**The Secret Beneath the Sofa**
Eleanor sat by the kitchen window, watching the autumn wind whirl leaves into spirals. Her thoughts scattered when Vera burst in, beaming. “Mum, guess what? I’m getting married! Liam and I just registered—wedding in a month!” Eleanor froze, her breath catching. “Darling, are you serious?” she managed. “Why so sudden? You never mentioned a thing!”
Giddy, Vera recounted how Liam, her sweetheart, had dragged her into the registry office on a whim. “We were walking past, and he just grabbed my hand and said, ‘Got your ID? Let’s go!’ I didn’t even argue!” she laughed. Still reeling, Eleanor murmured, “Liam’s coming tomorrow with his mum to ask for your hand.” She studied her daughter, struck by how swiftly she’d grown. *We must prepare*, she thought, her heart tight with joy and dread.
At dawn, Eleanor rose early. The table needed setting, and she had to look presentable—guests didn’t visit every day. As the apple pie baked, she pondered. She liked Liam: steady, five years Vera’s senior, already running his own garage. Raised by a single mother, he was hardworking, dependable. But her mind drifted to the past, where her own dreams had frayed at the edges.
Twenty years ago, Eleanor had been a girl in love with Anthony. They’d met at a dance in a dimly lit hall—he, older, charming, with a spark in his eye. They’d wandered till midnight, rowed on the Thames, breathed in the scent of cut grass. She’d never been happier. Then she found she was pregnant. Her mother scolded but stood by her. Anthony, upon hearing, agreed to marry. “We’ll be a family,” he’d said, and she’d believed him.
While she awaited the birth, Anthony left for work up north. Money was tight, especially with a baby coming. He’d return with wads of cash—enough to feel like fortune—then vanish again. His mother, kind from the start, adored Eleanor. But when it was time to bring her and Vera home from the hospital, Anthony didn’t come. Their mothers arrived with flowers, their evasive glances seeding doubt. Eleanor assumed work had delayed him, but her heart knew better.
She moved in with Anthony’s mother, as he’d insisted. Then, one day, tidying the flat, she found a letter wedged beneath the sofa. His handwriting. *Mum, I don’t know how to tell Eleanor. I’m in trouble. Met a girl at a mate’s birthday—she’s seventeen, pregnant. Her father and brother gave me a choice: marry her or else. I chose marriage. No drama. Tell Eleanor yourself. We’ll divorce. I’ll support her and Vera—won’t abandon my girl.* The words choked her, tears scalding her cheeks.
How did she survive the betrayal? Her mother and mother-in-law carried her. She left for her parents’, despite Anthony’s mum pleading her to stay. “I can’t bear seeing him with another family,” she’d explained. Yet his mother never withdrew. She visited daily, bearing sweets for Vera, as if atoning for her son. “You’re like a daughter to me,” she’d say. “Vera’s my joy.” Eleanor couldn’t resent her, not when she adored Vera so.
But Anthony’s mother grew frail. When she didn’t appear for three days, Eleanor rushed over. Clutching her hand, the woman confessed, “I’ve been ill for a year. Forgive Anthony—he’s shamed me. Promise you won’t call him, even when I’m gone. The flat and savings are Vera’s.” Eleanor kept her word. Anthony wasn’t at the funeral.
Three years later, Eleanor’s own mother passed. She and Vera, now thirteen, were alone. The girl was bright, obedient, top of her class—a small solace. Years slipped by until, one evening, Anthony appeared at the doorstep. He was weathered, his confidence eroded. “Eleanor, hello,” he said, forcing a smile. She steadied herself.
“How’s Vera? I brought money—know I owe you. Life’s not been kind,” he muttered, fumbling in his coat.
“We’re fine,” she said coolly. “Your mother didn’t want you called, even when she was dying. She didn’t want to see you.”
He stammered about wanting to meet Vera, but Eleanor stepped inside. Later, neighbors gossiped: his marriage had collapsed—the child wasn’t his, but his wife’s and her schoolmate’s. She’d left him, and he’d never remarried.
The scent of pie snapped Eleanor back. She laid the table, glancing outside. *Time flies*, she mused. *Yesterday, I braided Vera’s hair; today, she’s a bride.* Through the window, she watched Liam help Vera from the car, then offer his mother an arm. *So thoughtful*, she smiled.
“Mum, this is Liam’s mum, Margaret,” Vera announced.
“Just Margaret,” the woman corrected, offering a hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
The youngsters vanished into the sitting room, while Eleanor and Margaret chatted like old friends. They laughed, shared stories, and silently agreed: their children would be happy. They blessed Vera and Liam, vowing to shield their love from any storm.
