Wife Returns Home 3 Hours Early to Surprise Husband—What She Finds Leaves Her in Tears
Margaret peered through the train window, lost in thoughts of her mother. Shed spent three days nursing her, spooning broth and doling out pills. The fever had only broken yesterday.
“You couldve stayed another day,” her mother had murmured that morning.
“Henrys home alone, Mum. Probably starving by now.”
Now, rattling along the tracks, she regretted not listening. But Henry had called every evening, asking after her mother, complaining about the empty fridge. His voice had sounded oddtired, or something else.
“I miss you,” hed said last night before bed.
Margaret had smiled then. Thirty-two years together, and he still missed her. Good man, shed always thought.
The train swayed. A woman opposite cracked sunflower seeds, nose buried in a paperback. On the cover, a glamorous woman clung to a suited man. Margaret glanced at her reflectionfine lines, grey roots showing. When had she aged so much?
“Going home to your husband?” the woman asked.
“Yes. Just visiting Mum.”
“Im off to see my lover,” the woman chuckled. “Husband thinks Im at my sisters.”
Margaret flushed and turned away. How could anyone speak so brazenly?
Her phone buzzed.
*Hows your mum? Whens your train back?* Henry had texted.
She checked the time. Four hours until London. She almost replied truthfullythen stopped. Let it be a surprise. Shed cook dinner. Hed be thrilled.
*Tomorrow morning. Miss you too*, she sent.
Henry hearted the message instantly.
Fields and cottages blurred past. Margaret unscrewed her thermosher mother had insisted she take tea and sandwiches, fussing as if she were still a child.
“Youve got too thin, love. That Henry of yours not feeding you proper?”
“Mum, Im fifty-seven.”
“And? Youll always be my girl.”
Chewing the sandwich, Margaret thought of her mother alone in that house, just as shed been since Dad passed five years back. *Youve got your own life*, she always said. *Dont fuss over me.*
But Margaret loved to care for people. Always had. First her parents, then Henry, then the kids. Taught primary school until James was born, then stayed home. Then Emily came. Somehow, thirty years vanished between school runs and ironing Henrys shirts.
The kids were grown nowJames up in Manchester with his family, Emily married with a baby of her own. And what was left for her?
The train slowed. Margaret gathered her things, bid the woman farewell. The station bustled. The bus home took half an hour.
She imagined Henrys face when she walked in early. Maybe shed stop at Sainsburysget a nice cut of beef, some new potatoes. Cook a proper meal, light candles.
At the till, the cashier grinned. “Planning something special?”
“Oh, just dinner for my husband.”
The bags were heavy. She lugged them to the lift, fumbled for her keys. Finally, the door swung open.
“Henry? Im home!”
Silence. Probably asleepit was nearly ten.
She set the bags down, shrugged off her coat. The lights were on. Odd. He never slept with them blazing.
Heading to the closet, she froze.
High heels by the door. Black, polished, expensive-looking.
“Henry?” she called softly.
Her pulse quickened. Maybe Emilys? Though why wouldnt she have called?
A womans laugh trickled from the kitchen. Not Emilys voice. A strangers.
“Henry, youre terrible,” the voice purred.
“Margarets not back till tomorrow. Weve got time,” Henry replied.
Margaret pressed against the wall. Her legs threatened to buckle. Who was this woman? What were they?
Tiptoeing, she peered through the kitchen door.
Henry sat at the table, hair mussed, grinning. Opposite him, a blondethirtyish, pretty. Wearing Margarets dressing gown.
Coffee cups, a half-eaten Victoria sponge, chocolates. Henry held her hand.
“Claire, youre incredible,” he murmured.
*Claire?* Who the hell was Claire?
“What about your wife? You said you loved her,” the woman simpered.
“I do. But this is different. With you, I feel alive.”
Margaret gripped the doorframe. The room swam. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of trust, of laundry and packed lunches, and he
“Henry,” she whispered.
They whirled. Henry went sheet-white. The blonde leapt up, clutching the robe.
“Maggie? Youyou said tomorrow”
“Who,” Margaret breathed, pointing, “*is this?*”
“Claire. From flat 52. Just helping with her leaky tap.”
“A *neighbour*?” Margaret stared at the woman in her robe. “Wearing my things?”
“Listen, I should go” Claire edged toward the door.
“Stay!” Margarets voice cracked. “Explain whats happening in *my* home!”
Claire hesitated. “We were just talking. Henry fixed my tap. I made coffee.”
“Six hours ago?”
Henry stepped closer. “Maggie, calm down. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?” She laughed, shrill. “You held her hand! In my robe! While I was nursing Mum!”
Claire bolted. Margaret snatched the robe off her as she fled.
Henry grabbed her shoulders. “I swear on my life, nothing”
She wrenched free. “Thirty-two years, Henry. I *know* when youre lying.”
He crumpled onto a chair. “Six months,” he admitted. “Just talking.”
“Talking.” The word tasted like ash. “While I made your dinners. Raised your children.”
She stumbled to the hall, yanked on her coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To Gillians.”
“Dont! Lets talk tomorrow”
“Oh, we will.” She wrenched the door open. “Tell Claire to keep the robe.”
The night air bit. She called Gillian, rode the night bus in a daze.
Gillian took one look and put the kettle on. “Bastard,” she said. “All of them, bastards.”
Margaret didnt sleep. Just lay there, replaying decadesthe proposals, the babies, the years folding into each other until she barely recognised herself.
At dawn, she texted Emily: *Tell your father Im at Aunt Gills.*
Henry called all day. Showed up that evening, rumpled, pleading.
“Its over with Claire. I swear.”
Margaret studied himthe receding hairline, the paunch. A stranger.
“Henry,” she said quietly, “Im fifty-seven. Maybe its time I lived for *me*.”
He gaped. “Were *family*.”
“Family respects each other. Youve had your fun. Now Ill have mine.”
Rain tapped Gillians window as Margaret smiledproperly, for the first time in days. Tomorrow, shed hunt for jobs. Visit Mum.
A new life at fifty-seven. Odd, yes. But not unwelcome.