AN UNEXPECTED JOY
At the university, none of her colleagues knew—or would have believed—that Margaret Whitmore’s husband was a hopeless drunk. It was her private sorrow, a bitter burden she carried alone.
Margaret was a respected lecturer, an associate professor, and head of the department. At work, she was admired for her expertise, her reputation spotless. To everyone, she was the picture of success—a woman who had it all. And why wouldn’t they think so? Her husband, Charles, often waited for her at the university steps, ready to walk her home arm in arm.
“You’re so lucky, Margaret! Such a handsome, attentive, refined man,” younger colleagues would gush.
“Oh, girls, don’t envy me,” Margaret would deflect.
Only she knew what her “refined” husband was like at home. Charles would drink himself senseless, staggering back filthy, barely human. He couldn’t even fit his key in the lock, so he’d ring the bell, collapse on the doormat, and pass out. Margaret would drag him inside, muttering under her breath (“My cross to bear… When will you ever stop?”), tuck a blanket over him, and return to her thesis—first her PhD, then her professorship. She always left a pint of water by his side. Otherwise, he’d wake the whole house shouting, “Meg! Need a drink!”
By morning, Margaret would step over him in the hallway, head to work, and carry on as if nothing were amiss. This could go on for weeks. Then, out of the blue, Charles would reappear at the university steps, sober, clean-shaven, smiling. As she left with colleagues, he’d rush over, kiss her cheek, and ask, “How was your day, love?”
“Fine, Charlie. Let’s go home,” Margaret would sigh.
The others would watch fondly. “What a perfect couple,” they’d murmur.
Behind closed doors, Margaret fell silent. It was her revenge. She knew silence cut deeper than words. Charles hated it—the weight of her quiet reproach. Over time, he adapted. He’d escort her home, then vanish “on business,” never stopping the drink.
They’d been married 28 years. Once, their love had been tender, endless. Then, like feathers from a burst pillow, it scattered—impossible to gather again.
Early on, they struggled to have children. Margaret ached with the emptiness of it. Then came their son, James. He became her world.
Money was tight. Charles left all the child-rearing to her while he hid bottles around the house, sneaking sips when she wasn’t looking. Exhausted, she didn’t notice at first. Young and naive, she had no street wisdom yet. When she found a whisky bottle on the balcony, she frowned. “Charlie… Whose is this?”
“Take a guess,” he joked.
Arguments followed. Tears, pleas, threats—the same old script.
Years passed. Charles lost jobs as fast as he found them, all because of the drink. Margaret gave up on him but refused to divorce. Her mother’s words echoed: “A woman marries once. The first husband is God’s will; the second, the devil’s. Better a straw man than none. And no one will love your child like his own father.”
The thought of a “devil’s husband” frightened her.
She climbed the academic ladder, relying only on herself. She pitied Charles, but that was all. Her heart had dried up.
Her solace was James. He grew into a handsome lad, falling in love constantly—first at 14, then 19, then… He was too free with his heart. Margaret worried. Just as she grew fond of one girlfriend, he’d bring home another. One, Emily, stayed five years. Margaret called her “daughter-in-law,” introduced her to family. They all lived together: Charles, Margaret, James, and Emily. Margaret hinted at grandchildren. “Time to marry, don’t you think?”
Emily shrugged. “I’m ready. James is dragging his feet.”
Then Emily vanished. Margaret came home to find her things gone.
That evening, James introduced Lily, a girl no older than 18. “We’re in love. She’s moving in.”
“Where’s Emily? Bring her back!” Margaret cried.
James and Lily left in a huff.
Only then did Margaret realise how much she’d loved Emily. Five years—no small thing. The girl had adored James. What more could a mother want? And now… this slip of a girl? “Lily? Lucy? Not in my house!” she fumed. “What a cad my son is! At least he doesn’t drink like his father.”
A month later, James returned alone. Margaret was relieved but couldn’t resist: “Where’s your latest flame?”
“She said I was ‘too old for her.’ Calf love,” James laughed. Then, sobering: “Mum, you liked Emily so much. Here’s the truth—she has two kids. Didn’t know? Neither did I. All those trips ‘to help her mum’? She was visiting them in the country. Her ex-husband told me. Decent bloke. Raises them alone, waiting for her to come back. Five years, and she never said a word!”
Margaret sighed. “She loved you, James. Hearts don’t follow rules. Poor children, caught in the middle… I miss Emily.”
“Don’t worry. She’s still ‘good,’” James quipped.
A year later, Charles died of cirrhosis. He suffered six months, begging forgiveness at the end.
At the graveside, Margaret told James, “Your father took years off my life. You saw it all—the drink, the tears. But I’d endure it again just to have him back. That’s love, son.”
She wept openly, laid flowers on the fresh earth. James took her arm, and they walked home in silence.
At work, Margaret confessed her loneliness for the first time. “James has his whirlwind romances. If only he’d give me a grandchild… How do I go on?”
Another year passed. Margaret retired. The memory of Charles waiting on the steps haunted her.
New Year’s Eve found her alone, watching TV. The tree was decorated; the table set with roast beef, mince pies, and champagne. “Maybe James will drop by… Another fling, no doubt.”
The doorbell rang. Startled—James had his own key—she peered through the peephole.
“Good Lord—Emily!” She flung the door open, hugging the girl fiercely. Then she noticed the toddler beside her.
Flustered, Margaret ushered them in, plying them with food. Once the child slept, Margaret studied her face—and saw James.
“Out with it, Emily.”
“Margaret… I need to confess.”
“I know about the children. Get to the point.”
“This is your granddaughter.”
“I gathered that. What now?”
“Can I leave her with you? Just for a while. I’ve reconciled with my husband, but he won’t accept Veronica. Says he has his own to raise. I’m stuck. Please help.”
“What a New Year’s gift,” Margaret murmured.
“You’re retired now. You won’t be lonely. I’ll visit. Her name’s Veronica. She’s fifteen months.”
By morning, Emily was gone. A note lay on the table: “I love you. Happy New Year. Give my love to James.” Beside it, a bag of baby clothes and a birth certificate: Veronica Jameson.
“Our blood,” Margaret whispered. “Charles is gone—Veronica’s here.”
She kissed the sleeping girl’s forehead. “My unexpected joy.”
Years later, Veronica started school. She calls Margaret “Gran,” James “Daddy.” He adores his little Nicky but still chases elusive happiness.
Emily never came back.
