The Rebellion of Solitude: A Tale of Two Brothers
Oliver and Edward exchanged uneasy glances. They had just bid farewell to their wives and children, who were heading off for a long-awaited holiday by the sea, to a quaint coastal town nestled beneath the rolling hills of Cornwall. Oliver hadn’t been able to join them—his stern employer had revoked his leave at the last moment, offering no explanation. His wife, Eleanor, had insisted on cancelling the trip outright, for separate holidays were never their way. But Oliver wouldn’t hear of it; he refused to let some petty manager deprive his family of their well-earned respite. Eleanor and the children would go to the sea, and they’d make up for lost time together later.
Edward, however, had no such fondness for family time. His wife, Margaret, and their children seemed to drain him year-round. Surely a man in his prime deserved a bit of freedom in an empty house? Under the pretence of urgent home repairs, he stayed behind, savouring the thought of peace and quiet.
As the wives departed, the brothers made to part ways, but Edward hesitated.
“Workmen are coming in at the crack of dawn,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Noise, dust, the stink of paint—you know how it is. Need somewhere to lay low for a couple of days.”
“And how do you plan to supervise them?” Oliver asked, well aware that the repairs were merely his brother’s excuse.
“Oh, I’ll pop in once a day to check,” Edward replied airily. “They’ll send pictures—I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Stay at mine, then,” Oliver shrugged. “The place is dead without Eleanor and the kids. At least you’d be company.”
Edward’s face lit up as if he’d won the lottery. He promised to bring his things over that very evening.
“Just don’t bring your whole wardrobe,” Oliver smirked. “I’ll tolerate you for a week—no longer.”
Edward grinned and dashed off to pack. That evening, he suggested they celebrate their brief taste of bachelorhood.
“Let’s have a proper night of it, Ollie!” he winked. “Freedom, mate—pure freedom!”
“Not in the mood, honestly,” Oliver admitted, sinking onto the sofa. “Might just watch a film and turn in early.”
“Suit yourself,” Edward sighed, though a sly glimmer flashed in his eyes.
“Honestly, I envy you,” Oliver murmured. “If I had leave, I’d be by the sea with Eleanor and the kids right now.”
“Don’t get you at all,” Edward scoffed. “Maggie’s got me on a bloody leash. Won’t let me breathe without her, but refuses to go anywhere herself. I’ve offered her trips—always says no. Finally got my chance…”
Oliver shook his head. He’d never understood his brother. Both had married for love, yet Edward treated Margaret with something close to indifference. He wouldn’t divorce—he was too fond of the comfort she provided—but at every opportunity, he bolted from home, chasing adventure.
The next day, Oliver left for work early, mentioning a business trip to a nearby town. The moment he was gone, Edward’s mischief flared to life. If his brother was such a saint, why not make the most of his absence? Oliver’s bed was luxurious, nothing like the creaky old thing he shared with Margaret. The decision was swift.
By noon, Edward had orchestrated a full-blown revelry. Wine, takeaway, blaring music—everything was going splendidly. He’d even invited two ladies of questionable repute to join the merriment.
But he’d forgotten one crucial detail: Eleanor’s mother, Beatrice, had a key to the flat. Oliver never minded her dropping by to water the plants or fetch things for the grandchildren. Engrossed in his party, Edward didn’t hear the key turn in the lock—only the sharp, horrified shriek of Beatrice as she barged in, convinced intruders had ransacked the place.
Panicked, Edward dove into the wardrobe, leaving the ladies to face the wrathful matriarch. His heart hammered wildly, deafening him to their exchange.
“Eddie, come out! Your mother-in-law’s gone!” one of the women laughed, beckoning him.
“What’d she say?” he stammered, peering out.
“Just screeched and stormed off,” the other cackled. “But you’re done for, mate. Why’d you give her a key?”
“Not *my* mother-in-law,” Edward muttered, but the damage was done.
He shooed the women out and frantically scrubbed the flat clean, erasing all evidence. *Bloody hell, I’ve sunk Ollie,* he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. *Beatrice will tell Eleanor everything.*
And she did. That evening, Beatrice rang her daughter in hysterics, recounting the scandal. Eleanor, furious, rang Oliver and unleashed a torrent of accusations. He protested—he’d been at work all day, it was Edward’s doing—but she refused to listen, sobbing that she wanted a divorce.
“What the hell did you do?!” Oliver roared, storming in later. “Eleanor’s leaving me—thinks I brought women home!”
“Ollie, mate, it’s a misunderstanding,” Edward babbled, backing away. “Don’t blow your top—it’ll sort itself out.”
“*Sort itself out?!*” Oliver seized him by the collar. “You’re going to Beatrice *right now* to confess! And you’ll tell Eleanor those women were yours!”
“Hang on—I can’t,” Edward faltered. “Maggie… she’ll never forgive me.”
“I don’t give a damn if she forgives you!” Oliver shouted. “You’ve wrecked my family!”
Blind with rage, Oliver struck him. Edward didn’t fight back—he knew he deserved it. He swore he’d confess, if only to calm his brother. But cowardice won. Worse, he spun a tale to Margaret and Eleanor, claiming *Oliver* had tried to force him to lie—even hit him for refusing.
Oliver clung to the hope Eleanor would believe him once she returned. He pleaded with Beatrice, but she stood firm: she’d seen the women with her own eyes. Eleanor, too, shut him out, her eyes filled with bitter scorn.
“I trusted you more than myself,” she whispered, tears brimming. “How cruel to realise it meant nothing.”
“Ellie, love, I *swear* I didn’t betray you!” Oliver was on his knees. “It was Eddie’s doing—he threw that party while I was at work!”
“Don’t you *dare* blame him!” she flared. “Ed stayed for repairs. He’d never have time for this!”
“And I would?” Oliver asked hollowly.
He couldn’t prove his alibi—he *had* been travelling that day.
“I called you,” Eleanor said quietly. “Your phone was off. I thought it was just bad signal…”
“I was on the road,” Oliver murmured. “But you don’t believe me.”
She shook her head. The betrayal was too deep.
Eleanor filed for divorce. Beatrice remained certain her son-in-law was a cheat. The women, when questioned, insisted the flat’s owner had invited them.
Edward wallowed in guilt, watching his brother crumble. Oliver cut all ties. But confession was beyond Edward. Suddenly, he realised how much Margaret meant to him. The thought of losing her terrified him. From that day, he swore off infidelity.
*At least one good thing,* he thought. *Lost my brother, but kept my family.*
Edward and Margaret reconciled. Oliver and Eleanor did not. He gave her everything he could, but she refused his “charity,” splitting their assets cleanly. Oliver never remarried—he couldn’t bear to look at another woman. He doted on his children, and Eleanor didn’t interfere. She, too, remained alone, unable to trust again.
