“Spare Not the Son”
“Have you lost your mind? You spent the savings we scraped together for five years on a flat for your pregnant mistress? Even my moneyour moneygone to some I havent the words! How could you?”
Thirteen years Anna had lived with her husband. She had loved Edward beyond reason, simply for being himselfhis perpetually tousled chestnut hair, that weary, tender smile he reserved for their eight-year-old son, Oliver. Life in their quiet market town had been steady, unchanging, until now.
…Edward arrived home at half past nine, as he often did these days. Lately, he worked late, but Anne hadnt thought much of ituntil tonight. The slam of the door, the shrug of his jacket, the scent clinging to him: not his usual cologne, but something cloying, floral. She noticed at once.
“Evening,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Dead on my feet. Rough day.”
“Hello. Will you eat? Come, Ive kept supper warm.”
“No, ta. Need a shower.”
He brushed past her, and a cold unease settled in her stomach. Again, refusing food. The signs had piled uplate returns, his mobile always in his pocket, screen-down now, locked. Even the slightest touch to it made him twitch.
“Youre late,” she said, clearing his untouched tea. “Busy at the office?”
Edward paused at the bathroom door.
“Aye, Annie. Quarters end. Reports, you know. Red tape.”
“Why do you smell like that?” The question slipped out, sharp.
He stilled. She saw itthe flicker of panic.
“Like what?” He forced casualness, but his shoulders tensed.
“Flowers. Sweet, like perfume. Not yours.”
“Oh. Mustve been one of the secretaries. Liz from accountsnew scent, went on about it all day.” He waved a hand. “Probably reeks of it. Let me be, Annie. Im knackered.”
“Liz from accounts,” Anne echoed tonelessly, turning back to the parlour. “Right, then.”
That scent had haunted her for weeks. Shed told herself it was coincidence, that his colleagues wore perfume, that she was imagining things…
…The familys dream lived in a savings account opened five years priora flat for Oliver by the time he came of age. Theyd scraped every spare penny: Edward from his engineers wages at the local plant, Anne from her modest seamstress work. No holidays, no new car, no luxuries except for Olivers schooling. By now, there shouldve been nearly eighty thousand poundsa fortune in their town, enough to secure their sons future.
The blow came without warning. A client paid Anne early, adding a tip for her haste. On a whim, she went to the bankperhaps for the walk, perhaps the crisp autumn air.
The teller, a young woman named Emily whom shed known for years, offered a polite smile.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Whitmore. How may I help?”
“Emily, lovecould you check the balance on our savings? And Id like to deposit this, if you would.”
“Of course. Your ID, please.”
Anne handed it over. Emilys fingers danced across the keys.
“Well…” Emily frowned. “Mrs. Whitmore, its… empty.”
“Empty?” Anne laughed weakly. A mistake, surely.
“Completely. Zero pounds, zero pence.”
The floor tilted. Anne gripped the counter.
“Emily, thats impossible. Check again. We opened it five years agoEdward Whitmore, my husband. I deposit every month!”
“Im sorry,” Emily murmured, lowering her voice. “The last withdrawal was a fortnight ago. Cash. A… substantial sum.”
“How much?” The words barely left her throat.
“Seventy-nine thousand, six hundred. The account was closed.”
A fortnight ago. Edward had come home late, muttering about meetings.
“Thank you. Ill need a full statement. Now.”
…Anne staggered from the bank. She didnt remember driving home. Seventy-nine thousand. Gone.
***
When Edward returned, Anne sat at the kitchen table, the printed statement folded neatly before her. Her face was dry, eerily calmthe stillness before the storm.
Edward tossed his keys onto the sideboard, rubbing his temples.
“Evening. All right?”
“Sit down, Edward,” Anne said. Her voice was flat, foreign.
He hesitated, eyes darting to the papers. Understanding dawned slowly.
“Whats this?”
“Sit. We need to talk.”
He sank into the chair opposite.
“Annie, I dont”
“Dont lie,” she cut in. “I went to the bank. The savingsgone. Seventy-nine thousand. Last Tuesday.”
Edward stared at his hands. He didnt deny it.
“Howd you find out?”
“Does it matter? Where is it, Edward?”
“I… bought a flat.”
“A flat? Where? For whom?”
He exhaled sharply. When he looked up, there was no remorseonly irritation and a grim resolve.
“For her.”
“Who is ‘her’?” Annes tone was conversational, as if discussing the weather.
“Edward. Say her name.”
“Sophie. Sophia…”
Anne stared. Edward wilted under her gaze, words tumbling out.
“Annie, it just happenedremember that team retreat last year? The one the boss forced us on? Thats where I met her…”
“Go on.”
“She was… different. Wild. Made me feel alive again. Youre steady, Annie, like homebut she was fire. Nineteen when we met, tattoos, rode a motorbike… I lost my head. Then she dropped me, took up with some lad. I was gutted. Begged her back. Then” He swallowed. “Shes pregnant. Her mum kicked her out. I couldnt leave my child”
Anne rose, crossing to the window.
“So youll spare your bastard, but not your son? Fine. Tomorrow, youll sign your half of this house over to Oliver. When hes grown, Ill sell it, and my boy will have a home. As for youI dont care. Ill file for divorce at first light. Fight me, and Ill ruin you.”
Edward pleaded, of courseloitered by the house, sent grovelling letters. Anne never replied. The divorce was swift. As for the mistress? She wanted no part of him either. The child, born right on time, was unmistakably not histhe almond eyes told that tale plain enough.
And that was that.
