To the very end
I remember how Margaret sat alone at the dining table, her gaze fixed on the glowing clock. It was already nine oclock and, as usual, there was no call, no message from Christopher. Another late night at the office, she told herself, though she barely believed her own excuse.
Those delays had become increasingly common over the past month. At first, it happened every fortnight. Then weekly. Now, it seemed her husband no longer bothered to come home on time.
Margaret could recall perfectly how it had all started. Initially, Christopher explained there was a crisis at work an important project, a looming deadline. She believed him and waited, every evening, far later than she should.
But his explanations grew more peculiar by the day. On Monday, he rang to say hed been stuck in the car park because a digger was clearing snow and blocking his exit. Margaret kept silent, watching him carefully. She knew full well that Christophers office had an underground car park, where not even a single snowplough could reach.
Wednesday, hed claimed an urgent meeting, though she knew meetings at his firm rarely happened, and if they did, they were held on Zoom in the morning.
Yesterday brought the best excuse of all: hed stayed late at the office because hed been struck with stomach trouble and had spent more than an hour in the lavatory.
Margaret was no fool. She sensed Christopher was hiding something. She didnt want to force out the truth. But what could it be?
How are you feeling? she asked, trying to sound calm and caring.
Christopher, entering the house, collapsed onto the bed and sighed heavily.
Not too well, he replied, rubbing his stomach. I grabbed lunch from a buffet, I think its upset me
Oh, dreadful. Must feel awful, Margaret said, her voice laced with concern, watching closely for his response. Let me fetch you some medicine. It should help.
No! Christopher sat up suddenly, but fell back just as quickly, realising his tone had been too sharp.
Whats the matter? Margaret asked in surprise.
The lads at work gave me some tablets. Cant remember what theyre called, but they helped.
Right. Well, if you say so, Margaret shrugged. But next time, try to remember the nameyou never know what youre taking
Youre right, Christopher forced a strained smile. Ill have a shower and get to bed. Im feeling rather off.
Alright, Margaret replied, stroking his cheek before leaving the room.
The moment Christopher entered the bathroom, Margaret rushed to the kitchen. She stood by the table, gripping his phone with a nervous hand. Her eyes scanned the screen messages, calls, messenger, nothing unusual. Then she thought to check his banking apps.
Transfer: £500 to Alice T. Margaret read silently, and her whole body tensed. She heard the shower stop. In a panic, she closed everything and returned the phone to the bedroom.
Dont panic, dont panic, she whispered to herself like a mantra. Who on earth was Alice T.?
She tried to remember. A colleague? An accountant?
Sleep eluded her that night. Margaret tossed and turned in the vast, cold bed. Christopher dozed soundly beside her, unaware that his wifes mind raced. Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep, tormented by troubling images and fragmented sentences.
Her awakening was sudden, like a jolt.
Alice! The name flashed into her mind like a blade. Christophers former flame, seldom mentioned, always referred to as a teenage infatuation.
Margaret sat up, sweat chilling her spine. Suddenly, everything fell into placethe excuses, the ridiculous lies, the stomach upsets. And now this large sum of money
She clasped her head, steadying her trembling hands.
Teenage infatuation, echoed in her mind.
She didnt sleep again. She sat until dawn, watching Christopher, piecing together the puzzle.
The suspicion that Alice was Christophers old lover was now clear. But what connection could remain after so many years? And why send her so much money?
Moving quietly, Margaret slipped from bed so as not to wake him. In the kitchen, she brewed coffee and fetched her notebook. She needed a plan.
What should I do? the question thudded in her temples.
Speak directly to Christopher? Yet he liedshed never get the truth through conversation alone.
Hire a private investigator? It seemed extreme. She didnt even know where to find one.
Look for Alice herself?
Margaret knew delay would only make matters worse. But how could she act without alerting Christopher?
She decided to start simplyby inspecting his social media profile. Perhaps shed find clues: old photos, memories, mutual friends
She opened her laptop and combed through his page. Most photos were recent: family, work, holidays. But near the bottom, she found some older snapshots. In one, Christopher, hair longer, stood beside a girl. Margaret studied the strangers face.
It was Alice. The former lover Christopher spoke of.
She closed the laptop and took a deep breath. There were two choices: to close her eyes and carry on, risking a deeper heartache, or to seek the truth, however painful it might be.
The answer was clear. She had to know. And she would find out, whatever it took.
That evening, Margaret sat in the parlour, nervously turning her phone over in her hands. Shed already rehearsed her words for a serious talk when the door opened.
We need to talk, Christopher said from the threshold, his voice awkward and tired.
I was hoping to speak to you as well, Margaret began, but he
And in the end, Margaret realised that sometimes forgiveness doesnt mean forgetting. It means choosing to move forward together, even while shadows from the past linger.
