The Unforgiven Mistake
“Emily, what’s wrong?” gasped Margaret when she saw her friend turn pale, staring at her phone screen.
“Eleanor is dead…” whispered Emily.
“Eleanor? You had a sister? You never mentioned her. Was she your cousin?”
“No… my sister. But we hadn’t spoken in nearly twenty years. I… couldn’t.”
“Good heavens… How old was she?”
“Nine years older than me. Fifty-eight…”
“Was she ill?”
“I don’t know, Maggie… I know nothing at all…” Emily broke into tears, her phone slipping from her fingers.
When Emily was just three, her elder sister Eleanor had cared for her as if she were her own. Their parents worked from dawn till dusk, and the duty of raising the little one fell to Eleanor. They were inseparable—Eleanor grew up, and Emily grew up beside her.
When Eleanor turned eighteen, she married William. Everyone adored him—especially Emily. She was smitten. She used to declare, quite seriously, that she would only marry someone like him.
The family lived in harmony, and the bond between the sisters was warm, almost merging into a single soul. When Eleanor and William moved to Manchester for work, Emily visited them every weekend.
For hours, the sisters would sit in the kitchen, sifting through memories, sharing thoughts. William never interrupted—he knew how much it meant to them.
Emily married too. Unhappily. Her husband was a secret drunk. He held himself together for a time, then relapsed. Emily filed for divorce. And in that moment, everything shattered. The thing that would ruin their lives happened.
William came back to their hometown on business. Eleanor asked him to visit her sister:
“You’re like a brother to her. Talk to her. She’s struggling terribly. Let her know she’s not alone…”
“Of course,” he nodded. “I remember how fragile she is inside.”
He bought fruit, wine, Emily’s favourite sweets. He rang the doorbell. No answer for the longest time. He was about to leave when the door opened—there she stood, hollow-eyed, cheeks swollen from weeping.
“I’m glad you came…” she barely whispered.
They sat at the table. Emily was silent, and William tried to lift her spirits, speaking of work, of his sons.
She listened, then suddenly spoke:
“I couldn’t take it, William. He drank, he degraded himself… like an animal. I thought he was like you. That’s why I married him. But he… was nothing like you.”
“Don’t say that, Emily…” he said gently. “You deserve so much better.”
She stepped to the window. He rose, came up behind her, embraced her:
“Cry… it will help.”
She turned, and in her eyes was such pain, such loneliness… He pulled her close. He couldn’t recall how their lips met. Didn’t understand how they ended up in bed.
Come morning, they woke beside each other. William dressed in silence and left. Emily lay staring at the ceiling, unable to believe what had happened.
From then on, a chasm lay between them. No one knew. No one ever guessed.
Emily visited her sister less and less. Eleanor was baffled:
“Why are you avoiding me? What have I done?”
Emily couldn’t confess she had betrayed her sister with her husband. Couldn’t bring herself to. She wanted to forget, to erase it. But the guilt burned in her heart.
William suffered too. He loved Eleanor. Had never strayed—until that night. Now he carried a shame buried deep within.
Years passed. Emily remarried, had a daughter. She and Eleanor never saw each other, never spoke. William fell ill. Treatment failed. Emily, despite being warned away, went to see him.
When she laid eyes on him, her heart clenched—a shadow of the man he’d been, gaunt, his eyes dull. He turned away, couldn’t bear to look at her.
After she left, he called Eleanor to him:
“Forgive me… please,” he whispered. “I must confess. I betrayed you. Just once. With Emily… all those years ago…”
Eleanor went still. Then slowly rose and left the room. She didn’t return that night.
By morning, William was gone.
Eleanor mourned in silence. Two days later, when Emily knocked at her door, she answered herself. Her face was stone.
“Why are you here? To confess too?” she spat.
“What do you mean, ‘too’?” Emily paled.
“He told me everything. You betrayed me. Then pretended nothing happened. Get out. You’re no sister of mine!”
“Eleanor… at least let me come to the funeral—”
“You’ve no place there,” she snapped, slamming the door.
Emily fled into the street, wild with grief. Her heart hammered. Tears blinded her. She returned, pounding on the door, ringing the bell. No answer.
For six months, she tried. Letters, calls. Not a word. Then Eleanor called once:
“Send one more letter, and I’ll tell everyone what you are. Vanish from my life.”
Emily vanished.
Twenty years passed. Not a word, not a meeting. And now, when Emily had let her guard down—visiting her friend—the message came: Eleanor was dead.
Emily went to say goodbye.
Her nephews met her. Grown men, distant. They told her their mother had been ill for years, silent about everything. Never spoke of Emily.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mother forbade it,” the eldest said. “She said you were nothing to us. I’m sorry.”
At the graveside, Emily was horrified—Eleanor was buried apart, far from William.
“Why not together?”
“Mother insisted,” said a nephew. “She said she never forgave him. Or you.”
Emily broke down. Fell to her knees, sobbing:
“But I never meant it! It was one mistake! Should one night cost a lifetime?!”
No one answered.
And now she knew:
Sometimes a single night divides life into “before” and “after.” And takes a sister away forever.
