UNEXPECTED JOY
No one in the faculty at the university knew—nor would they have believed—that Professor Eleanor Whitmore’s husband was a hopeless drunk. It was her bitter secret, the silent sorrow she carried behind her polished smile.
Eleanor Whitmore was a lecturer, an associate professor, even head of her department. At work, she was respected, admired—her reputation impeccable. Everyone saw her as accomplished, fulfilled in every way. And why wouldn’t they? Her husband, Charles, often waited for her at the university steps, arm in arm, the picture of devotion.
“Professor Whitmore, you’re so lucky!” the younger colleagues would sigh. “Your husband is so dignified, so attentive—such a gentleman!”
“Oh, don’t envy me, girls,” Eleanor would deflect lightly.
Only she knew the truth—the way Charles, her so-called gentleman, stumbled home blind drunk, filthy from the gutter, barely human. He’d knock, collapse on the doorstep, and pass out. Eleanor would drag him inside, muttering her lament—”Oh, you miserable sod, will you ever stop?”—then tuck him under a blanket, leave a jug of water by his side, and return to her thesis. First her PhD, then her post-doctoral work. The routine repeated—weeks, months—until, suddenly, Charles would reappear on the university steps, clean, polished, grinning.
“How was your day, darling?” he’d ask, kissing her cheek as colleagues looked on fondly.
“Fine, Charlie,” Eleanor would sigh. “Let’s go home.”
Behind closed doors, silence was her revenge. Charles couldn’t bear it—her wordless reproach—though, over time, he learned to slip away, vanishing to the pub before she could trap him in that suffocating quiet.
They’d been married twenty-eight years. Once, their love had burned bright, infinite. Then, like feathers from a burst pillow, it scattered, impossible to gather again.
At first, Eleanor had longed for a child, grieving her empty womb. When their son, Oliver, finally arrived, he became her world. But money was tight, and Charles left all the burdens to her—the nappies, the sleepless nights—while he hid bottles in odd corners, drank in secret.
She was young then, naive. When she found a bottle of whiskey stashed on the balcony, she blinked.
“Charlie… whose is this?”
“Guess,” he laughed.
Fights followed—tears, threats, promises. The same old story.
Over the years, Charles lost jobs as fast as he found them, his drinking unstoppable. Eleanor climbed the academic ladder alone, pitying him, resenting him, her love withered to dust.
Oliver was her solace. Handsome, charming—too charming. By fourteen, he was in love; by nineteen, he’d cycled through three sweethearts. One stayed five years—Emily. Eleanor adored her, called her “daughter,” even introduced her to relatives as Oliver’s wife. They all lived together—Eleanor, Charles, Oliver and Emily. She nudged them toward marriage, grandchildren.
“I’ve been ready,” Emily would say, shrugging. “Oliver’s the one dragging his feet.”
Then one day, Emily vanished. Oliver brought home Lily—barely eighteen.
“Where’s Emily?” Eleanor demanded.
“Gone,” said Oliver, offended when she refused to let them stay.
In time, he returned alone, laughing it off.
“Apparently, I’m ‘too old’ for her. But listen—Emily had two kids. A whole secret family! Her ex-husband came to tell me. Imagine that.”
Eleanor ached for Emily, still loved her. But Oliver moved on.
A year later, Charles died—cirrhosis. On his deathbed, he begged forgiveness.
At the graveside, Eleanor whispered to Oliver, “He stole years from me, yet… I’d endure it all again, just to have him back.”
Then—another year gone. Retired, restless, Eleanor sat alone on New Year’s Eve, watching telly, waiting. Maybe Oliver would visit.
A knock—unexpected. At the door stood Emily, a little girl at her side.
Eleanor fussed, fed them, tucked the child in. Only then did she see—the girl was Oliver’s mirror.
“Your granddaughter,” Emily confessed. “Veronica. Can she stay? Just for a while?”
By morning, Emily had slipped away, leaving only a note: “Happy New Year.”
Eleanor lifted the sleeping girl, kissed her forehead. “My unexpected joy.”
Years passed. Veronica called her “Gran,” Oliver “Dad.” He adored her, though he still chased love elsewhere.
Emily never came back.
