The Shadow Behind the Smile
Nobody in the university department would have guessed—or believed—that Eleanor Whitmore’s husband was a hopeless drunk. It was her sorrowful secret, her private grief.
Eleanor was a lecturer, an associate professor, and the head of her department. Colleagues admired her expertise, her impeccable reputation. To them, she was the picture of success—a woman who had it all. And why wouldn’t they think so? Her husband, Arthur, often waited for her at the university steps, arm in arm as they walked home together.
“Oh, Eleanor, you’re so fortunate! Arthur is so handsome, so devoted, such a gentleman!” the younger faculty would gush.
“Don’t envy me, girls,” Eleanor would deflect with a tight smile.
Only she knew the truth. Arthur drank himself senseless. He stumbled home filthy, barely human, unable to fit his key in the lock. He’d ring the bell, collapse on the threshold, and pass out cold. Eleanor would drag him inside, muttering under her breath—”You’ll be the death of me, Arthur Whitmore”—cover him with a blanket so he wouldn’t freeze, then return to her research. First her master’s, then her doctorate. She always left a jug of water beside him. Otherwise, he’d bellow through the night—”Ellie! Thirsty! So bloody thirsty!”
Mornings, she’d step over his prone body in the hallway, lock the door behind her, and carry on as if nothing were amiss. Weeks blurred into months. Then, without warning, Arthur would reappear—sober, clean, smiling—waiting for her at the university like a dutiful husband.
“How was your day, love?” he’d ask, kissing her cheek as colleagues looked on adoringly.
“Fine, Arthur. Let’s go home,” she’d reply, stifling a sigh.
“Lucky Eleanor,” they’d whisper.
But the moment they crossed their threshold, silence fell. It was her revenge. She knew the power of words unspoken. Arthur withered under it, though with time, he adapted—escorting her home, then vanishing to the pub. The drinking never stopped.
Twenty-eight years of marriage. Once, their love had been tender, eternal—until it dissolved like smoke, impossible to grasp.
Early on, they’d struggled to conceive. Eleanor ached with the emptiness of it. Then, at last, a son—James. Her purpose, her joy.
Money was tight. Arthur left the burdens of parenthood to her while he hid bottles around the house, sipping in secret. Exhaustion blinded her at first. When she finally found a bottle of whisky stashed on the balcony, she was more bewildered than angry.
“Arthur? Whose is this?”
“Take a guess,” he’d joked.
The fights came after. Tears, pleas, threats—the same relentless cycle.
Years passed. Arthur bounced between jobs, inevitably fired for drunkenness. Eleanor climbed the academic ladder, depending only on herself. She pitied him, nothing more. Her heart had withered.
James was her solace. A charmer, always in love—first at fourteen, then nineteen, then…
One girl lasted five years. Eleanor adored her—Emma. She called her “daughter,” introduced her to relatives as James’s wife. They all lived together: Arthur, Eleanor, James, and Emma.
“You should marry,” Eleanor would hint. “Give me grandchildren.”
Emma would shrug. “I’m ready. James is the one dragging his feet.”
Then, one day, Emma’s things were gone. That evening, James arrived with Lily—barely eighteen.
“We’re in love. She’s moving in,” he declared.
“Where’s Emma? Bring her back!” Eleanor demanded.
James and Lily left in a huff.
For the first time, Eleanor realized how deeply she’d cherished Emma. Five years—a lifetime. Emma had loved James desperately. What more could a mother want?
“What was her name—Lily? Lucy? I won’t allow this!” Eleanor fumed. “The boy’s a rake. At least he doesn’t drink like his father.”
A month later, James returned alone.
“Where’s your latest conquest?” Eleanor asked dryly.
“She told me, ‘I didn’t grow up to be picked by an old goat like you.’ Too young for me, apparently,” James laughed. Then, sobering: “Mum, you loved Emma? Guess what? She had two kids. Her ex told me. She visited them every month—said she was helping her mother. All those years, hiding it.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “Oh, James… She loved you. The heart doesn’t ask permission. Those poor children, caught in the middle. I’ll never forget Emma.”
“Don’t worry, Mum. She’s still lovely,” James said bitterly.
A year later, Arthur was gone. Cirrhosis. Six months of agony, then a deathbed apology.
At the graveside, Eleanor turned to James.
“Your father stole years of my life. You saw it—the drinking, the tears. But I’d endure it all again just to have him back.”
She wept openly, placing fresh flowers on the disturbed earth. James took her arm, and they walked home in silence.
At work, colleagues pitied her. “Alone now,” she confessed. “James is off chasing love. A grandchild would be a comfort.”
Another year slipped by. Eleanor retired, haunted by memories of Arthur waiting on those steps.
New Year’s Eve. The flat was warm, the tree twinkling. She sat alone, picking at mince pies, wondering if James would visit.
A knock startled her. Through the peephole—Emma.
Eleanor yanked the door open, embracing her before noticing the tiny girl beside her. She ushered them in, plying them with tea and treats. When the child slept, Eleanor studied her face—James’s likeness.
“Emma. Tell me.”
“It’s your granddaughter,” Emma blurted.
“I knew. But why?”
“Because I can’t keep her. My ex has taken me back, but he won’t accept her. Please, Eleanor. Help me.”
“So this is my New Year’s gift,” Eleanor murmured.
“I know you’re retired. You won’t be lonely. I’ll visit. Her name’s Victoria. She’s fifteen months.”
By morning, Emma was gone. A note lay on the table—*Happy New Year. Love to James.* A bag of clothes. A birth certificate: *Victoria Jameson.*
“Arthur left. Victoria arrived,” Eleanor whispered, kissing the child’s forehead. “My unexpected joy.”
Years later, Victoria started school. She called Eleanor “Granny,” James “Daddy.” He adored his little Vicky but still chased elusive happiness.
Emma never returned.
