Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love
Edward Whitmore came home after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Hello, I’m back!” he called, stepping into the kitchen, where the scent of food already lingered.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, surprised by the neatly arranged dishes on the table.
“No occasion,” replied his wife, Eleanor, though there was an odd note in her voice. “Just fancied a takeaway. Ordered some Chinese.”
“Chinese—I do like that!” Edward brightened, shrugging off his coat.
“Then sit down, let’s eat,” Eleanor said, but she immediately left the kitchen.
A minute later, she returned with a sheet of paper and silently handed it to him.
“What’s this?” Edward asked, but when his eyes fell on the page, he froze as if struck by lightning.
***
“Hello, this is the delivery driver,” crackled the voice through the intercom, and a young lad in a bright uniform appeared on the screen. “The payment didn’t go through yesterday.”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Eleanor answered calmly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, here’s the receipt—have a look,” the lad held a crumpled slip up to the camera, pointing at the address. “I delivered the order myself yesterday. Address: Moonrise Lane, 12. A bloke paid by card, but it declined. I’ve got a copy—just check, please.”
The lad looked flustered, apologising after nearly every word. He was clearly new—not just to deliveries, but to work altogether. Eleanor squinted skeptically, opened the door, and studied him. His slender shoulders slumped under a bulky thermal bag, making him look like a sparrow carrying a burden too heavy. She nearly smiled but was distracted by the receipt.
Printed on the slip was: “Error Code: 55. Incorrect PIN.”
“I told you, you’ve made a mistake,” she repeated. “No one was home yesterday, and we didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the lad flushed. “It was a different woman who accepted the payment.”
“Even less likely,” Eleanor laughed. “Definitely not me.”
The driver handed her a second receipt with the order details. Her eyes skimmed over it: Chinese takeaway, cutlery for two, card payment. Nothing unusual—except one detail. Edward hated Chinese food. At the bottom was the customer’s name: Edward.
Eleanor felt blood rush to her temples. Only one man lived in this house—her husband. But another woman? At 43, she hardly fit that description. Maybe the lad was just being polite? But something didn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she said suddenly. “Where’s your card reader?”
The lad blinked in surprise. He’d expected tears or shouting—that’s how his mother had reacted when she’d found out about his father’s affair. But Eleanor was steady, as if carved from steel. As she saw him out, she suddenly laughed. The laughter twisted into something raw, and tears spilled over. Wiping her face, she took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
“Edward, hi—what time will you be home tonight?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice.
“Hi. Around seven, unless the boss calls another bloody meeting,” he replied. “Why?”
“Thought we could have dinner together.”
“Plans cancelled?”
“Yeah, I’ll be in all evening. Fancied some time just us.”
“Sure, but I’m not sure when I’ll get back.”
“No rush—we’ll sort it later. Can’t be bothered cooking, I’ll order something. Chinese?”
“Fine by me.”
Eleanor hung up and opened the wardrobe. Her gaze settled on a black dress with gold trim, the one she’d worn to last year’s office party. “Celebrate the end, then,” she thought bitterly.
Back in the hall, she glanced at the receipt, picked up the phone, and ordered the exact same Chinese meal—”cutlery for two.”
That evening, the same flustered lad delivered the order. Relieved the payment worked this time, he hurried off, certain this family had secrets too strange to pry into.
An hour later, Edward returned. Eleanor greeted him with a smile, though her eyes betrayed tension. She noticed how he played the perfect husband—just as he always did after his unexplained “late nights” or sudden “business trips.”
“Chinese?” Edward frowned at the table.
“Yeah, saw an ad for delivery yesterday,” Eleanor said offhandedly. “Fancied a try. I know you don’t like it, so I roasted some chicken for you.”
“Don’t mind giving it a go,” he said. “Had it at work once—wasn’t bad.”
“Change is good, isn’t it, Edward?” she asked with a faint smirk. “Wash up—I’m starving.”
Edward tensed. Her calm, the Chinese, the same restaurant—he didn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night’s dinner with another woman?
He sat, casting a wary glance at her. Eleanor, against his expectations, didn’t scream or accuse. Instead, she asked quietly:
“What’s her name?” Her voice was level, almost indifferent, as she speared a spring roll.
Edward choked. Denial was pointless.
“Clara,” he muttered.
“Pretty name,” Eleanor replied, just as calm. “How long’s it been?”
“Ellie—” he began, lost for words.
“Edward, no excuses,” she cut in. “Tell me about her. I want to know if it’s serious.”
“Serious?” He faltered. “Is this a joke? Why are you so calm? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” she laughed, but the sound was hollow. “Go on—tell me about Clara. Who is she?”
“She’s thirty,” Edward exhaled. “Doubt it’ll last…”
“Why not? Flighty? Drawn to older men?” Eleanor held his gaze, unblinking.
Her face darkened with pain.
“No, she’s… decent,” he admitted awkwardly.
Praising his mistress to his wife felt surreal.
“Then what’s stopping you?” she pressed.
“Stopping me from what?”
“You like her—I can tell by how you talk. People don’t sound like that over flings. I’ll give you a divorce, no fuss. We can split everything now.”
“Ellie, are you alright?” Edward stared, uneasy.
Her composure unnerved him. He’d expected rage, tears, threats—like before. But Eleanor was impenetrable.
“Edward, I don’t love you,” she said suddenly. “Haven’t for three years. And God, it’s easy to say! You keep coming back, and I keep letting you. We should’ve ended this years ago. But you won’t leave—principles, or guilt. Let me go. I’m letting you go too.”
Edward went still. Yes, they’d fought often these past years, separating but never divorcing. He’d assumed she’d crumble without him. And himself? He couldn’t picture life outside this marriage.
They’d married at eighteen, known each other since childhood. There’d never been another life. Divorce meant the unknown—terrifying.
But that morning, when the delivery lad showed the receipt, Eleanor had realised: her love for Edward had faded. The truth was simple, like dust on a shelf—just wipe it away.
“Maybe we’re rushing?” Edward ventured. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I was relieved today, finding out about her. Hurt first, then—light. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Sorry. I suppose… I don’t either,” he admitted.
“Let’s toast to that,” Eleanor smiled, gesturing at the table.
She left and returned with paper and pen.
“While you eat, let’s list who takes what.”
“As simple as dusting a shelf,” she thought, starting the inventory. Edward, watching her, began talking about Clara—not as his mistress, but as someone who made him happy. As if speaking not to his wife, but an old friend.
