AN UNEXPECTED JOY
At the university, none of her colleagues knew—nor would have believed—that Professor Eleanor Whitmore’s husband was a hopeless drunkard. It was her sorrowful secret, her private grief.
Eleanor was a respected lecturer, a senior fellow, and head of her department. At work, she was esteemed for her expertise, her reputation flawless. To all, she appeared the picture of success—a woman who had it all. And why not? Her husband, Edward, often met her at the university steps to walk her home arm in arm.
“Oh, Professor Whitmore, how fortunate you are!” the younger faculty would sigh. “Your husband is so dignified, so attentive, so handsome…”
“Now, girls, don’t be envious,” Eleanor would deflect.
Only she knew the truth of her “gentleman” at home. Edward drank himself senseless, staggering back filthy and barely human. He couldn’t fit the key in the lock, so he’d ring the bell, collapse on the threshold, and pass out. Eleanor would drag him inside, muttering her despair—”Oh, you wretched man, when will you stop? I’ve no strength left!”—then cover him with a blanket so he wouldn’t freeze, leaving a jug of water beside him before returning to her thesis. First her doctoral work, then her professorship. Without the water, he’d wake the house with slurred shouts:
“Ellie! Need a drink!”
By morning, she’d step over him in the hallway, leave for work, and shut the door behind her. At the university, she carried on as though nothing were amiss. This charade could last weeks, months…
Then one day, Edward would reappear on the steps, sober and crisp in a pressed shirt, smiling as he waited. When Eleanor emerged with colleagues, he’d rush to kiss her cheek. “How was your day, darling?”
“Fine, dear. Let’s go home,” she’d murmur, stifling a sigh.
Her colleagues would watch them go, whispering, “How lucky Eleanor is.”
But the moment they crossed the threshold, silence fell. This was her revenge—her weapon. Edward withered under it, though in time he grew cunning, vanishing on “errands” after escorting her home. The drinking never stopped.
They had been married twenty-eight years. Once, their love had been tender, eternal. Then, like feathers from a torn pillow, it scattered—impossible to gather again.
Early in their marriage, they struggled to conceive. Eleanor ached with longing, believing a childless home hollow. At last, a son, James, arrived. He became her purpose.
Money was tight. Edward left the burdens of house and child to her while hiding bottles, drinking in secret. Exhausted, Eleanor didn’t notice at first. She was young, naive. When she found vodka stashed on the balcony, she gasped, “Eddie? Whose is this?”
“Take a guess,” he joked.
The fights began. Tears, pleas, threats—the same old script.
Years passed. Edward drifted from job to job, undone by drink. Hopeless. Yet Eleanor refused to divorce. Her mother’s words echoed: “Marry once, dear. The first husband is God’s plan; the second, the devil’s. Better straw than none, and no man will love your child like his own.” The thought of a devil’s husband terrified her.
She climbed the academic ladder, relying only on herself. She pitied Edward, but nothing more. Her heart had dried to dust.
Her solace was James. He grew into a handsome lad, falling in love at fourteen, again at nineteen, and so on. Eleanor fretted over his fickleness. Just as she warmed to one sweetheart, he’d bring home another. One girl, Lucy, stayed five years. Eleanor called her “daughter,” introduced her to family as James’s wife. They all lived together—Edward, Eleanor, James, and Lucy. “When will you marry?” Eleanor pressed. “I long for grandchildren.”
Lucy shrugged. “I’m ready, but James hesitates…”
Then one day, Lucy’s belongings vanished. That evening, James arrived with Lily, a girl of eighteen. “We’re in love,” he declared.
“Where’s Lucy?” Eleanor cried. “Bring her back!”
James and Lily left in a huff.
Only then did Eleanor grasp how dear Lucy had been. Five years—a lifetime! The girl had adored James. What more could a mother ask? And now—this?
“What was that child’s name? Lily? Lorna? I shan’t allow this!” she fumed. “The boy’s a rake! At least he doesn’t drink like his father.”
A month later, James returned alone. Eleanor rejoiced but couldn’t resist: “Where’s your latest flame?”
“She said I was ‘too old for a berry like her’,” he laughed. Then sobered. “Mum, you scolded me over Lucy. Well, Lucy has two children. Did you know? I didn’t. Those trips ‘to help her mother’? She was visiting them. Her ex-husband told me—decent chap, raising the kids alone. He thinks she’ll return. Five years she hid this! Can you fathom it?”
“Hush, dear. Lucy loved you deeply. Hearts are stubborn. But the children—poor lambs, caught in the middle. I miss her.”
“Don’t fret, Mum. She’s still the same good girl,” James teased.
A year later, Edward succumbed to cirrhosis. In his final days, he begged their forgiveness.
At the graveside, Eleanor confessed to James: “Your father stole years from me. You saw it all—the drink, the tears. Yet I’d endure it again just to have him back. Such is love.”
She wept openly, laying fresh roses on the mound. James took her arm, and they walked home in sorrowful silence.
At the university, colleagues pitied her. For the first time, she spoke openly: “I’m alone. James drifts from girl to girl. A grandchild would ease the ache. How does one go on?”
Another year slipped by. Eleanor retired, haunted by memories of Edward on the steps. The past was gone forever.
December’s end brought festive chaos. On New Year’s Eve, Eleanor sat alone before the telly—the tree twinkling, champagne chilled. “Perhaps James will visit. Another love, no doubt. When will he settle?”
A knock startled her. James had his own key. Who’d call at this hour?
She peered through the peephole. “Good heavens—Lucy!” Throwing the door wide, she embraced the unexpected guest, then noticed the tiny girl beside her.
Over tea, Lucy asked to put the child to bed. As the girl slept, Eleanor studied her face—and saw James.
“Explain, dear,” she whispered.
“Professor Whitmore, I must confess…”
“I know about the children. Get to the point.”
“Well… she’s your granddaughter.”
“I’d gathered that. What now?”
“May I leave her with you? Just awhile. I’ve reconciled with my husband, but he won’t accept Veronica. Says his own children need him. I’m desperate. Please.”
“What a New Year’s gift,” Eleanor murmured.
“You’re retired now. You’ll dote on her. I’ll visit often. She’s Veronica—fifteen months old.”
By morning, Lucy had vanished. A note lay on the table: “I love you. Happy New Year. Give James my love.” Beside it, a bag of child’s things—and a birth certificate: *Veronica Jameson*.
“So Edward left, and Veronica came,” Eleanor sighed. She kissed the sleeping girl’s brow. “My unexpected joy.”
Years later, Veronica started school, calling Eleanor “Grandmama” and James “Papa.” He adored his little Nika, though he still chased elusive happiness.
Lucy never returned.
