Shadows of the Past: A Tale of Love and Forgiveness

In the quiet town of Alderbrook, where ancient oaks cast long shadows over cobbled lanes, George thought irritably, “Go on then, have another cry!”

They pulled up to the house. Eleanor, his wife, sat in the car, leaning heavily against the door. George rolled his eyes. “Oh, now she’ll expect me to open the door for her.” But she was already struggling out on her own. He yanked the handle open roughly, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Watch it, clumsy!” he muttered, steering her inside.

He hauled the shopping bags into the house, dropped them by the threshold, waited as Eleanor limped to the bedroom, then muttered, “I’ll be late.”

He turned and left, revving the car and driving aimlessly through town to drown his frustration. He needed a break, an escape. He called his workmate, Tom, who invited him over to try out a new game. George went.

Over pints, the conversation turned personal. George spilled everything—how passion had faded, how routine had swallowed them, how Eleanor “nagged, scraping his brain with a spoon.” He mentioned Lucy from sales—young, carefree, always smiling. She’d brush his shoulder, laugh at his jokes. With her, he forgot his worries.

Eleanor

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

George exploded. He shouted, slammed the 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 been snappy, distant.

My friend Sarah hinted, “Maybe there’s someone else?” She told me about her husband, Mark. He’d changed too when “a girl at work” appeared—young, batting her lashes, and Mark “melted,” started dressing trendy, spouting slang like “cringe” and “lol.” Sarah cringed when he babbled like a teen in front of their son’s mates. The boy was mortified.

In the end, Sarah snapped. She packed Mark’s bags and sent him to “wise up” at his mum’s. She joked to her mother-in-law, “Returning your teenager.” The woman shot back, “Take him to the loony bin if he’s this daft.” After a brutal scolding, Mark “snapped out of it,” became himself again. Sarah felt lighter.

But George wasn’t like that. And I sensed—there was no one else. Yet something was wrong.

George

Sitting at Tom’s, my thoughts circled Eleanor. What had happened to her? Where was the lightness? Always nagging about the holiday… Then I remembered Lucy—her bright laugh, how she’d giggled at my jokes at the café after work.

Then Eleanor called. Asked me to pick her up from work and stop by the shops. Mood ruined. Lucy had given me such a look when I said I had to go. And Eleanor! Who asked her to drag herself to work on a bad ankle? Sprained it, foot swollen—she should’ve stayed home! But no, they “couldn’t manage” without her.

I flicked through my phone, debating calling Lucy. Dialled… Then Tom spoke.

“You alright, mate?”

I cancelled the call, flushing.

“Think I’ll head off,” I mumbled.

“Had my own ‘Lucy,'” Tom said. “Her name was Emma. Wrecked my marriage over her. Only see my daughter on weekends now. Ex-wife’s remarried, happy, I guess. I was happy too, for a bit. But it wasn’t real. By the time I figured it out—too late. Live alone now, play games. Apologised to my wife. She said, ‘I forgive you, but I won’t live with a cheat.’ I put myself in her shoes—couldn’t blame her.”

Tom fell silent. My chest tightened.

“Think before you ring her,” he added.

I left. My phone rang. Expected Eleanor—it was Lucy.

“You called?” she chirped.

“Wrong number,” I grunted.

“Pop round anyway! I’ve got white zinfandel…”

Disgust twisted in me—at her, at myself. I hung up. She rang again and again. I ignored her, sitting in the car. A voicemail: she called me a coward, a child. I blocked her.

At home, the shopping still sat by the door. Eleanor was at the table in the dark, staring out. I sat opposite.

“Ellie…”

She turned. Face puffy from crying. My chest ached.

“We need to talk,” I stumbled.

I rambled—apologies, excuses, even blame. She listened silently.

“I’m going to Mum’s,” she said softly. “Take some time. Think about what you want, George. I’m not forcing a choice. Just decide what matters.”

She left. I sat all night, hollow.

Eleanor

He was gone for hours. What happened to us? It’s terrifying, breaking what you built for years. Painful. Maybe silly for a woman over forty, but… I think he’s fallen out of love. Tired of me.

Midlife crisis? I doubt I’d want more kids—our son’s twenty-two, daughter nineteen. But him? Maybe marry some young, flawless thing. She’d post smoothie pics online. Him—grey-haired, in a smart jumper—cradling a chubby baby. Perfect family.

I remembered our son’s colic screams, nights in hospital with our girl. Why do second wives get the ad-version? Calm kids, doting husbands. Their toddlers probably read by two, speak three languages, start school with a degree.

Why’s it so unfair? He gets a do-over. I don’t.

I cried, my ankle throbbed, mourning my youth, our love. One thought looped: “What did I do wrong?”

Then it hit me—nothing. Love just… expires. For some, it’s eternal. For us…

The door slammed. He was back.

He talked in circles—regret, blame, no real explanation. I said I was leaving. And I did.

Told Mum we had pest control. Said George was at a mate’s, kids away at uni.

“Pests?” Mum frowned.

“Big ones.”

“Been crying?”

“Allergies.”

“Leave her be, love,” Dad cut in.

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

“Mum, stop. Dad, any brandy?”

“Wine?” Mum offered.

“Got some,” Dad said, eyeing her.

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

Next morning, voices in the kitchen.

“George, what’s this about pests?” Mum grumbled. “Ellie said vermin, you say bugs. Eat your pancakes.”

I walked in. George was devouring them.

“Morning, Ellie,” he smiled. “Sorted the pests.”

“Vermin?”

“And bugs.”

“Looked properly?”

“Clear as day. Put the shopping away too.”

I exhaled.

George and Eleanor

“No more exterminators, Ellie?”

“Only if we don’t invite pests in.”