“We didn’t lose time—we were just taking the long road to happiness,” murmured Eleanor, nestling closer to Alfred.
Eleanor opened her eyes and stretched contentedly. It was Sunday, a day for lying in without hurry.
When her husband passed, friends and colleagues expected Eleanor to drown in grief, wailing endlessly. Instead, she wore the mask of a heartbroken widow, playing the part convincingly. They granted her leave from work, assuming she needed time to mourn her beloved spouse properly.
Outwardly, they had seemed the perfect couple—but no one knew what skeletons lay in their closets. No, she pitied Charles as one would pity any man gone too soon—but not as a wife mourns a husband.
Her gaze drifted to the framed photograph on the shelf. Enough. It was time to put it away. She hadn’t before, knowing visitors would glance around, expecting a portrait of the departed.
To wake each morning to his smug, well-fed expression was too much. She threw off the blanket, strode to the shelf, and lifted the photograph. For a moment, she studied his polished, self-satisfied face—the face of a man certain of his charm. How many women had fallen for it? Eleanor gave a bitter laugh.
“Got what you deserved, didn’t you? Think I’m weeping over you? Not a chance. Good riddance.” She slid the frame between books. “There. That’s your place now—no longer in my life.” She dusted invisible dirt from her hands and headed to the bath.
***
When Eleanor stepped out of the exam hall, the corridor was empty. She’d been the last to finish. From the side, an unremarkable young man appeared—one of her fellow applicants.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Top marks!” She couldn’t hide her delight.
“Looks like we’ll be studying together then.” He smiled too.
“We still have to wait for the lists…” she began, though she was certain she’d made it.
“Formality. You’ve only one B. You’re in.”
“When do they post them?”
“Day after tomorrow. Fancy celebrating?” His heart pounded as he waited for her answer.
Her parents were still at work. No more revising, nothing pressing.
“Let’s,” she said.
They wandered the city, ate ice cream, then caught a film.
They were assigned to different tutorial groups. Eleanor didn’t mind, but Alfred was disappointed. Now they only met between lectures, where he always sat beside her.
One day, Alfred was late, and Charles Danvers slipped into his seat just as the professor entered. Rumor had it the man was ruthless—displeasing him meant never scoring above a C.
Eleanor meant to say the seat was taken, but the professor’s stern voice cut in: “Enough chatter. If you’re uninterested, miss, you may leave.”
The entire hall turned to stare. She ducked her head over her notes.
“Brace yourself. Shaw’s burning holes into my back,” Charles muttered, smirking.
She glanced back. Alfred sat in the rear, misery plain on his face.
Soon, the professor ejected them. They waited in the corridor, then Charles suggested the canteen. No sense wasting time.
Charles was witty, well-read. She admired his confidence. Even lecturers respected him.
“Be careful with him, Ellie. He’s a rake,” Alfred warned after class.
“Jealous?”
“What if I am?”
“There’s nothing between us. We just shared a desk.”
But it didn’t end there. Eleanor fell for him—could scarcely breathe without Charles. Soon, everyone saw them as a pair. Her parents considered them engaged. His charm won even her mother.
They agreed not to rush marriage—until Eleanor found herself pregnant. To her surprise, Charles took it calmly.
“Fatherhood could be fun. But how will we manage? Our studies… Ellie, there’s time yet.”
She agreed. But nausea struck at inconvenient moments. Exhausted, she terminated the pregnancy. Love or not, a child would derail their plans.
Alfred remained in the shadows—a friend who shared notes when she missed lectures. Always there, unnoticed.
After their fourth year, they married. Charles’s father, a high-ranking official, brought them into his firm. Charles climbed quickly. Eleanor didn’t resent it. She was just the wife.
Once, during lunch, she walked in on him embracing a brazen secretary. The woman smirked, unashamed, as if Eleanor were intruding.
At home, she raged.
“What’s the fuss? All men stray. If you think otherwise, they’re just better at hiding it. You’re my wife. I love you. She meant nothing.”
He replaced the secretary with a plainer one. Eleanor swallowed her anger.
Leaving Charles wouldn’t guarantee better. New love fades. Why trade one misery for another? Outwardly, they remained the picture-perfect couple.
Then a “well-wisher” phoned: Charles had fathered a child. Again, she threatened to leave.
“Don’t be absurd. A child changes nothing between us. I love you. I’ll never let you go.”
She should have left then. But fear held her. She still loved him. Charles always got his way; Eleanor lacked resolve. Perhaps that’s why he valued her. Two strong wills would clash.
He never blamed her for their childlessness.
Charles arrived home on time, gave her freedom she never used. He sent her on solo holidays. By then, his father had retired, leaving Charles in charge.
At the seaside, men swarmed—most lying about being single. Their attention flattered briefly, then soured into irritation. She returned gladly to their expensively furnished flat.
Charles sighed, envying her beachside idleness while he worked. Both knew the truth.
To the world, they remained exemplary. Yet Eleanor envied ordinary families in parks with prams.
She consoled herself: every marriage has troubles. Theirs weren’t the worst. Roommates, yes—but so were most couples after a decade.
They might’ve continued thus—until the police called.
“Your husband was found at the cottage.”
“Found?”
His lovers had stopped phoning long ago. Whether he’d tired of affairs or grown discreet, she no longer had cause for jealousy. Pretending was easier.
“Your husband died of a heart attack. His companion… called an ambulance but vanished. Unfortunately, it was too late.”
Sympathy poured in. Eleanor played the grieving widow. His father hushed up the scandal—the woman, a well-known singer, never made the papers.
The thought of Charles dying mid-affair disgusted her. She grieved only in public—and even then, mildly.
***
A year passed.
Eleanor hadn’t visited the cottage since his death. Now, inspecting it before selling, she found no trace of the police or the other woman. The neighbor, who kept a key, must’ve tidied.
She opened windows, letting in spring air. The trees wore their first green. The cottage would sell. Too much for one.
That evening, a car stopped outside. Peering out, she saw Alfred at the gate, flowers in hand. This time, joy flickered. She checked her reflection, smoothed her hair, and went to him.
Perhaps the cottage held lingering passion. Perhaps it was spring. But finally, she saw the love in Alfred’s eyes—and her heart stirred.
That night, curled against him, she smiled.
“All those wasted years. Why did you marry Charles? I warned you. I loved you desperately. I’ve had others, even married once—but always knew we’d end up here.”
“Don’t rush me.”
“You’ll mourn forever?”
“Not for Charles. I need to understand myself. I was a coward.” She paused. “I’ve thought a lot. I loved him madly. If I’d married you, I might’ve resented it—become one of his mistresses. You’d have hated me.”
“But now… it’s like coming home. No regrets. It happened as it should. We didn’t lose time—just took the long road to happiness.” She nestled closer.
Happiness varies. Some find it instantly; others stumble through thorns. The trick is to recognize it when it comes—and hold on tight.
