From the outside, Eleanor and Edward’s marriage seemed perfectly respectable—calm and harmonious. Edward rarely drank, only on special occasions, and even then in moderation. He didn’t smoke, and in all their eleven years together, he had never once raised a hand to his wife.
There was just that one incident, but Eleanor always insisted it was her own fault, sharing it occasionally with her friend Margaret:
“It was years ago, we had a row. I lost my temper and flew at him with my fists. Can you imagine? Me, a petite woman, against a strong man like him. What was I thinking? He just held my wrists gently and sat me down on the sofa. Another man might have hit back, taught me a lesson. That’s when I realised I was wrong, and I’ve never let myself behave like that again.”
“You’re a fool, Ellie,” Margaret would say. “Your Edward could knock you across the room with one hand if he wanted. Since when can a woman best a man?”
Eleanor and Edward were each on their second marriage. Her first husband, Thomas, had been a drinker—always coming home late when their daughter, Charlotte, was already asleep. He’d pick fights, wake the child, and carry on without a care. Eleanor grew tired of it, filed for divorce, and moved back in with her parents.
“You did the right thing, love,” her mother had reassured her. “Five years with that man, and what did you get from it? We’ll raise Charlotte together. You’ll find happiness again—a woman like you won’t stay alone long.”
When Charlotte turned twelve, Eleanor married Edward. They met at the birthday party of Margaret’s husband. It was held at a pub, and Edward approached her with a smile.
“You look like you could use some company,” he said. “Fancy a dance?”
He was tall—Eleanor barely reached his shoulder—handsome, and calm. At least, that’s how he seemed at first.
“I’m not bored,” she replied, “but I wouldn’t say no to a dance.”
That was how it began. Margaret was thrilled—her friend wouldn’t be alone anymore. By then, Eleanor and Charlotte lived in a three-bedroom flat she’d inherited from her grandmother, who had been ill and living by herself before moving in with Eleanor’s parents.
The flat wasn’t large—small rooms in an old brick terrace—but Eleanor was grateful for it. Charlotte had her own space. Soon, Edward moved in, having lived with his mother until then.
His first marriage hadn’t ended well either. They’d lived with his mother after the wedding, but his wife, Victoria, and his mother clashed constantly—neither willing to give an inch. It nearly came to blows at times.
“Edward, where on earth did you find this harridan?” his mother would snap the moment he walked in from work. “I can’t stand another minute under the same roof as her.”
And Victoria would demand, “We need our own place. I won’t answer for my temper if we stay here.”
She was impulsive, and with a baby on the way, Edward had no choice. They moved out, had their son, and though Edward did his best, nothing pleased her.
“There’s no money—the baby needs new clothes. Cook dinner, I haven’t time. Take him out, I’m exhausted.”
He obeyed, but his mother complained endlessly that Victoria kept her from seeing her grandson. “She won’t let me near him!”
Edward would bring the boy on weekends, but while he was gone, Victoria often went out with friends—coming home late, smelling of drink. He hated it. She’d curse his mother, then leave for entire weekends, once not returning at all. He had to drop their son at his mother’s before work.
Eventually, when the boy was four, Victoria announced, “I’m leaving. You’re tied to your mother’s apron strings. I’ve found a real man.”
Edward moved back in with his mother. And truthfully, she was no prize herself—no woman was ever good enough for her son.
At first, Eleanor and Edward were happy. The only shadow was his mother, who despised Eleanor for having a child already. Though Charlotte was polite—even called her “Gran”—the old woman snapped, “I’m no grandmother to you. You’ve got your own.”
It stung, but Eleanor bit her tongue. She was right, after all. Most days, Charlotte stayed with Eleanor’s parents.
Years passed. Charlotte finished school, went to university in another city. Eleanor and Edward never had children of their own—if she’d conceived, she’d have kept it, but it never happened. His mother never warmed to her, no matter how polite Eleanor was.
Yet the longer they were married, the more Eleanor noticed Edward changing. He was a fine cook—when he was in the mood. Lately, that mood was rare.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to him,” she confided in Margaret. “He’s always in a foul temper, picking fights over nothing. He used to be different. Is it age?”
Margaret frowned. “I always thought you two were happy. Shows what I know—every marriage has its secrets.”
“He looks for reasons to scold me, as if ruining my day is his only goal. He’s turned sour, snapping at me over nothing. Thank goodness Charlotte’s not here to see it. And I don’t know why. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t gamble—I keep waiting for him to change…”
“Why did you leave your job?” Margaret asked. “I ran into Annie from your old office—she told me.”
“I quit. Edward started accusing me of carrying on with colleagues if anyone texted me. Always another row.”
At first, he’d said, “You’re too close to your coworkers. Your family should come first.”
Tired of the suspicion, Eleanor quit. Stopped seeing friends. The rows stopped—until the next problem.
“You spend too much on nonsense. Manicures, new dresses. Our money should go to the household.”
“Fine,” she said. “You’ll do the shopping. I’ll make lists—if you think something’s unnecessary, skip it. No more rows. I’ll bear the rest.”
He calmed down briefly, but soon found new faults. She no longer worked, never shopped, saw no friends. The one thing left was her fitness class—until Edward said, “You’re only going to eye other men. Stop it.”
So she did.
With all this free time, she wondered what had made Edward so petty. She watched him closely.
“Maybe there’s another woman. Maybe that’s why he accuses me.”
She checked his phone—something she’d never done—but found nothing. Just calls from his mother, several a day. Lately, he stepped into another room when she rang.
Eleanor eavesdropped. Her name came up often. One day, while Edward was bathing, his mother called. Eleanor answered.
“Edward, did you do as I said?” the old woman barked. “Your wife’s out gallivanting while you sit at home like a fool. Can’t you control her? She’s walking all over you—you’re no man at all.”
“Hello, Mother,” Eleanor said evenly. “Edward’s in the bath. I’ll pass that along.”
She expected an apology. Instead, the woman cursed her for daring to touch his phone, then hung up.
Now Eleanor understood. His mother was poisoning him.
“What have I ever done to her? Why does she hate our happiness?”
She said nothing to Edward, but the call haunted her. His mother thrived on misery—even her son’s.
“What can I do? I can’t cut him off from her. I love him. I can ignore his moods, but I pity him. He hurts me, regrets it later—until she calls again. How do I save him? A therapist, perhaps?”
For now, that’s where she left it—booking an appointment.
