“We didn’t waste time—we simply took the long road to happiness,” murmured Eleanor as she nestled closer to Roland.
Eleanor opened her eyes and stretched languidly. It was Sunday—no need to rush, no need to rise. When her husband had passed, friends and colleagues expected her to crumble beneath the weight of grief. She had obliged them, wearing the mask of a desolate widow, even accepting the compassionate leave granted by her workplace to mourn her beloved spouse.
Outwardly, they had appeared the picture-perfect couple. What lay hidden beneath—the skeletons tucked away—was no one else’s concern. In truth, she had pitied Edward as one might pity any man taken too soon—but not as a wife mourns a husband.
Her gaze drifted to the framed photograph on the shelf. Enough. Time to put it out of sight. She’d left it there before for the sake of visitors who came with condolences, their eyes inevitably searching for the departed’s portrait.
But waking each morning to his smug, self-satisfied face—like a cat that had lapped all the cream—was beyond endurance. Eleanor flung back the covers, crossed to the bookshelf, and lifted the frame. For a moment, she studied his polished features, the assurance of a man who’d never doubted his own charm. How many hearts had he broken with that smile? A wry smirk touched her lips.
“Well? Had your fill of mischief? Think I’m weeping for you? Think again. Goodbye.” She wedged the frame between two thick volumes. “There. That’s your place now—not in my life.” Brushing invisible dust from her hands, she turned toward the bathroom.
***
The corridor was empty when Eleanor stepped out after her final exam, the last of the applicants to leave. A nondescript young man appeared at her side—one of the fellow students she’d sat beside during admissions.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Top marks!” She couldn’t suppress her grin.
“Then we’ll be studying together.” His smile mirrored hers.
“We still have to wait for the lists,” she began—though she hardly doubted her acceptance.
“Formality. You’ve only one mark below distinction. You’ll make the cut.”
“When do they post the lists?”
“Day after tomorrow—I checked. Fancy celebrating?” His breath caught as he waited.
Her parents were still at work. No more revisions to slave over. Nothing pressing.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They wandered the city, licking ice creams, then slipped into a cinema.
Assigned to different groups, Eleanor didn’t mind—but Roland did. Now they met only during breaks or lectures, where he unfailingly claimed the seat beside her.
Once, Roland was late, and Edward Danvers slid into his spot just as the professor entered. Eleanor meant to say the seat was taken, but the lecturer—rumoured to be merciless, infamous for failing those who displeased him—began his address. She shrugged inwardly. One lecture apart wouldn’t hurt.
“Roland’s jealous. I can feel his glare boring into my back,” Edward whispered, tilting his head toward her.
She glanced back. Roland sat in the rear row, his expression stricken.
“Gentlemen—and young lady—if you’d prefer to chatter elsewhere, feel free to leave,” the professor snapped.
Every eye turned their way. Eleanor ducked her head over her notes.
“Now we’re done for. He’s memorised our faces,” Edward muttered, and they stifled laughter.
Ejected from the lecture, they waited in the corridor before Edward suggested the canteen. Why waste time?
He was sharp-witted, endlessly entertaining. Eleanor admired his confidence. Even the professors respected his quick mind.
“Be careful with him, Eleanor. He’s a rake—a proper charmer,” Roland warned afterward.
“Jealous?”
“What if I am?”
“Roland, there’s nothing between Edward and me. One shared lecture doesn’t make us an item.”
But one lecture became many. Eleanor fell hard, unable to imagine a day without Edward. Soon, they were spoken of as a couple—her parents considered them engaged. Edward, ever the charmer, had won over her mother effortlessly. Women of all ages succumbed to his easy grace.
They agreed not to rush into marriage—until fate intervened. Eleanor was pregnant. Edward’s calm reaction surprised her.
“Fatherhood—interesting. But how will we manage? And our studies? Eleanor, perhaps we shouldn’t hurry. It’s early yet.”
