AN UNEXPECTED JOY
At the university, none of Eleanor Whitmore’s colleagues knew—or would have believed—that her husband was a hopeless drunk. It was her sorrowful secret, her private burden.
Eleanor was a lecturer, associate professor, and head of department. At work, she was highly respected, her reputation impeccable. Everyone saw her as a woman who had it all—success, stability, everything. And why wouldn’t they? Her husband, Richard, often waited for her at the university steps, ready to walk her home arm in arm.
“Oh, Eleanor, you’re so lucky! Richard’s so handsome, so attentive, such a gentleman!” the younger colleagues would gush.
“Don’t envy me, girls,” Eleanor would deflect, forcing a smile.
Only she knew the truth. Richard would come home—or rather, stumble in—filthy and senseless, too far gone to even fit his key in the lock. He’d ring the bell, collapse on the doorstep, and pass out cold. Eleanor would drag him inside, muttering under her breath, cover him with a blanket so he wouldn’t freeze, then return to her desk to work on her thesis—first her PhD, then her professorship. She always left a pint of water by his side, knowing he’d otherwise wake the whole house bellowing, “Ellie! Need a drink!”
In the morning, she’d step over him in the corridor, head to work, and carry on as if nothing were wrong. Days, weeks, even months might pass like this. Then, out of the blue, Richard would reappear at the university gates, clean-shaven, sober, smiling, waiting to escort her home like the perfect husband.
“How was your day, love?” he’d ask, kissing her cheek as her colleagues looked on admiringly.
“Fine, Rick. Let’s go,” Eleanor would murmur, suppressing a sigh.
The moment they crossed the threshold, though, she’d fall silent. It was her revenge. She knew silence cut deeper than words. Richard couldn’t bear it—the quiet disapproval, the weight of her disappointment. Over time, he adapted, dropping her off only to vanish again on some vague “errand.” The drinking never stopped.
They’d been married 28 years. Once, their love had been tender, mutual, endless—until it wasn’t. Like feathers from a burst pillow, it scattered, impossible to gather again.
Early on, Eleanor had longed for a child, terrified she’d never conceive. Then their son, James, arrived—her pride, her purpose. Money was tight, but Richard left all the work to her, hiding bottles around the house instead. She was young then, naive. The first time she found vodka stashed on the balcony, she barely reacted.
“Richard? Whose is this?”
“Guess,” he joked.
The fights came later—pleading, threats, tears, the same tired script.
Years passed. Richard drifted in and out of work, undone by drink. Divorce was never an option. Eleanor’s mother had always said, “A woman marries once—her first husband is a gift from God, the second from the devil. Better a straw man than none at all.” The thought of a devil’s bargain terrified her.
So she poured herself into her career, climbing the ranks alone. She pitied Richard—nothing more. Her heart had dried up long ago.
James was her solace. Handsome, charming—and hopelessly unfaithful. Girlfriends came and went. One, Emily, lasted five years. Eleanor grew to love her, introduced her as “James’s wife.” They all lived together—Richard, Eleanor, James, and Emily. She even hinted at grandchildren. “Time to make it official!”
Emily would shrug. “I’m ready, but James keeps stalling.”
Then one day, Emily was gone—her things vanished. That evening, James arrived with Lily, an 18-year-old. “We’re in love. She’s moving in.”
“Where’s Emily? Bring her back!” Eleanor demanded.
James and Lily left in a huff.
It hit Eleanor then—how much she’d loved Emily. Five years. A lifetime. And now this… girl. She refused to let them stay.
A month later, James returned alone.
“Where’s your latest fling?” Eleanor asked.
“She told me, ‘I didn’t grow up to waste myself on an old mule!'” He laughed. “Mum, you always liked Emily—well, here’s the truth. She has two kids. Some ex-husband in the countryside. She’d visit them every month, lied about helping her mum. The bloke tracked me down—decent chap, raising them alone. Waits for her to come back. Five years, and she never said a word!”
Eleanor sighed. “She still loves you, James. Hearts don’t follow rules. But those poor children… They need both parents.”
A year later, Richard died—liver failure, after six months of agony. On his deathbed, he begged forgiveness.
At the graveside, Eleanor turned to James. “Your father took years off my life. But I’d endure it all again, just to have him back.”
She wept openly, laying flowers on the fresh earth.
At work, colleagues pitied her. “Alone now,” she confessed. “James has his own chaos. If only he’d settle down, give me a grandchild…”
Another year slipped by. Eleanor retired, haunted by memories of Richard waiting on those steps.
Then, one New Year’s Eve, a knock at the door.
Through the peephole—Emily!
Eleanor flung the door open, embracing her. Then she saw the toddler beside her.
Over tea, Emily finally spoke. “Eleanor… this is your granddaughter.”
Eleanor had already guessed. “James’s child.”
“Can she stay with you? Just awhile. My husband won’t accept her. I’m desperate.”
By morning, Emily was gone—only a note, a bag of clothes, and a birth certificate: Veronica James Whitmore.
Richard was gone. Veronica had arrived.
Eleanor kissed the sleeping girl’s forehead. “My unexpected joy.”
Years later, Veronica calls her “Gran,” James “Dad”—though he’s still searching for love.
Emily never returned.
