THE UNEXPECTED JOY
In the halls of Oxford’s faculty, none of her colleagues knew—nor would they believe—that Professor Lillian Whitmore’s husband was a hopeless drunk. It was her sorrowful secret, her private torment.
Lillian Whitmore, respected lecturer, associate professor, and head of department, was admired for her work. Her reputation was impeccable. Everyone saw her as a woman who had it all—in every way. How could they not? Her husband often met her at the university gates to walk her home, arm in arm.
“Lillian, you’re so fortunate! Your husband is handsome, attentive, such a gentleman,” the younger staff would sigh.
“Oh, girls, don’t envy me,” she’d reply lightly.
Only Lillian knew the truth of her so-called gentleman. Victor, her husband, would drink himself senseless. He’d stumble home filthy, barely human. Unable to fit his key in the lock, he’d ring the bell, collapse on the doormat, and pass out cold. Lillian would drag him inside, muttering—”Oh, you miserable sot, when will you ever stop?”—then tuck him under a tartan blanket so he wouldn’t freeze. She’d return to her thesis—first the doctoral, then the postdoctoral. She always left a pint of water beside him. Otherwise, he’d howl in the night like a banshee: *”Lil! Thirsty! Thirsty!”*
Come morning, Lillian would step over him in the hall, ready for work, shutting the door quietly behind her. Then, off to Oxford to sow wisdom and virtue. This could go on for weeks. Months.
Then, one day, Victor would reappear—sober, polished, waiting on the university steps. When Lillian emerged with her colleagues, he’d rush up, kiss her cheek, and ask, “How was your day, love?”
“Fine, Vic. Let’s go home,” she’d sigh.
The staff would watch them fondly. *”Lillian’s so lucky…”*
The moment they crossed the threshold, she’d fall silent. It was her revenge. She knew silence cut deeper than words. Victor couldn’t bear it—though, over the years, he’d grown numb. He’d escort her home, then vanish “on business.” The drinking never stopped.
They’d been married 28 years. Their love had once been tender, mutual—eternal, it seemed. Then it scattered like feather-down from a torn pillow, impossible to gather again.
Early in their marriage, they’d struggled to conceive. Lillian felt hollow, useless. Then, at last, a son—James. He became her reason for living.
Money was tight. Victor left the child-rearing to her while he hid bottles of whisky in the shed. Exhausted, she didn’t notice at first. She was young then, naive.
When she finally found a bottle on the balcony, she asked, “Vic… whose is this?”
“Guess,” he joked.
The fights began. Tears, pleas, threats. The same old script.
Years passed. Victor cycled through jobs, losing each to drink. Lillian gave up on him but refused to divorce. Her mother’s words haunted her: *”Marry once, dear. The first husband’s from God; the second, from the devil. Better a straw man than none. And no one loves a child like his own father.”*
Lillian climbed the academic ladder alone. She pitied Victor. Nothing more. Her heart had dried up.
Her solace was James. He grew into a handsome lad—always in love. First at 14, then 19, then…
Too amorous, Lillian fretted. She’d barely adjust to one girlfriend before he introduced another. One—Abigail—lasted five years. Lillian called her “daughter,” introduced her as James’s wife. They all lived together: Victor, Lillian, James, and Abigail. Lillian hinted at grandchildren. “Isn’t it time to wed? Think of heirs!”
Abigail shrugged. “I’m ready, but James stalls…”
James stayed silent. Then, Abigail vanished.
Lillian came home to find her things gone.
That evening, James brought home Lena. Barely eighteen.
“Lena’s moving in. We’re in love,” he announced.
“Where’s Abigail? James, I won’t allow this! Bring her back!”
James and Lena left in a huff.
Only then did Lillian realise how much she’d loved Abigail. Five years—no small thing. The girl had adored James. What more could a mother want? And now this… *flibbertigibbet*? *”Lena? Lucy? Not in my house!”* She fumed. *”Good Lord, what a tomcat my son is! At least he doesn’t drink like his father.”*
A month later, James returned—alone. Lillian was relieved but couldn’t resist: “Where’s your latest flame?”
“She said, ‘I didn’t grow up in the hedgerow for an old mule like you!’ Too young for her taste,” James laughed. Then, soberly: “Mum, you scolded me about Abigail. Well, she has two children. Didn’t know? Neither did I. All those trips to ‘help her mother’? Visiting them in the village. Her ex-husband told me—decent bloke, raises them alone. Waits for her to return. Five years, and she never said a word!”
“James, I think Abigail still loves you. The heart wants what it wants. But those poor children… tossed about like hedgehogs in the fog. They need love from both. I miss her.”
“Don’t worry, Mum. She’s still lovely,” he smirked.
A year later, Victor departed for eternity. Liver failure. Six months of agony. On his deathbed, he begged forgiveness.
At the graveside, Lillian told James: “Your father stole years from me. You saw it all—every drop he drank, every tear I shed. But I’d endure it all again, just to see him rise from this grave. That’s love, my boy.”
She wept freely, laying fresh flowers on the mound. James took her arm. They walked home in heavy silence.
At Oxford, colleagues pitied her. She confessed for the first time: “I’m alone. James is off chasing rainbows. Even a grandchild would help. How do I go on?”
Another year slipped by. Lillian retired. She’d watch the university steps, half-expecting Victor. The past would never return.
December’s end brought festive chaos. The world buzzed with magic.
New Year’s Eve found Lillian alone—tree decorated, table set with prawn cocktail, mince pies, and Prosecco. *”Maybe James will visit… unless there’s another girl.”*
A knock. She startled—James had his own key.
Peering through the peephole: *”Good Lord—Abigail!”*
She flung the door open, hugging the unexpected guest—then noticed the tiny girl beside her.
Flustered, Lillian ushered them in, serving tea and treats. When the child slept, she studied the little face—and saw James.
“Abigail, explain,” she whispered, heart racing.
“I’ve come to beg forgiveness,” Abigail began.
“I know everything, dear. James told me. Get to the point.”
“Well… this is your granddaughter.”
“I’d gathered that. James’s daughter. What next?”
“Could she stay with you? Just a while. I’ve reconciled with my husband—but he won’t accept Veronica. Says his own children come first. I’m stuck. Please help.”
“What a New Year’s gift,” Lillian murmured.
“You’re retired now—no time to be lonely. I’ll visit often. Her name’s Veronica. Fifteen months old.”
By morning, Abigail was gone. A note lay on the table: *”I love you, Lillian. Happy New Year. Kisses to James.”* Beside it, a bag of clothes and the child’s birth certificate—Veronica James Whitmore.
*”Victor left, Veronica arrived,”* Lillian thought, smiling sadly.
She kissed the sleeping girl’s forehead. “My unexpected joy.”
Years later, Veronica started school, calling Lillian “Nana” and James “Daddy”—though he still chased his elusive happy-ever-after.
Abigail never returned.
