Margaret lounged on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through holiday snaps on her tablet. Look at this, love! she called to Arthur, her husband, who had just set aside the spreadsheet of their family finances. Micks making a right cheeky face in this one.
Arthur, midmonth, lifted his eyes from the ledger where he dutifully recorded every pound, and peered over her shoulder. Not bad, he said, but his tone was weighed down by worry. The sea was splendid, but the budget has a gaping hole.
Arthur, we havent gone anywhere all year, Margaret pouted. We saved for this. You were the one who said we needed a break, to take the boy to the coast.
He sighed. Talking is easy, looking at the numbers is another matter. Well tighten the belt next month. Micks summer camp will have to be cancelled; we cant afford it.
Cancelled? Hes been looking forward to ithiking, kayaking Margaret whined.
Itll be fine. He can stay at his grans cottage, get some fresh air. Better that way. Arthurs decision was final.
She fell silent. Arguing about money with Arthur was as useless as shouting at the wind. He was a caring husband and father, reliable in every way except finance, where he was as hard as stone. Every penny counted; he took pride in their safety cushion, the account set aside for unexpected costs. Margaret sometimes complained that the cushion was too stiff, but deep down she valued his prudence.
She chose the most picturesque picture: the three of themMargaret, Arthur, and twelveyearold Mickstanding on a Cornish pier, sunkissed, with a turquoise sea behind them and a white steamship drifting in the distance. She hit post on her social profile and captioned it simply, Our little southern bliss.
Within minutes likes and comments flooded in: Stunning!, You look radiant!, Where did you go? Margaret replied with a smile, soaking up the virtual affection.
An hour later, the phone rang. The screen displayed Zoe. Margarets sisterinlaw, with whom she usually got along famously.
Zoe, love! How are you? she chirped.
Instead of the usual bright tone, a sobbing whisper came through.
Margaret is it is it true? Zoe hiccupped.
Whats true? Zoe, whats happened? Are you crying?
The photo the one online is it a fake?
The photo? Its just a holiday picture. Explain, Zoe, youre scaring me!
There in the background, by the steamship a man in a white shirt is that him? Is that David?
Margarets heart skipped. DavidArthurs best mate, Zoes husband, the late husband of Irene. Hed died three years earlier in a terrible crash on a country road, his car consumed by flames, buried in a sealed coffin. The loss had left Arthur gaunt, aged ten years overnight, while Irene barely scraped by, raising their daughter alone, pennytopenny.
No, Davids dead! You must be imagining things.
No! Zoe shrieked. I recognise him! The mole on his neck, his watch! Margaret, please look closely!
Dropping the knife shed been using, Margaret swooped to the tablet, magnified the image. Past the smiling family, towards the white steamship, a small cluster of figures emerged. Among them stood a man in a crisp white shirt and light trousers, turned halfaway, chatting with a woman who held a little girls hand.
She zoomed again. The resolution was grainy, but the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the watch on the wristexactly the ones theyd gifted Arthur and David for their thirtieth birthday. The dark spot on the neck, visible beneath the shirt collar, matched the mole.
It was him. David, alive, healthy, apparently happy with another woman and another child.
The world tilted. Margaret sank into a chair, feeling absurd, as if a cruel prank had been played.
You see? Zoe wept. Hes alive and Irene shes been scraping by for three years, three jobs, a single child! And he just ran off! How could he?
I dont know, Zoe Ill call back.
Margaret hung up, staring at the photo of her own beaming face. She felt foolish, blind, naïve. Then the shock gave way to a grim puzzle assembling itself.
Arthurs monthly transfershe always said they were for his elderly aunt in York, struggling on her pension. Margaret had never questioned the aunt. Latenight murmurs, Arthur slipping into another room, whispering, All received. She doesnt know. Dont worry. Shed assumed it was workrelated.
His sudden stinginess, exactly three years ago, his relentless mantra of save, save, save, the refusal to fund Micks campall fell into place. He wasnt helping an aunt; he was funneling money to his dead friend, supporting a new life for the man whod faked his death. He had drained their family, denied their son joys, to bankroll Davids fresh start.
The front door opened. Arthur stepped in, cheerfully asking, Whats that wonderful smell?
He saw her pallid face, the tablet on the table, and fell silent, following her gaze to the screen.
Whats wrong? he asked, voice tighter than before.
Its happened, Arthur. She lifted her eyes, empty of tears, only cold steel. Your sister called. She asked after Aunt Lucy in York. She must be missing you.
Lucy? he frowned.
The aunts actually doing well down south, by the sea. Shes even spry againthough now shes called David. You know the story, dont you?
She turned the tablet toward him. His face flashed grey for a heartbeat. He understood.
Margaret, Ill explain
No, I dont want to hear your lies any longer. How much have you sent him in three years? A hundred thousand? Two hundred? A million? How much of ours have you stolen? From me, from our son?
I didnt steal! I was helping a friend! He was in debt, they would have killed him! The only way out was to disappear, start anew!
And Irene? Her daughter? Dont you care about the widow who thought shed been a widow at twentyeight? The girl growing up without a dad? Did you think of them while you fed this rogue?
Irene is strong; shell manage, he muttered. David had no choice.
Everyone always has a choice, Arthur! she snapped, her fist striking the table like a gunshot. You chose him over us! You lied every day about not having money for Micks camp. You lied when you patched his jeans because there were no funds. You made me an accomplice to your deceit!
He bowed his head, speechless.
I want to know one thing, she whispered, voice trembling. Our trip to the sea we didnt end up here by accident, did we? You wanted to see him?
He nodded slowly.
That was the final drop. The whole holiday, the little happiness, had been a cover for his secret rendezvous. Margaret and Mick were merely scenery in his other mans play.
She fumbled for her phone, her fingers moving against their will, and dialed.
Who are you calling? Arthur asked, anxiety creeping.
Where truth still lives, she replied.
On the other end, a sobbing but steady voice answeredZoe.
Zoe, put Irene on.
Margaret, maybe we shouldnt she
We must. She has to know. Weve lived a lie too long.
Arthur stared at her, horror dawning. He sensed the collapse of his secret, the implosion of his whole life. He stepped forward, trying to snatch the phone.
Dont! she hissed, fury icy enough to freeze him in place.
A tired, resigned voice drifted through the lineIrene, Im listening.
Margaret inhaled deeply.
Irene, hello. We need to talk about David.
She sat at the table, back turned to the man rooted in the doorway, unsure what tomorrow would bringdivorce, split assets, a sons tears. Yet now she was doing the only thing she could: returning the stolen truth to the woman whose entire life had been robbed. It was the first step of her own liberation.
Sometimes a single, careless photograph can shatter the illusion of a perfect life and reveal a terrifying reality. If this tale made you pause, like and subscribe, and tell us in the comments whether Arthurs actions can ever be justified.
