The Forgotten Wife Remembers

Chapter 2

Word Count: 749 | Released on: 30/06/2025

ilarating power. For thirty years, I had swallowed their casual cruelty, their blatant favoritism. I had choked on the injusti

nt, draining effort to win a shred of affection from parents who only had eyes for Clara. Their concern was never for me, only f

c balm over the wound I had just opened. "The move has been stressful for her." He was managing the situation, not defending me. He was smoothing things over,

. But he was looking at his parents, reassuring them, not me. Defeated, I pushed my chair back from the table. "Excuse me," I mumbled, not looking at anyone. I needed to be alon

f. "What was that all about, Eleanor?" he asked, his voice low and laced with a

what I said, not the decades of pain that lay behind it. "I was just speaking the trut

Our reputation." He stood there, cold and unyielding, and in that moment, I remembered all the times he

is time could be different, died. I had learned to live with this coldness before. I could do it again. But this time, I wouldn't let it destroy me. "Fine," I sai

mall comfort. But everything felt strange, overlaid with the knowledge of my past, or future, life. An unexpected interaction broke my r

scanned the room and landed on me. One of the other librarians pointed a trembling finger in my direction. "Eleanor was the last one there," she said. "I saw her." The accusation hung in the air, heavy and immediate. Mr. Hender

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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."”