**A Sin Like a Nut, a Core Like a Bucket**
“You can’t be carrying on like some lovesick teenager at his age! He’s forty-six! What’s he thinking? That girl could be his daughter! What kind of love could they possibly have? Hmph—fallen for her like a mouse into a trap! I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to!” fumed Irene over her husband’s behavior.
Her best friend, Evelyn, listened to the outburst patiently. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Irene. Everything will work out. You’ve got the perfect family,” she soothed.
But Evelyn, their colleagues, even the neighbors—they all knew the peaceful façade of Irene’s happy marriage hung by a thread.
Gerald, Irene’s husband, had gone completely off the rails. He wasn’t himself.
It had all started with a car accident. That one moment twisted into a fleeting infatuation, then a desperate, burning love.
Winter. Black ice. Every morning, Gerald drove carefully to his London office at a snail’s pace. That day, he stopped at a zebra crossing.
Then, out of nowhere, a girl dashed forward and slammed onto the bonnet of his car. Gerald barely processed it. For a split second, he thought she’d thrown herself on purpose. But there was no time to think—he leapt out to help her.
The girl groaned, clutching her arm.
Gerald helped her into his car and headed for the nearest A&E, but she refused. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “But I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea…”
So he took her to his office instead.
Poured her strong tea with biscuits.
They talked. Her name was Angelica. Gerald noted how lovely she was—sweet, button-nosed, curly-haired, wise beyond her years. And something about her was magnetic. He couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t stop listening to that enchanting voice. Shaking himself, he escorted her out. He’d already wasted too much time.
As she left, he handed her his card. Just politeness.
“Call if you need anything.”
By evening, he’d forgotten the whole incident.
Two days later, Angelica rang. She needed to see him urgently.
Guilt lingering, Gerald agreed.
She answered the door of her tiny flat, her right arm bandaged.
“See, Gerald… I wanted to hang this painting in the kitchen. But my wrist hurts. Could you help?” She winced.
“Of course.”
The painting was up in minutes. Then a bottle of wine and a plate of fruit appeared.
“We should celebrate. I’ve wanted this up forever. Never had a man’s help before,” she said, pulling out a chair.
Gerald couldn’t refuse. He pitied her—so pretty, yet all alone…
The wine vanished between chatter. The fruit went untouched.
He returned home dazed, late. His wife and daughter slept soundly. They were used to him working odd hours.
Six months later, Gerald announced he was leaving.
Irene and their daughter, Emily, were stunned. Of course, Irene had noticed changes—he’d forgotten her birthday (unthinkable before), their savings had mysteriously dwindled, and he was hardly ever home.
She’d ignored the signs, scoffing at the saying “Old fools are the worst.”
She’d trusted him completely. She’d even had admirers at work, but none ever caught her eye. She loved only Gerald.
And now this.
Frantic, she turned to Emily. “Find out who she is. How serious is this?”
Emily had already visited her father. She’d seen Angelica.
“Mum, it’s true. Dad’s in love. This girl—she’s only five years older than me. Twenty-six. Angelica. And… she looks just like you when you were young. Spitting image.”
Irene turned pale. When Emily showed her a photo, she reached for the sedatives.
“God. No. It can’t be…” she whispered.
Emily didn’t understand.
Old sins cast long shadows. And now, that shadow had caught up.
Years ago, at seventeen, Irene had met her first husband. Back then, she thought it was destiny. He swept her off her feet—so fiercely, so swiftly, she barely blinked before they married.
They lived with his mother, Margaret, a kind woman who doted on Irene. She confided in her, even wept on her shoulder during hard times.
Soon, they had a daughter. Margaret, who’d always wanted a girl of her own, was overjoyed. They named her Angelica.
The girl grew up looking just like Irene.
When Angelica was three, her father was posted abroad. Six months, he’d said.
When he didn’t return, Irene panicked.
Margaret soothed her—work delays happened.
Then Irene found a letter, addressed to Margaret.
*Mum, I’ve found real love here. I’m staying. You’ll have to explain to Irene…*
Irene confronted her.
“Margaret! You knew! Your son’s a scoundrel! What am I supposed to do now?”
“Irene! I thought he’d come to his senses. But now—they’ve had a child. You’re young. You’ll find someone else. Just… leave Angelica with me. Please.”
Irene thought it over… and chose a fresh start.
She met Gerald on a bus. He’d stepped on her foot, apologised profusely. They talked, exchanged numbers.
A New Year’s call, roses, a giant teddy bear. Romance bloomed.
She never mentioned Angelica.
They married. Irene moved in. Angelica stayed with Margaret and the teddy bear.
At first, Irene visited. Then, assured Angelica was happy, she stopped.
And, slowly, she forgot.
Until now.
Angelica—her daughter—had come to steal her husband.
Irene had to see for herself.
When Gerald was at work, she knocked on Angelica’s door.
The girl wasn’t surprised.
“Hello… Mum. Here for your husband?”
Irene said nothing.
“At fifteen, I started plotting revenge. Nights spent awake, dreaming of hurting you… Mum.”
“You grew up in a home?”
“Yes. After Gran died. Eleven years old. Orphaned with living parents.”
No more kisses, only slaps. No pedestal—just the cold floor.
“I wanted you to hurt like I did. But then… I fell in love with Gerald. And he loves me. He’s the only one since Gran who’s loved me. You don’t deserve pity. Go.”
Irene whispered, “Life’s long and twisted. Forgive me, Angelica. Just… don’t tell Gerald. Or Emily.”
A year later, Angelica died giving birth to twins.
With her last breath, she whispered to Gerald, “Name the boy Jerry. The girl… Irene. Go back to your family.”
When Irene heard, she went to him.
Gerald, startled, expected scorn.
Instead, she rushed to the cribs. The babies slept soundly.
He stood awkwardly, empty bottles in hand.
“They just ate,” he mumbled.
Irene took charge.
“Jerry, I’m so sorry. But you can’t raise two infants alone. Come home. We’ll manage. They’re family too.”
