The Forgotten Wife Remembers

Chapter 1

Word Count: 865 | Released on: 30/06/2025

ified grief. He was a diplomat, after all, skilled at presenting the right emotion at the right time. But I knew him. I saw the hollowness in his eyes, the subtle impa

vid' s arm, her sobs theatrical and loud, yet her eyes were dry. She was always the favo

ness. I woke up in a hospital bed to two devastating truths. David had survived with minor injuries. And he had been having an affair. The police officer, trying to be gentle, handed me David's phone

had endured, a life built on a lie. The whispers at the funeral confirmed it. "She never got over that scandal, you know," one of David's colleague

bathroom. My movements were precise, almost ceremonial. I filled the tub with warm water. I laid out the bottle of sleeping pills on the white tile, a neat row o

the bed from our first apartment, the one we lived in right after we got married. My hands, when I held them up, were smooth and unlined. I scrambled out of bed and look

held out a piece of paper. "My mother wants us over for dinner tonight. Be ready by seven." He didn't look at me. He just plac

rents were there, their smiles tight and false. "Eleanor, you must be making David happy," my mother said, her voice laced with a familiar warning. "You know how much our famil

er' s, then to my father' s averted gaze. The same anger, the same helplessness I had felt for thirty years, began to bubble up inside me. But this time was different. I was not that helpless girl anymore. I had lived a lifeti

mother gasped. "Eleanor

am done being the family scapegoat. You wanted this marriage,

Chapter End

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“The funeral was a quiet affair, a stark contrast to the life I'd just left. My husband, David, stood solemn, but I saw the hollow impatience in his eyes, checking his watch. My death was an inconvenience. They said I was forgotten, a ghost even before I died, especially by my sister Clara, whose theatrical sobs hid dry eyes. The memory of our 30th anniversary crash ripped through me: the screech of tires, then waking to the truth of David' s affair, messages from his lover filling the phone recovered from the wreckage. This knowledge was poison. The whispers at my funeral confirmed it all: "She never got over the scandal, forced into marriage." "Clara was the one he always wanted." The shame, the loneliness, the empty decades-they were all mine. So, I decided the end would be mine too. Back in our cold house, I filled the tub, laid out the sleeping pills, and swallowed them, one by one. There was no hesitation. This was a quiet act of surrender. Then, I gasped awake. Sunlight blinded me. The air smelled of lemon polish and old books, a scent not smelled in years. I was in the bed from our first apartment, my hands smooth and unlined. The mirror showed a young woman of twenty-two. The calendar read: October 1982. Three months into my marriage. David stood in the doorway, impossibly young, impossibly remote. "My mother wants us for dinner. Be ready by seven." His voice was the same, cold and transactional. At the Vance family dinner, my parents and Clara echoed the old accusations. "Eleanor, you must be making David happy. You know how much our family owes the Vances." I finally shattered the silence. "Trying my best? Is that what you call forcing your daughter into marriage to protect your reputation?" I looked directly at my father, my voice steady. "I' m done being the family scapegoat. You wanted this marriage, not me."”