Edward pulled up to the old, decaying five-storey block of flats and parked where the number plates wouldn’t draw attention. His gaze drifted over the peeling balconies, the blank windows staring back like dead eyes. The modern double-glazed units stood out like fresh stitches on a tattered coat. The building looked like a tramp—dressed in whatever rags it could scavenge from the dump.
Tucked between scrawny trees and other tired buildings, this relic had outlived governments, regimes, entire eras. Now it lingered, as weathered as its inhabitants.
The place filled Edward with a dull, gnawing ache. He’d grown up in a flat like this. Spent his childhood plotting escape. And not just plotting—he’d clawed his way out. Top grades, the right degree, the right connections. Economics, because you couldn’t build an empire without it.
When he’d made it, he moved his parents to a better neighbourhood. Bought them a tidy modern house with a garden—neat shrubs out front, a vegetable patch out back. His mother needed something to do.
Women didn’t just love Edward for his money. He was handsome, generous, knew how to charm. Twice he’d nearly married—once to a leggy model, once to a surgically perfected socialite. But then he imagined introducing them to his plain, hardworking mother. Saw her shrink beside them. Changed his mind.
Sophie won him with her quiet, unforced beauty. Sweet smiles, no pretence. He fell hard. A month in, he brought her home. His mother gave the faintest approving nod.
Who wouldn’t love her? Unassuming, content with little. Her father dead, her mother taken by cancer not long after. Edward drenched her in affection. Even a year into marriage, he still flushed like a schoolboy around her.
Then his deputy—his friend—mentioned seeing Sophie in that dismal neighbourhood, near that same crumbling block. What business could she possibly have there?
*What were* you *doing there?* Edward shot back.
*Got lost avoiding traffic. Took a wrong turn.*
*Cheating? Sophie? Impossible.* But ice slithered down his spine. His fists clenched on their own.
*Maybe I was mistaken,* his friend backpedalled. *She’s pretty, but not exactly one-of-a-kind. Sorry.*
At home, Sophie smiled, nuzzled against him. Surely a guilty wife would avoid touch? But she leaned in, soft and pliant.
No, something was off. Either she was a brilliant actress, or his friend was lying. Or—worse—it wasn’t an affair at all.
The mystery gnawed at him. He decided to follow her. At lunch—the time his friend had seen her—Edward waited outside the block. Music blared to drown his thoughts.
Just as he lost patience, Sophie appeared. Hurried to a stairwell, unlocked the grime-streaked door, glanced around, vanished inside.
*She has a key.* His pulse hammered like a bloodhound’s. He lunged after her, then stopped—no key. By the time he buzzed random flats, she’d be gone.
So he waited, drumming fingers to the tune of *Il Divo.* Forty minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up. Sophie slipped out, climbed in, left.
Edward didn’t follow. Went back to work, distracted. Left early.
At home, he drowned in brandy. Usually, he never drank this early. But his brain needed numbing. *Sophie, Sophie. What’s missing? You seemed so solid, so honest…* He paced their spacious house like a caged bear.
The front door clicked. Keys clattered on the hall table. Edward downed another glass, bracing for her entrance. Still, her voice startled him.
*Why are you sitting in the dark?* Sophie’s voice came from behind. He turned. *You’re drinking? What’s wrong? Work?* She eyed the glass in his hand.
He caught the flicker in her eyes—surprise, then… fear?
*I’m fine.* His voice grated. *Don’t you have something to tell me?*
*What do you mean?*
*Such convincing confusion. Bravo.* He smirked inwardly.
*Where were you at lunch?* He eyed the bottle. Maybe another drink.
*Did you come by my office? No one told me,* she said after a beat.
Edward watched her wilt. Shoulders slumped, colour draining. *Lost for lies? Go on, then. Let’s hear who you’re visiting. Unless your lover’s some hopeless wreck in that dump.*
*Don’t lie to me,* he said aloud.
*I wanted to tell you…* She sank onto the sofa.
Edward tracked her hunched posture. *Playing the victim now? Not working.*
*Why didn’t you?* Cold. He grabbed the bottle. *How long have you been lying?*
*I—I meant to tell you from the start. But I couldn’t. Then…*
*Go on.* He sloshed more brandy into his glass.
*Don’t drink. You’ll regret it tomorrow.*
*My head’s already pounding. Worry about your own.* He knocked it back.
Fear flashed in her eyes again. She looked away.
*No, I want to see your face.* Edward stood, rolled the sofa—with her on it—toward the counter. She yelped, nearly toppled. He returned to his drink, heart slamming. *No more. Lose control now, and…*
*I was scared. If you knew… you might leave me. So I stayed quiet,* she whispered, gripping the sofa like the room was spinning.
*So you’ve been cheating all this time?* He gave a drunken chuckle. *Still waters, eh?*
*Please, no more.*
*Start talking. I’m waiting.* He swayed on the stool.
*I visit my father. He lives there. Not a lover.*
*Ah, your father.* Edward rocked dangerously. *Thought he was dead? Or did I mishear?*
*I said that. I was ashamed. I thought he was dead. Then an old friend called…* Sophie clasped her knees. *He drank. Mum suffered. One day she kicked him out. Later, she got sick. Died. I didn’t know he was alive until after we married.*
She looked up. *How could I tell you? You’re successful, wealthy. My father’s a drunk, a homeless wreck. I paid the friend—a nurse—to care for him. Used my salary, never yours.*
Edward looked away.
He remembered that night. Winter, blizzard. Snow pummelled the windscreen as he cut through backstreets. Then—a shadow lunged. The car jolted. He swore the road had been empty.
Under the wheels: a heap of rags. The stench of unwashed skin, stale booze. For a second, he considered driving off. But he called an ambulance. Left before they arrived.
How was he to know that tramp was Sophie’s father?
He sat beside her. *I’m sorry.* Took her hands. *We’ll move him here. Hire a carer. Your friend too, if you like.*
*You’re not angry?*
*No. He’s family.*
*Edward, you’re wonderful!* She threw her arms around him.
*If only you knew how wonderful. I’m the one who hit him. Left him. One day I’ll confess. But not tonight.*
*Just… don’t make me see him,* he muttered, wincing.
*Of course. Thank you.*
Later, he’d watch from a distance as a stout woman wheeled the man onto the terrace, tucked a blanket around him. Edward never approached. Shame? Maybe. The man wouldn’t recognise him. Still…
A month later, Sophie announced her pregnancy. At first, Edward froze. *Someone else’s child?* Then he saw her glowing face.
*A son! I’ll have a son!* He spun her, laughing.
When her belly swelled, her father died. Edward exhaled. Sophie too, he thought.
No man, no guilt.
Fate tangles lives long before they meet. Skeletons in closets? Common as dust. But secrets have a way of surfacing. Then what?
Perhaps forgiveness begets forgiveness. In time.
