Too Late to Turn Back
“Well then, Elizabeth Whitmore, we’ve patched you up and given our advice. Now, just don’t overdo it—take care of yourself,” the doctor said with a smile, patted her shoulder, and politely held the door open as she stepped out with her bags.
Elizabeth felt a lump rise in her throat. Even though her hospital stay had been unpleasant, she’d almost enjoyed it. A rare moment of rest. The last few years had drained her completely—working like a packhorse, too afraid to even ask for a weekend off. The headaches, dizziness, and exhaustion? She ignored them all. Until she collapsed, ending up in hospital with a nervous breakdown and heart complications. A month in bed, her mother nearly beside herself with worry.
Meanwhile, her husband, George, hadn’t batted an eyelid. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed her absence. Or maybe he truly hadn’t—the moment Elizabeth left, his mother moved in, bringing pots, rags, and lectures.
“Lizzy dear, you must understand, our George is still such a child. Who else will look after him if not me? You’ve got your own mother, but I’ll take care of my little boy,” his mother cooed over the phone.
Elizabeth clenched her teeth. Years of teaching George independence—gone. Washing up, taking out the rubbish—all dissolved like sugar in tea. Once again, she was the wicked witch, while his mother played the doting fairy, “rescuing” her son from his tyrant wife. Though who was really the tyrant—that was another question.
The early years of marriage were painful to remember. His mother had monitored their every move, even phoning their bedroom: “Are you asleep? Or is something… not quite right in there?” Chilling.
They’d met in the oddest way. Elizabeth had stormed out after a fight with her so-called friend—who turned out to be a betrayer. Walking down the street, stewing over life’s unfairness, when suddenly a man nearly fell on her from a tree. Or rather, a branch. She looked up—there was George, tangled and sheepish.
“Have you lost your mind? Trying to kill yourself?” she snapped.
“Rescuing the cat!” he muttered defensively.
There was no cat, of course. Whiskers had bolted, but George stayed. Elizabeth fetched a stepladder and a rope, helping him down. That’s how they met. That’s how their story began—beautiful, but flawed.
After the wedding, she quickly realised George wasn’t just helpless—he was a child. Couldn’t wash a dish, couldn’t take out the rubbish without whining. She carried it all: the mortgage, her job, her sick mother. Meanwhile, he ran to his mum, who then scolded her. So Elizabeth took charge, teaching him responsibility. And, to her surprise, it worked.
George began to change. Learned to cook, clean, even took initiative. His mother retreated—though she still lurked, sniffling about her poor boy. But things were under control. Until the hospital.
Now, everything reset. Elizabeth called George—silence. Odd. Monday was his day off; he should’ve been up by now. She tried his mother—no answer either. Her heart clenched. She hailed a taxi, dread pooling in her stomach.
She reached the flat, slid her key into the lock—and the door swung open before she could turn it. A stranger stood there.
“Who are you?” Elizabeth asked coldly.
“I’m Marina. George’s love. And you, sweetheart, don’t live here anymore. So be a dear and disappear.”
Elizabeth froze. Before she could process it, the door slammed shut.
“Your things will be out in a minute,” came the voice from inside.
Bags soon tumbled onto the doorstep. Shoving past his new woman, Elizabeth sat on her tartan suitcase and dialled the police. She hadn’t worked herself to the bone just to hand everything over to a cheater.
When the officers arrived, she threw them both out—George and his “darling.” He stayed silent, but his new love tried a protest.
“He owns this place too! You can’t just kick us out!”
“I can,” Elizabeth said calmly. “It’s in my name. Go cry to Mummy.”
As the door shut behind them, she exhaled for the first time in years. She aired the flat, tossed out their bedsheets, and filed for divorce. At first, it ached. Then… it felt like freedom.
A month later, lounging in bed on a lazy Sunday, she revelled in her hard-won peace. The phone rang.
“George,” she said to herself—then answered.
“Lizzy, darling… I miss you. No one loves me here. It was all Mum’s fault. Please forgive me. Take me back…”
Elizabeth listened in silence. Then burst out laughing.
“Are you serious? Take you back? After all that?”
He kept babbling like a schoolboy. She hung up, leaned back against the pillows, and smirked.
“Well then,” she said to herself. “I thought my life was over. Turns out, it’s only just begun.”