She acquiesced. There was time to decide. But nausea struck at inconvenient moments, leaving her drained. In the end, she terminated the pregnancy. How could she study with a child? She and Edward loved each other, had their futures to build.
Roland remained a steadfast friend—copying notes for her when she missed class, ever-present yet unnoticed.
That summer, after their fourth year, she married Edward. His father, a high-ranking official in their town, took them under his wing after graduation. Edward climbed the ranks swiftly. Eleanor never resented it—his father’s favour was for his son, not his son’s wife.
Until the day she walked into his office at lunch and found him entwined with a brazen, pretty young secretary. The girl met Eleanor’s gaze without shame, smirking as if to say, *You should have knocked.*
At home, Eleanor raged.
“What’s the fuss? Men stray—it happens. If you think otherwise, you’re naïve. You’re my wife. I love *you*. She was nothing.”
Yet he dismissed the girl, replacing her with someone plainer. Eleanor relented.
Would leaving Edward guarantee a better man? Perhaps at first—but then? Why trade one trouble for another? Outwardly, they remained the model couple.
Then a “well-wisher” called: Edward had fathered a child. Again, she threatened divorce.
“Eleanor, be sensible. A child changes nothing between us. I love you—only you. I won’t divorce you, and I won’t let you go.”
She should have left then. But fear held her. She still loved him. Edward always got his way, and Eleanor had never been strong-willed. Perhaps that was why he valued her—two strong personalities would have clashed. He never reproached her for their childlessness.
He came home punctually, granted her freedoms she never used, sent her on solo holidays. When his father retired, Edward assumed his role.
At the seaside, men swarmed—most lying about being single, seeking amusement. Their attentions pleased her briefly before turning cloying. She returned home gladly, to Edward, to their tastefully furnished flat.
Her tanned skin prompted his wistful remarks about work keeping him from the beach. She knew—and he knew she knew—he hadn’t spent those weeks toiling.
They remained the envy of many. Yet Eleanor often watched ordinary families in the park with a pang.
She consoled herself: every marriage had its troubles. Hers wasn’t the worst. They lived as neighbours—as most couples did after the first decade’s passion faded.
They might have carried on indefinitely—until the police call two months prior.
“Found? What do you mean?” she’d asked numbly.
The “well-wishers” had stopped calling long ago. Either Edward had tired of affairs or grown more discreet. Eleanor pretended all was well—easier that way.
“Your husband suffered a fatal heart attack. His companion… called an ambulance but vanished before they arrived. We’re obliged to investigate sudden deaths…”
Sympathy poured in. She played the grieving widow flawlessly. Edward’s father hushed up the scandal—the woman, a well-known singer, never made the papers.
The thought of Edward dying mid-affair revolted her. But perhaps it was fitting. She mourned him only in public, and even then, with restraint.
***
Eleanor freshened up, sipped her morning coffee. Sunlight streamed through the windows. She was *free*—free of Edward, his infidelities, the pretence of being the dutiful wife.
The doorbell chimed. Another pitying visitor, she thought irritably.
“Can I help you?” she asked the man on her doorstep. Something in his face tugged at her memory.
“No recognition? That hurts,” he teased, feigning dismay. “Roland. Roland Whitmore.” His smile softened as he studied her. “Your birthday’s soon—I remembered. Business brought me to town, so I thought I’d stop by. Is Edward at work?”
Now she knew him. Roland—older, sturdier, glasses lending him a scholarly air. He *was* a professor now.
“Come in.” She stepped aside. “Edward died two months ago.”
“*What?*”
“Heart attack. Don’t stand there—it’s been years. I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re holding up well. You don’t seem… devastated. Children grown, I suppose?” They settled at the kitchen table over tea.
“We never had any. I ended the pregnancy at university. Edward had two—a boy and a girl, by different women.” Her tone was steady.
“You say that so calmly?”
“Everyone thought—and now, as the dawn painted the sky in soft hues, Eleanor finally understood that sometimes love arrives not in a grand overture, but in the quiet constancy of a heart that has waited patiently all along.
