Evelyn was preparing for her trip to the spa. A retired woman now, her eldest son, Oliver, had bought her the getaway.
“Mum, you need this,” he told her, voice firm yet gentle. “You look worn out—not like before. Dad can manage without you. He doesn’t appreciate you—never did. Me and Harry see it now. After we left home, it got worse. He only cares about himself.”
“Oh, Olly, you’re right,” Evelyn sighed, a wistful smile touching her lips. “I thought my boys didn’t notice. Thank you, love. I’ll go. Who knows when I’ll get another chance?”
“Whenever you want,” Oliver chuckled. “Harry promised he’ll cover the next trip.”
“You’re the best sons a mother could ask for.” She pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing his cheek.
“Mum, you’re the best too. Remember, Harry and I—we’ve got your back. Who else would you rely on?” He grinned, then checked his watch. “Right, I’d best be off. Still need to pick up Jamie from nursery. Tell Dad I said hello.” With a wave, he was gone.
Evelyn and George lived in a quiet village, in the home they’d bought years ago, newlyweds then, full of dreams. They’d raised two sons, sent them off into the world. Now, it was just the two of them—but something had shifted. George wasn’t the same man.
Evelyn had been retired two years; George still worked. Time stretched empty now—no job, no garden to tend, just the occasional errand. He came home tired, ate, and sank into the sofa. Fixes around the house were rare—half-hearted at best.
She’d gone into town earlier, bought two dresses, a blouse. Spa visits demanded fresh clothes—not the worn things she’d saved for retirement. Standing before the mirror, she turned, adjusting the fit.
George watched, then scoffed. “Twist all you like—won’t make a difference. Who’d look twice at you?”
“I didn’t buy them for that,” she snapped. “Just didn’t want to look shabby.”
“Hah, as if you’re moving up in the world.”
“Then why marry a village girl?”
“Youth. Stupidity.” His grin was cruel.
She was used to it now—his bitterness, the way he sneered at everything, including her. Age had turned him sour. Yet he still eyed other women—younger, prettier. Evelyn suspected infidelity but never pried.
“If a man wants to stray, nothing stops him,” she’d tell herself.
Still, the sting lingered as she hung up the dresses and retreated to the kitchen. Work kept her from dwelling.
Evelyn had been lovely once—still was, in a softer, quieter way. No salons, no creams—just the quiet grace of a woman who believed herself past such things.
George barely saw her. Money stopped passing to her hands, though she cooked, cleaned, even bought his shirts. To him, she was furniture.
She fed the chickens, thoughts simmering.
He noticed other women, flirted shamelessly—even in front of her. It wasn’t just suspicion anymore.
“Your George was in town again,” their neighbour, Margaret, said one evening. “Some woman from accounting. Saw them laughing, then off to a café. The girls at work say he’s always ducking out early now.”
Evelyn shrugged. “Let him.” But inside, the hurt burned.
Margaret frowned. “You’re too soft. I’d have skinned him alive.”
Evelyn said nothing. The worst pain wasn’t the rumours—it was George’s contempt after all these years.
Then came the spa.
Peace. New friends—women who walked with her to treatments, meals, evening strolls. For once, George didn’t cross her mind.
Three nights in, a man approached.
“Good evening,” he said, warm. “Matthew.”
“Evelyn.” She shook his hand.
They walked together every evening after—talking, sharing. He’d lost his wife five years prior. A good marriage. His daughter lived far away.
Evelyn found herself confiding too. There was comfort in it, safety.
Matthew was kind, his gaze tender. He loved the way she moved, the light in her eyes.
“You’re lovely, Evelyn. Time’s been kind to you.”
She hadn’t felt lovely in years. George had convinced her otherwise. But with Matthew, she bloomed.
Two weeks passed.
“Evelyn, I’ve fallen for you,” he admitted one night. “Leave him. Marry me. Let’s be happy.”
They exchanged numbers, promised to call.
Leaving was agony.
At home, her sons rejoiced at her glow. George watched, sullen. Had anyone cooked for him?
Matthew called daily. Evelyn spoke in hushed tones.
“Come soon,” she whispered.
Then—the unexpected.
One evening, George entered her room—uncharacteristic, uninvited. His eyes were damp.
“I know about him,” he rasped. “I heard the calls.” He fell to his knees before her. “I won’t let you go. You’re my wife. I love you—no one ever loved you like I do. Forgive me, Evelyn. All the stupid words, the neglect—I never meant it. You’re the best woman alive. I thought… if I made you jealous… but you never even flinched.”
His head bowed into her lap. She stroked his hair, warmth flooding her.
Later, she called Matthew. “It’s over.”
Some bonds, it seemed, were unbreakable.
George had woken up—realised what he’d almost lost.
Now, they went to the spa together.
