Shadows of the Past: A Path to New Happiness
Oliver stepped out of the office, nearly slipping on the icy steps. The night before, sleet had fallen, freezing into treacherous sheets beneath a bitter morning wind that lashed at his face. The roads hummed with gridlocked cars, horns blaring as drivers rushed home. Once, traffic would have infuriated him—but tonight, the delay was a relief. Going back held no joy.
Something had broken between him and Charlotte. Seven years of marriage, beginning in their university days, had dissolved into monotony. The love—if it had ever truly been there—had evaporated, leaving only the stale residue of habit. Lately, Oliver found himself wondering: where was the feeling that had once bound them? Was it ever real?
Every marriage had its struggles, but without children to fight for, theirs felt hollow. Their union, steady from the start, lacked passion. Oliver had never lost his head over Charlotte, but she had been comfort, warmth, familiarity.
“We’ve been together four years,” she’d said one evening at uni, her tone pointed. “What’s next? Am I in your future?”
The unspoken demand for a proposal hung between them. Marriage hadn’t crossed Oliver’s mind, but he’d answered, “Of course you are. We’ll graduate, get jobs, marry. Why ask?”
“I need certainty,” she’d murmured.
“Don’t worry,” he’d assured her, pulling her close. “There’ll be a white dress, a wedding, children.” He’d believed it then.
Charlotte never brought it up again until after graduation. She insisted they work for separate firms. They saw less of each other. Then, before her birthday, she circled back: “Mum keeps asking when we’re getting married.”
“What’s the rush?” he deflected.
“Don’t you love me?” Her voice fractured. “Why string me along?”
He *was* used to her. Why bother starting over? That birthday, he gave her a ring and proposed. Charlotte beamed; her mother wept. At home, Oliver announced to his parents, “I’m getting married.”
His mother frowned. “So soon? Why not establish yourselves first?”
She’d never liked Charlotte—too domineering beneath her quiet exterior.
“No reason,” Oliver said. “We love each other. Why wait?”
“This was *her* idea,” his mother sighed. “Think, Oliver.”
But his mind was made up.
Their May wedding was beautiful. Charlotte in white was spring itself. Children? They agreed to wait—buy a flat, a car first. His parents helped with the mortgage deposit. They furnished their two-bedroom flat. His father gave them his old car, upgrading his own. Life unfolded neatly.
Then Charlotte became fixated: Oliver *needed* to start a business. An old uni friend sold electronics and wanted a partner.
“I’m a project manager. I like my job,” Oliver argued. “The market’s flooded.”
“I thought you wanted independence,” she pressed. “Electronics sell. We’d outmanoeuvre competitors.”
“I don’t *want* to.”
She sulked. They fought—first real fight—and didn’t speak for days. After reconciling, she circled back, insisting business would clear their debts faster. Oliver suspected his mother was right: he’d married too soon. Did he even love Charlotte?
Luckily, the friend’s venture collapsed. They paid off the mortgage, bought Oliver an SUV, then a smaller car for Charlotte. Time for children, surely.
His mother fretted, “Why no grandchildren? What’s wrong?”
“It’ll happen,” he hedged, not admitting Charlotte’s resistance.
“Friends have kids,” he told her later. “We’re nearly thirty. Jobs, home, cars—what’s left?”
“Kids?” She scoffed. “I won’t abandon my career. Become a housewife? You’d stop loving me.”
Charlotte got a promotion, burying herself in work. Children remained Oliver’s dream—not hers.
That evening, stalled in traffic, he finally entered their flat. Charlotte glanced up from her phone.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
“Emily invited us for New Year’s,” she said. “You’re quiet.”
“You already agreed.” He shrugged.
“You *object*?” she snapped.
“I wanted just us. We’re drifting, Lottie. Candles, wine—”
“*Seriously?*” She rolled her eyes. “Sit through telly, then your parents’, then Mum’s. *Boring.* I told Emily yes.”
She returned to her screen. Oliver tried once more. “Say plans changed.”
“No.”
Emily’s party was loud. Oliver noticed a man watching Charlotte. She flirted, laughed too brightly, then danced with him. Later, they whispered in a corner. Wordlessly, Oliver left.
Charlotte stormed in hours later. “You *left* me!”
“You were busy,” he said coldly. “Did your *gentleman* see you home?”
“*Yes.* And you—!” She bit her lip.
“What? He’s rich? I’m a failure? Maybe we divorce.”
“*Fine.*”
New Year’s passed in silence. Divorce loomed. Charlotte demanded the flat, but Oliver refused—he’d paid the mortgage, renovated. The court split their assets. She took a one-bed; some furniture went to him.
Loneliness ached at first, but Oliver adjusted. He learned to cook; laundry was manageable, though he hated ironing.
One evening, parking at home, he heard a door swing open. A woman stumbled on the step, but he caught her.
“My *heel* broke!” she gasped. “I’ll be late!”
“Let me help. Change shoes—I’ll drive you.”
Her smile was weary. “Would you? Thank you.”
In the car, she admitted, “I know you. I flooded your flat two months ago. I live above you.”
Oliver remembered—she’d seemed older then.
“My son died a year ago,” she whispered. “My husband left. He has a new family now—a baby coming. You don’t look happy either.”
Before he could answer, they arrived. Next day, she brought him a roast.
“To thank you. I cooked too much.”
He invited her to stay.
“I’m Eleanor,” she said. “My son called me Queen Bee, like the cartoon.”
Tears welled. She left soon after.
They exchanged brief greetings in the hall. When Oliver fell ill, Eleanor brought medicine.
“Heard you coughing.”
She often shared meals; he fixed her gadgets.
New Year’s Eve, Oliver declined his parents’ invite, drinking alone. At midnight, his doorbell rang. Eleanor stood there—hair styled, dressed beautifully.
“I cooked for no one. Join me?”
At her table, he dozed off.
“I should go,” he mumbled.
“Stay,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to cry over memories tonight.”
He did. Her touch woke him later. Morning brought breakfast.
“Skating?” he asked.
“Not in *twenty years*,” she laughed.
“Me neither. Let’s go.”
After, at a café, he let her into his flat. They parted only when his mother summoned him for lunch.
Then Eleanor vanished. For weeks, Oliver listened for her footsteps. Finally, he cornered her.
“Avoiding me?”
She confessed, “I liked you instantly. I want a child—time’s running out. That night… But you don’t love me. I’m older. Nothing can—”
“I *do*.” He’d always wanted kids. Charlotte refused. Five years’ age gap? Meaningless. He’d marry her.
“Alright,” she relented. “But no changes yet. After the baby… we’ll see.”
Oliver stayed over often, drove her to work, to doctor’s visits.
Then Charlotte came. She begged for him back, swore she was miserable—just as Eleanor walked in.
“*Replaced me fast!*” Charlotte sneered, eyeing Eleanor’s belly. “Granny’s your type?”
Her venom spent, she left.
In September, Eleanor had a daughter. They married. Love? Perhaps this was it—racing home to hold his child, cherishing every shared moment.
New Year’s approaches. May it bring warmth to lonely hearts still searching.
