“Betrayal”
Charlotte’s phone trembled in her hand as Emma wailed down the line.
“What’s wrong? Spit it out! Is it James? Em, why won’t you talk?” Charlotte barely held back her impatience.
“L-L-Liam… Waaah!” Emma dissolved into sobs again.
“Liam? Did something happen? Was there an accident?” Charlotte pictured Emma shaking her head, as if she could somehow see her.
“That’s it—I’m hanging up. Be there in ten,” Charlotte snapped. She waited a beat, listening to the muffled cries before ending the call.
She threw on a jacket, snatched her bag, and stormed out. Emma lived just a short walk away, so Charlotte marched briskly, occasionally breaking into a jog, muttering about Emma’s dramatics. “Never says anything straight. I swear, if this is over nothing…”
Five minutes later, she jabbed the intercom button. Static crackled.
“Em! Open up, it’s me!” Another burst of static, then the door buzzed. Inside, the dim hallway swallowed her. She fumbled for the stairs, nearly tripping.
“Bloody hell—could barely see a thing,” she grumbled, waiting for the lift, foot tapping as worst-case scenarios raced through her mind. At Emma’s door, she paused—no shouts, no crying. That was something, at least. She pressed the bell.
Emma answered, face puffy and tear-stained. She turned robotically and shuffled to the kitchen. Charlotte exhaled, kicked off her trainers, and followed.
Slumped in a chair, Emma looked hollow. “Liam left me,” she said tonelessly.
“For someone else?”
Emma nodded.
“What happened? Did he tell you, or are you assuming?” Charlotte pressed, unsurprised. Liam had always turned heads, and she’d warned Emma to stay sharp.
“He packed his things and walked out. Said he loves her. Charlie, why? I cooked, cleaned, had his child, starved myself to stay thin—and he still left!”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s alive—stop acting like the world’s ended. He’ll crawl back.”
“You think?” Emma’s head snapped up, hope flashing.
“Who knows? What’s she like? Young? Pretty?”
“My age. Plump, ginger, and cross-eyed.” Emma shuddered. “What does he even see in her? I’m ten times better!”
“Probably not about looks. Midlife crisis, hormones—he’ll snap out of it.”
Emma crumbled again, shoulders shaking.
“Stop blubbering. If he walks in now and sees this mess, he’ll bolt.” Emma wailed louder.
“Tears won’t fix this,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Even if he comes back, you’ll never trust him. You’ll nag, snoop, poison your son’s childhood. Speaking of—where is Oliver?”
“At the neighbour’s.”
“Good. He doesn’t need to see this.” Charlotte sighed. “Get a grip, Em. You’re pretty, young—thirty-two isn’t the end. Got any wine?”
She fetched a half-empty bottle, sloshing generous glasses. “Drink. It’ll help.”
Emma gulped it like water.
“We were supposed to move. His work built flats—employees got priority…” Her voice broke.
“Stop. Crying gives you wrinkles.”
“It hurts so much I could die.” Emma rocked on the chair.
“Don’t be daft. You think Liam would care? He’d strut around like some prize. And Oliver? He’d hate you forever for leaving him.”
Emma froze, meeting Charlotte’s gaze.
“Fine. I won’t,” she muttered. They finished the wine.
“Stay tonight,” Emma begged.
Charlotte agreed. By morning, Emma was functional—rushing Oliver to nursery, avoiding talk of Liam. At work, Charlotte kept her distracted.
Days passed. Emma waited for a call that never came. Swallowing pride, she dialed.
“Liam? Can you come over? Oliver misses you.”
He arrived that evening. Oliver darted to him, clinging. Emma’s heart ached at the sight.
“Dinner?” she asked weakly.
“What did you want to talk about?” Liam stayed distant, polished, untouchable.
“Oliver, go play,” Emma said. Once alone, she folded shaking hands. “I can’t do this alone. He needs you. I’ll never bring it up again—just come home.”
Liam sighed. “Em, we’ve been through this. She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant? And Oliver?!”
“He’s my son. I’ll still see him—unless you fight me in court.”
“You selfish bastard!” Emma exploded. “I hope the baby’s a monster—that you suffer like me!” She grabbed his arm, nails digging in as he wrestled free. She stumbled, chair clattering, knees hitting the floor. “DON’T LEAVE ME!”
Liam shoved her off—hard. Her head struck the table’s edge. Darkness.
Panicked, he called an ambulance. She stirred as he carried her to the sofa.
“Where’s Oliver?” she whispered.
His phone rang—*her*. He snarled, “Not now,” and hung up.
Oliver, hearing screams, had bolted. They found him hours later, shivering on a park bench.
Liam stayed the night. By dawn, Emma sent him away. No more scenes. She feared losing Oliver.
Months passed. Liam divorced her, married the woman, had a healthy daughter. He visited Oliver, bearing gifts the boy accepted stiffly.
Emma never begged again. She moved on, prettier, colder. She didn’t forgive. Didn’t wish him happiness either.
The family, the love—all gone. Who was to blame? An old question, as endless as love itself… and just as cruel.
