The Unforgiven Mistake
“Emily, what’s wrong?” gasped Margaret when she saw her friend go pale, staring at her phone.
“Eleanor is dead…” whispered Emily.
“Eleanor? You had a sister? You never mentioned her. A cousin?”
“No… my sister. We hadn’t spoken in almost 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, Mags… I don’t know anything…” Emily burst into tears, her phone slipping to the floor.
When Emily was just three, Eleanor had cared for her like her own child. Their parents worked from dawn till dusk, and the task of raising the little one fell to Eleanor. They were inseparable—Eleanor growing up, Emily maturing in her shadow.
At eighteen, Eleanor married William. Everyone adored him, especially Emily. She was infatuated. She vowed, half in jest, that she’d marry no one unless he was just like him.
The family was close, the bond between the sisters tender, as though their souls were entwined. When William’s work took them to Liverpool, Emily visited them every weekend without fail.
They would spend hours in the kitchen, sifting through memories, sharing confidences. William never intruded—he knew how much those moments meant.
Emily married too. Unwisely. Her husband turned out to be a secret drunk, held together by sheer will until he wasn’t. She filed for divorce. And then it happened—the act that shattered everything.
William came back to their hometown on business. Eleanor asked him to check on Emily.
“You’re like a brother to her. Talk to her. She’s struggling. Let her know she’s not alone.”
“Of course,” he nodded. “I remember how fragile she is beneath it all.”
He bought fruit, wine, Emily’s favourite chocolates. He knocked, waited. No answer. He nearly left.
Then the door opened, and there she stood—hollow-eyed, her face swollen with tears.
“I’m glad you came…” she rasped.
They sat at the table. Emily was silent while William tried to lift her spirits, talking of work, of his sons.
She listened, then suddenly spoke:
“I couldn’t bear it, Will. He drank, degraded himself… like an animal. I thought he was like you. That’s why I married him. But he… he wasn’t you at all.”
“Don’t say that, Em…” he murmured. “You deserve better.”
She moved to the window. He stood, stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her.
“Just cry… it’ll help.”
She turned, and her eyes held such anguish, such loneliness… He pulled her close. He didn’t remember their lips meeting. Didn’t know how they ended up in bed.
Morning came. William dressed in silence and left. Emily lay still, staring at the ceiling, unable to believe what they’d done.
From then on, there was an abyss between them. No one knew. No one guessed.
Emily visited less and less. Eleanor was baffled.
“Why are you avoiding me? What did I do?”
Emily couldn’t confess. Couldn’t say she’d betrayed her with William. She wanted to forget, to erase it. But the guilt burned.
William suffered too. He loved Eleanor. Had never strayed. Until that night. Now he carried the shame, buried deep.
Years passed. Emily remarried, had a daughter. She and Eleanor never spoke. Neither visited. William fell ill. Treatments failed. Emily, hearing the news, went despite the unspoken rule.
When she saw him, her heart clenched—a ghost of the man he’d been, gaunt, hollow-eyed. He turned away, unable to look at her.
After she left, he called Eleanor to him.
“Forgive me…” he whispered. “I have to confess. I betrayed you. Once. With Emily… years ago.”
Eleanor froze. Then slowly stood and walked out. She didn’t return that night.
By morning, William was gone.
Eleanor mourned in silence. Two days later, when Emily knocked, she answered herself, her face like stone.
“Why are you here? To repent too?” she hissed.
“What do you mean ‘too’…?” Emily paled.
“He told me. 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 don’t belong there,” she spat, slamming the door.
Emily stumbled into the street, frantic. Her heart raced. Tears blurred her vision. She knocked, rang, begged. No answer.
She tried for six months. Letters, calls. Silence. Then Eleanor called once, cold and final:
“One more letter, and I’ll tell everyone what you are. Stay out of my life.”
Emily vanished.
Twenty years passed. No word, no meeting. Now, finally letting her guard down—visiting Margaret—the message came: Eleanor was dead.
Emily went to say goodbye.
Her nephews received her. Grown men, distant. They said their mother had been ill, silent about everything. Never spoke of Emily.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mum forbade it,” the eldest said. “Told us you were a stranger. Sorry.”
At the graveside, Emily froze in horror—Eleanor was buried far from William.
“Why not together?”
“Mum insisted. Said she’d never forgive him… or you.”
Emily broke. Fell to her knees, sobbing.
“But I never meant it! It was a mistake! One night! How could it cost a lifetime?!”
No one answered.
And now she knew:
Sometimes a single night cleaves life into before and after. And steals a sister forever.
