The Lost Letters of Evelyn Wright by Clare Swatman EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Clare Swatman
- Language: English
- Genre: Friendship Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.7 MB
- Price: Free
BETRAYED AND HEARTBROKEN
My husband has been unfaithful to me in the past, but I
forgave him. However he has recently begun to come home
late again, claiming he is working nights, although I do not
believe him. I feel sure he is cheating on me again but I am
too afraid to say anything for fear of losing him altogether.
However I am very unhappy. I work long hours too and do my
housework in the evenings, but the worry is affecting my
health. I’m at the end of my tether, what should I do?
First of all, I am sorry that you are feeling so distraught. The
truth is that, although many women can do two jobs perfectly
well, others cannot. It seems to me as though you have
become so occupied with completing your chores in the
evening that your house no longer feels like a home, which
could be one reason why your husband has sought comfort
elsewhere – first from another woman, then in the
companionship that extra work brought. Could you consider
giving up your day job so that you could complete your chores
during the day? Perhaps then your husband will no longer feel
the need to stay away from his home and you can be happy
again.
When I first arrived at Laburnum Cottage, with its creaking windows and
wild front garden, I didn’t even want to walk through the front door.
Because that would have made the last few months real.
That would mean that this was my new life. My new future.
Alone.
But I had no choice, whether I liked it or not.
So, finally, I took a deep breath and stepped inside. The carpet was
spongy beneath my feet, the wallpaper in the hallway ripped, and when I
pressed my fingers against the wall, it felt damp. I trailed my fingers along
as I crept towards the foot of the stairs, where I lingered for a moment,
watching the outdated flower pattern repeat upwards and disappear round
the corner. The carpet was faded and scuffed, patches of underlay peeking
through, while the paint on the balustrade was chipped and worn. Even with
the front door still open the hallway felt gloomy.
Taking a deep breath, I retraced my steps and pushed the front door shut
until it clicked, then made my way into the kitchen at the back of the house.
When I’d viewed this property the estate agent had tried to up-sell its good
points – the location, the large garden, the decent room size – but even he
hadn’t been able to make the kitchen sound like more than it actually was: a
tiny room containing an ancient free-standing cooker, a stained Belfast sink
resting on a rotting wooden frame, and a small, round table. It was little
more than a hovel and as I stood in the doorway surveying it, my heart
sank. It really was as bad as I’d remembered.
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