Think about how you’ll live if that innocent child of your husband—Daisy—ends up in foster care…
It’s the weekend, a chance to lounge in bed. But Eleanor stretches, tosses the duvet aside, and gets up. She washes her face, brews fresh tea, and sips it slowly while gazing out the window at the dreary courtyard with its peeling trees and puddles left by the rain. The sky is a solid sheet of grey, threatening to release a flurry of snowflakes at any moment.
Still, she needs to go outside—if only to take out the rubbish. She’s tired of sitting at home, wallowing. Nothing will change. Oliver won’t come back. When someone you love dies, it feels like a piece of yourself dies with them. Eleanor feels the emptiness inside, a void she can’t fill no matter how hard she tries. Time doesn’t heal; it buries the pain deeper, dulls the memories. She’s exhausted by grief, loneliness, and tears. How is she supposed to live without Oliver? What’s the point?
They met at university. On the first day of lectures, he sat next to her—a bright-eyed, cheerful lad who looked at the world with the same curiosity as she did. Soon, they were dashing through corridors together, searching for classrooms, racing to the canteen between classes.
By their final year, they understood each other without words—as if they’d been married for decades.
*How will I live without you? I can’t even imagine it. Once exams are over, we’ll go our separate ways. Listen—what if we don’t?* Oliver asked one day.
*What are you suggesting?* Eleanor countered.
*Marry me,* he blurted out.
*Is that a proposal?* Eleanor turned serious. *I thought you’d never ask. Fine—I’ll say yes.*
*Really?* His face lit up.
*Why so happy? A proposal and wanting to be together aren’t enough for marriage. You need love.*
*We’ve grown so close these years. Who says I don’t love you? Do you love me?*
Eleanor had asked herself that many times. The answer was always yes. She’d have died if Oliver had fallen for someone else. They married at the end of August. Eleanor had lived with her parents, while Oliver had come to university from a small town.
Both sets of parents tightened their belts and chipped in to buy the young couple a one-bedroom flat. Without discussion, they agreed to wait before having children. To Eleanor, it all felt unreal, like playing house. But time passed, they built a life together, and they were happy. Two years later, Oliver and his friend Victor started a small business.
Eleanor didn’t want to take risks, so she kept her job. If things fell through, at least she’d have an income. But Oliver and Victor made it work. Eventually, Eleanor joined them, handling accounts to keep an eye on the finances.
Two years after that, they bought a spacious flat, a car, and took holidays abroad once or twice a year, bringing back stacks of photos and videos. After Oliver’s death, Eleanor cleared all the files from her computer desktop. She couldn’t bear to look at them without breaking down.
She remembers that wretched day in painful detail. It was a weekend. They were having breakfast when Oliver got a call and suddenly rushed to leave.
*Where are you going?* Eleanor asked.
*Victor messed up. A client’s pulling their funding. I’ve got to sort it out.* He kissed her cheek at the door and left.
If only she’d known it was the last time she’d see him. No premonitions, no warnings. Later, she’d wish she had gone with him.
An hour later, the police called. Oliver had been in an accident. She needed to come to the hospital. She hailed a taxi immediately, clinging to hope—if he’d died, they’d have said so. But when the officer led her to the morgue, reality crashed down.
Oliver’s death was the end of Eleanor’s world. Victor handled the funeral arrangements, telling her not to worry, to take her time, to grieve…
She changes out of the shorts and vest she’s been wearing all morning—Oliver loved when she dressed like this at home, saying she looked irresistible.
Two months have passed. It’s time to climb out of her cave. She must pull herself together—she owns half of Oliver’s business now. Monday is coming, the perfect time to take the first step. If it’s too much, she’ll offer Victor her share, take a holiday, and find another job.
Eleanor steps outside with a bin bag. The air isn’t as cold as it looked from the window. After tossing the rubbish, she decides to walk. A chill drives her into a shop, and she emerges with a new cornflower-blue dress. She couldn’t resist—her old clothes hang off her now.
Her friend Tanya once said that if *she* had died instead of Oliver, he wouldn’t have buried himself at home. Eleanor had agreed. He’d have grieved but kept working—the business needed constant attention. Men are different, less sensitive.
The next day, Eleanor walks into the office to sympathetic glances and hushed whispers. Papers pile up—her hand aches from signing documents. At first, she reads carefully, but exhaustion soon takes over.
She takes the bus home—Oliver’s car was wrecked beyond repair. Overheated, she gets off early and walks. A light blue scarf flutters at her neck. The shortcut through the park leads straight home.
*Look at her, all dressed up. Swimming in her husband’s money, why not? Doesn’t care that a child’s starving.* She stops at the voice behind her.
An elderly woman, maybe seventy, sits on a bench, staring right at Eleanor.
*Are you talking to me?*
*Who else?* The woman glances around. *You’re the only one here.*
*Do you know me?*
*Eleanor Victoria Harris. Oliver James Harris was your husband. Right? So I’m talking to you.* The woman’s black-button eyes burn into her.
*What child is starving?* Eleanor should walk away—this woman’s mad—but curiosity wins. She steps closer.
*His child. Your husband’s.* The woman snorts. *You’d best sit before you fall.*
Eleanor obeys, perching on the bench’s edge. The woman nods, satisfied.
*Your precious Oliver was carrying on with my neighbor, Daisy. When she got pregnant, he begged her not to abort, promised support. Sent money every month. Didn’t visit, though. Daisy’s got no family. She asked me to babysit little Alfie sometimes. I’ve got time. But when your husband died, she was left with nothing. Thought you should know. You’re a woman—childless, but still. You ought to help.*
*That’s impossible. You’re mistaken.* Eleanor’s voice wavers.
*I’m not senile yet. Your husband was decent—helped where he could. But think. You’ve got his inheritance, a big flat, money. What’s the child done wrong? He gets hungry too.* The woman thrusts a scrap of paper into her hand. *Here’s Daisy’s address and number. See for yourself.*
Eleanor takes it numbly.
*Oliver wouldn’t… He’d have told me…*
*Saw him at Daisy’s with my own eyes. Swear on the Bible,* the woman insists. *Don’t force it to court. Imagine living with that guilt—your husband’s innocent child growing up in care.*
Eleanor can’t take anymore. She stumbles home, shivering, the note crumpled in her pocket.
At home, she replays the woman’s words. No—it can’t be true. She’d have noticed if Oliver changed. She wants to call Daisy but can’t. Instead, she rings Tanya, who arrives in a rush.
*What do I do?* Eleanor asks after explaining everything.
*The wife always finds out last. I can’t believe Oliver would cheat. Something’s off,* Tanya muses. *Don’t call Daisy—she’ll humiliate you. Those types will do anything for money.*
*Tanya knows a former policeman, now a private investigator. She calls him—Paul—and he arrives, scruffy but sharp. Eleanor hands him cash, promises more. Paul suspects Victor’s behind it—maybe even Oliver’s death. He warns her not to sign anything, to play sick, to stay away from the office.*
Days crawl by. Paul calls with updates: Oliver visited Daisy once, but *Victor* was the regular. He arranges a paternity test.
When the results come, Paul meets Eleanor again.
*Just as I thought—Victor’s the father.*
Relief floods her.
*Confront him tomorrow. Show him the proof. Accuse him of Oliver’s death. I’ll be there.*
The next day, Eleanor does. Victor panics, drugs her coffee—but Paul bursts in with police. Greed ruins Victor.With Victor behind bars, Eleanor embraces her new role as the sole owner of the business, finding strength in Oliver’s memory and a renewed purpose in life.
