Shadows of the Past: A Path to New Happiness
Oliver stepped out of work, nearly slipping on the icy steps. The night before had brought sleet, freezing into treacherous patches by morning, and now a bitter wind lashed at his face. Cars honked impatiently in the gridlocked streets, their drivers eager to get home. Once, Oliver would have fumed at the traffic, but tonight it was a reprieve—he didn’t want to go back.
Something had broken between him and Sophie. Seven years of marriage, stretching back to university days, had dissolved into routine. The love—if there had ever been any—had evaporated, leaving only habit. Oliver found himself wondering: where was that feeling that once bound them? Had it ever been real?
Every marriage had its rough patches, but without children, theirs lacked a reason to fight. Theirs had always been a quiet union, devoid of grand passion. Oliver had never lost his head over Sophie, but her presence had been comfortable.
“We’ve been together four years,” she’d said one day at uni. “What’s next? I need to know if I’m in your plans.”
Her words had carried the weight of a proposal. Marriage hadn’t crossed Oliver’s mind, but he’d replied, “Of course you are. We’ll graduate, get jobs, marry. Why do you ask?”
“I just want to be sure,” she’d murmured.
“Don’t worry, it’ll happen—white dress, wedding, kids,” he’d said, wrapping an arm around her, believing it would.
Sophie never brought it up again until graduation. They found jobs—she insisted on separate firms—and saw less of each other. Before her birthday, she broached the subject again: “Mum keeps asking when we’ll marry.”
“What’s the rush?” Oliver deflected.
“Don’t you love me?” Her voice cracked. “Why string me along all these years?”
Oliver was used to her. Why bother with someone new? On her birthday, he gave her a ring and proposed. Sophie beamed; her mother wept. At home, Oliver announced, “I’m getting married.”
His mother frowned. “Why so soon? Get settled first. Or is there… a reason?”
She’d never liked Sophie—too bossy beneath her quiet exterior.
“No reason,” Oliver said. “We love each other. Four years together—why wait?”
“This was her idea,” his mother sighed. “Think it through.”
But Oliver had already decided.
Their May wedding was lovely. Sophie in white looked like spring itself. Children? They’d wait—first a flat, a car. Oliver’s parents helped with the mortgage deposit. They bought a two-bed, furnished it. His father gave them his old car and bought himself a new one. Life was falling into place.
Then Sophie grew obsessed: Oliver should start a business. An old coursemate sold electronics and wanted a partner.
“I’m a builder. I like my job,” Oliver argued. “The market’s saturated.”
“I thought you wanted to work for yourself,” she pressed. “Everyone needs electronics. You could outmaneuver the competition.”
“I don’t want to,” he said flatly.
Sophie sulked. They had their first real row, barely speaking for days. They made up, but she kept pushing, insisting the business would pay off the mortgage faster. Oliver began to suspect his mother had been right—he’d rushed into this. Did he even love Sophie?
Luckily, the coursemate went bust, and the idea died. They paid off the mortgage, bought Oliver a Land Rover, then a smaller car for Sophie. Time to think about children. His mother fretted:
“Why no kids? Is something wrong?”
“It’ll happen,” Oliver soothed, not admitting Sophie was against it.
“All our friends have kids,” he told his wife. “We’re nearly thirty. Jobs, a flat, cars—what’s left? It’s time.”
“Kids?” She scoffed. “I won’t ditch my career for nappies. Become a housewife? You’d stop loving me first.”
Sophie got a promotion, burying herself in projects. Children remained Oliver’s dream while she chose her career.
That evening, escaping the traffic, he entered their flat. Sophie was glued to her phone.
“What took so long?” she snapped.
“Traffic,” he said shortly.
“Emma called. Wants us for New Year’s,” she said. “Why the silence?”
“You already agreed,” Oliver shrugged.
“You object?” she snapped.
“Wanted it to be just us. We’re drifting, Soph. Candles, just the two of us.”
“Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “Sit in front of the telly, then your parents’, then Mum’s. Bore-fest. I promised Emma.”
She turned back to her phone. Oliver tried again: “Say plans changed.”
“No,” she cut him off.
Emma’s party was loud. Oliver noticed a man staring at Sophie. She flirted, laughed too brightly, then danced with him. After, they vanished into a corner, deep in conversation. Without a word, Oliver left.
Sophie returned three hours later, furious.
“You abandoned me!”
“You were busy,” he shot back. “Did your gentleman see you home?”
“Yes! And you—” She bit her lip.
“What? He’s loaded, and I’m a failure? Shall we divorce?”
“Yes!” she spat.
They rang in the New Year fighting. Divorce was inevitable. Sophie demanded the flat, but Oliver refused—he’d paid the mortgage, funded the renovations. The court split their assets. She got a one-bed; some furniture went to Oliver.
At first, the loneliness ached, but Oliver adjusted. He learned to cook; the washing machine handled laundry. Ironing was a chore, but he managed.
One evening, parking outside, he heard a door slam. A woman stumbled on the step, and Oliver caught her.
“Broke my heel!” she cried. “Now I’ll be late!”
“Let me help you up. Change your shoes; I’ll drive you,” he offered.
She gave a sad smile.
“Really? Thanks.”
In the car, she admitted, “I know you. I flooded your flat two months ago. I live above you.”
Oliver remembered her—she’d seemed older then.
“My son died eighteen months ago,” she said softly. “My husband couldn’t cope. Left. Now he’s got a new family, a baby on the way. You don’t look happy either.”
He didn’t answer—they’d arrived. The next day, she brought him a stew.
“Had to thank you. Cooked too much—no one to eat it.”
Oliver invited her to stay for dinner.
“I’m Grace,” she said. “My son called me Ladybug, like in the cartoons.”
Her eyes welled up. Soon, she left.
They bumped into each other in the hall now and then, exchanging small talk. When Oliver fell ill, Grace brought medicine:
“Heard you coughing nights.”
She often brought him food; he fixed her gadgets.
New Year’s Eve, Oliver planned to spend alone, despite his parents’ invitation. He sipped champagne, watched telly, feeling marooned. At midnight, the doorbell rang. Grace stood there—new haircut, a lovely dress.
“Made too much food. Come up?”
At her table, Oliver dozed off.
“Should go. Might fall asleep,” he mumbled.
“Stay,” she pleaded. “Don’t want to be alone. I’ll think of him and cry.”
He stayed. Her touch woke him in the night. Morning brought breakfast.
“Fancy ice-skating?” Oliver asked.
“Haven’t skated in twenty years,” she admitted.
“Me neither. Come on.”
After, they stopped at a café. Back home, he opened his door to her. They parted only at noon, when his mother called him for lunch.
Then Grace vanished. For a month, Oliver listened for her footsteps. Finally, he cornered her in the hall.
“Avoiding me? Why?”
She confessed: “I liked you straight off. I want a child—time’s running out. That’s why I… that night. But you don’t love me. I’m older. Nothing’ll come of this. And I’m pregnant.”
Oliver argued: he’d always wanted kids; Sophie had refused. Five years’ difference meant nothing. He’d marry her.
“Alright,” she said. “But no changes yet. After the baby, we’ll see.”
Oliver stayed over often, drove her to work and appointments. One day, Sophie turned up. She begged him to come back, swore she was miserable. Just then, Grace walked in.
“Quick to move on, weren’t you?” Sophie sneered, spotting Grace’s bump. “Into grannies now?”
She spat venom, then left.
In September, Grace had a daughter. She and Oliver married. Love? Maybe this was it—rushing home to hold his child, cherishing every moment together.
New Year’s approaches. May it bring warmth and love to lonely hearts still searching.
