Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love
Edward Harrison walked into his flat after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Hello, I’m home!” he called out, stepping into the kitchen where the scent of food already lingered.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, surprised by the carefully arranged dishes on the table.
“No occasion,” replied his wife, Charlotte, though an odd note tinged her voice. “Just didn’t fancy cooking, so I ordered sushi.”
“Sushi? I love sushi!” Edward brightened, shrugging off his blazer.
“Then sit down, let’s eat,” Charlotte said, but then immediately left the kitchen.
A minute later, she returned with a sheet of paper in hand and wordlessly handed it to her husband.
“What’s this?” Edward asked, but the moment his eyes landed on the page, he froze as if struck by lightning.
***
“Hello, this is your delivery driver,” a voice crackled through the intercom, and a young man in a bright uniform appeared on the screen. “The payment for yesterday’s order didn’t go through.”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Charlotte answered calmly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, but here’s the receipt—take a look,” the driver held a crumpled slip up to the camera, pointing at the address. “I delivered it myself yesterday. The order was for Moonlight Street, number 12. A man paid by card, but the transaction failed. Here’s the copy—please check.”
The lad looked flustered, apologising after nearly every word. It was clear he was new—not just to deliveries, but to work in general. Charlotte squinted skeptically, opened the door, and studied the delivery man. His thin shoulders were dwarfed by an enormous thermal backpack, making him look like a sparrow carrying an impossible load. She almost smiled but was distracted by the receipt.
Written on the slip: “Error Code: 55. Incorrect PIN.”
“I told you, you’ve got the wrong place,” she repeated. “No one was home yesterday, and we didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the driver flushed. “The payment was taken by a girl… another woman.”
“Definitely not me, then,” Charlotte laughed.
The driver handed her a second receipt with the address and order details. Charlotte skimmed it: Japanese cuisine, utensils for two, card payment. Nothing unusual, except for one thing—Edward despised sushi. At the bottom was the name of the customer: Edward.
Charlotte felt blood rush to her temples. Only one man lived in this flat—her husband. But another woman? At 43, she hardly fit that description. Maybe the driver was just being polite? Yet something didn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she suddenly said. “Where’s your terminal?”
The lad blinked in surprise. He’d expected tears or shouting—that’s how his mother had reacted when she learned of his father’s affair. But Charlotte stood composed, as if carved from steel. As she sent him away, she burst into laughter, which then turned into something wild, tears streaking down her face. She wiped them away, took a deep breath, and picked up her phone.
“Edward, hi. What time are you finishing work today?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice.
“Hi. Seven, unless the boss springs one of his dreaded meetings,” he replied. “Why?”
“I thought we could have dinner together.”
“Did your plans change?”
“Yeah, staying in. Thought it’d be nice to spend the evening together.”
“Fine by me, but I’m not sure when I’ll be free.”
“No worries, we’ll figure it out. Don’t feel like cooking—I’ll order in, alright?”
“Deal.”
Charlotte hung up and opened the wardrobe. Her eyes landed on a black dress with golden accents, the one she’d worn to last year’s office party. “If we’re celebrating, might as well do it properly,” she thought bitterly.
Returning to the hallway, she glanced at the receipt, picked up her phone, and ordered the exact same sushi as yesterday—with a note for “utensils for two.”
That evening, the same nervous deliveryman arrived. Relieved to see the payment process smoothly, he hurried off, deciding this family had far too many secrets.
An hour later, Edward came home. Charlotte greeted him with a smile, though tension flickered in her eyes. She noticed how he played the perfect husband—something he always did after his “late nights” or sudden work trips.
“Sushi?” Edward stared at the table.
“Yeah, saw an advert for delivery at Mum’s yesterday,” Charlotte shrugged. “Fancied some. I know you hate it, so I roasted chicken for you.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try,” he said. “Had some at work once—wasn’t bad.”
“Change is good, isn’t it, Edward?” she asked with a faint smirk. “Wash your hands—I’m starving.”
Edward tensed. Her calmness, the sushi, the same restaurant—he didn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night?
He sat, eyeing her warily. Instead of shouting or accusations, Charlotte simply asked: “What’s her name?” Her voice was steady as she speared a roll with her fork.
Edward choked. Denial was pointless. “Emily,” he muttered.
“Lovely name,” Charlotte replied evenly. “How long?”
“Charlotte…” he began, lost for words.
“No excuses, Edward. Tell me about her. I want to know if it’s serious.”
“Serious? Are you joking? Why aren’t you angry?”
“No anger,” she laughed, though bitterness lurked beneath. “Just tell me about Emily.”
“She’s twenty-nine,” he exhaled. “Doubt it’ll last…”
“Why not? Too flighty? Impressed by an older man?” Charlotte held his gaze.
Pain flickered across her face.
“No, she’s… nice,” Edward mumbled.
Praising his mistress to his wife felt absurd.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“What are you getting at?”
“You like her—I hear it in your voice. People don’t talk like that about flings. I’ll give you a divorce, no drama. Let’s settle things now.”
“Charlotte, are you alright?”
Her composure unnerved him. He’d expected a fight, tears, threats—like before. But she was unreadable.
“Edward, I don’t love you,” she said abruptly. “Haven’t for three years. And it feels so easy to say it out loud! You always come back, and I let you. We should’ve ended this ages ago. But you stay—principles, I suppose. Let me go. I’ll let you go, too.”
Edward froze. Sure, they’d fought often these past years, but divorce had never been an option. He’d assumed she’d fall apart if he left—and he couldn’t imagine life without the safety of marriage.
They’d wed at eighteen, childhood sweethearts. Life outside this was uncharted.
But this morning, when the driver showed that receipt, Charlotte realised the truth: her love for Edward had faded. Like dust on a shelf, it only needed a single swipe to disappear.
“Maybe we’re rushing?” Edward ventured. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she said firmly. “Today, when I found out about her, I was relieved. First, it hurt—then it didn’t. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Sorry. I suppose… I don’t love you either,” he admitted.
“Let’s toast to that,” Charlotte gestured at the table.
She fetched paper and a pen.
“While you eat, let’s list who takes what.”
“Just like wiping away dust,” she thought, starting the inventory. Edward, watching her, began talking about Emily—not as a mistress, but as someone who made him happy. It felt oddly natural, as if speaking to an old friend rather than his wife.
The truth, once spoken, was lighter than silence. Sometimes love ends not with fire, but with quiet clarity—and that, perhaps, is the hardest thing to face.
