustration. He needed space. He rang his mate from work, Mike, who invited him over to try out a new video game. Simon went.

Over pints, the conversation turned personal. Simon poured out his grievances—how the passion had faded, how daily life had become a grind, how Emily “nagged him to death.” He mentioned Sarah from the sales team—young, carefree, always laughing. She’d brush against him playfully, laugh at his jokes. With her, his troubles melted away.

Emily

“Why aren’t we going on holiday in July?” I asked as we drove home.

Simon exploded. He shouted, smacked the steering wheel, his face twisted with anger. I turned to the window, tears spilling. What had I done wrong? It was just a question. Lately, he’d become snappy, restless.

My friend Lisa hinted, “Maybe there’s someone else?” She told me about her husband, Greg—how he’d changed when a young woman at work started flirting. Suddenly, he was dressing trendy, peppering his speech with slang like “cringe” and “lol.” Lisa had been mortified when Greg spouted nonsense in front of their son’s friends. Even their boy was embarrassed.

In the end, Lisa snapped. She packed Greg’s bags and sent him “for reform” to his mother’s. When she rang her mother-in-law, joking she was returning a “teenager,” the woman shot back, “Send him to the loony bin, we don’t want him.” Greg got such an earful from his mum that he “wised up” overnight. Lisa was relieved.

But Simon wasn’t Greg. And I could tell—there was no one else. Yet something was wrong.

Simon

Sitting at Mike’s, my thoughts circled Emily. What had happened to her? Where was the lightness she once had? Always fretting, harping on about this holiday… I thought of Sarah—her bright laugh, how she’d giggled at my jokes earlier over coffee after work.

Then Emily rang. Asked me to pick her up from work and stop by the shop. My mood soured. Sarah had looked so disappointed when I said I had to leave. And Emily? Who asked her to drag herself to work on a bad ankle? Twisted it, foot swollen—should’ve stayed home! But no, they “couldn’t manage” without her.

I fiddled with my phone, debating calling Sarah. I dialed… Then Mike spoke up.

“What’s got into you? Ringing Sarah?”

I hung up, embarrassed.

“I should go, Mike,” I mumbled.

“Had my own ‘Sarah,'” he said. “Name was Olivia. Destroyed my marriage over her. Only see my daughter on weekends now. Ex-wife’s remarried, happy, seems. I thought I was happy too, mate. But not for long. Mistook it for something real. By the time I realised—too late. Live alone now, playing games. Asked my wife to forgive me. She said, ‘Forgiven, but I won’t live with a cheat.’ Put myself in her shoes—I’d have done the same.”

Mike fell silent. My chest tightened.

“Think hard before you call,” he added.

I left. My phone rang. Thought it was Emily, but no—Sarah.

“Hey, you rang?” she chirped.

“Wrong number,” I grunted.

“Fancy popping ’round? Accidentally on purpose, via the shop? I love a nice white zinfandel…”

Disgust hit me—at her, at myself. I hung up. She called again and again. I ignored her, sitting in the car. Sarah left a voicemail: called me cowardly, childish. I didn’t reply. Deleted her number, blocked it.

I went home. The shopping still sat by the door. Emily sat in the dark at the table, gazing out the window. I sat opposite.

“Em…” I began.

She turned. Her face was puffy from crying. My chest ached.

“Em, we need to talk,” I stumbled, words tripping over each other.

I rambled—apologies, regrets, half-blaming, half-pleading. She listened silently.

“I’m going to Mum’s,” she said softly. “Taking sick leave. Think about what you want, Simon. I’m not giving an ultimatum. Just decide what matters.”

She left. Alone, I realised—I hadn’t fallen out of love with her. But what was wrong? Had I broken?

I sat all night, staring at nothing.

Emily

Four hours passed. I wondered—what’s happened to us? So terrifying, watching years unravel. And painful. Pathetic maybe, a woman in her forties thinking it, but… he’s fallen out of love. I’m no longer needed.

Maybe it’s a midlife crisis? I don’t want more children—our son’s twenty-two, daughter nineteen. But him? Marry some young, perfect girl. She’d post smoothie pics online. Him, silver-haired in a posh jumper, cradling a chubby newborn. Happy family.

I remembered our son screaming with colic, nights in hospital with our daughter. Why do second wives get the ad-perfect life? Well-behaved kids, devoted husbands… Their toddlers probably read by one, speak three languages by three, start school with a degree.

Why so unfair? He gets a fresh start. I don’t.

I cried, my ankle throbbed, pitied myself, my lost youth. One thought gnawed: “What did I do wrong?”

Then it struck me: nothing. Love just has an expiry. For some, it’s eternal. For us…

Tears fell. The door slammed. He was back.

Said we needed to talk. Rambled, didn’t blame, didn’t explain. I told him I was going to Mum’s. And I left.

Lied to Mum, said we were fumigating. “Simon’s at a mate’s,” I said. “Kids at uni.”

“Fumigating what?” Mum frowned.

“Big ones, Mum. Huge.”

“You’ve been crying.”

“Allergies from the chemicals,” I waved her off.

“Mum, leave her be,” Dad cut in.

Mum fussed, piled food, brought “allergy” pills.

“Mum, stop. Dad, got any brandy?”

“There’s wine—” Mum started.

“Got some, love,” Dad interrupted.

We drank quietly. He told army stories, showed old photos. I laughed. Then he grabbed his guitar, and we sang at the kitchen table. The tension eased. I slept, hearing Mum whisper, “What’s wrong with her?”

Morning came early—habit. Voices drifted from the kitchen.

“Simon, what’ve you got, a zoo?” Mum grumbled. “Nell’s on about bugs, you’re on about fleas… Eat your pancakes, here’s the cream.”

I walked in. Simon was devouring her pancakes.

“Hi, Em,” he smiled. “Got rid of ’em all.”

“The bugs?”

“And the fleas.”

“Properly?”

“Clear as day. Even put the shopping away.”

I shut my eyes, exhaled.

Simon and Emily

“Let’s not fumigate again, Em,” he said.

“Agreed. But to avoid it, we can’t let them in.”