Claire was now certain that women who divorced young and lived without a husband were far happier. At least, that’s how it seemed from her own little soapbox of experience.
“Some might disagree,” she told her friend Eleanor, “but I stand by it.”
“Perhaps,” Eleanor said hesitantly. “But everyone’s got their own path, haven’t they? Some women are miserable in their first marriage, find happiness in their second—or even third.”
“I won’t argue,” Claire shrugged. “But I’ve made up my mind. With my lot, the stress nearly finished me. And now there’s old age to face, with all my trust trampled underfoot. I don’t trust anyone now.”
Claire had spent New Year’s Eve at home with her husband Simon, her mother-in-law—who lived just next door—and their fourteen-year-old son, Oliver. Everything had been lovely. She’d set the table, her mother-in-law had helped, and they’d rung in the New Year as a family. By the time January 1st rolled around, they’d slept late—fireworks and rowdy revellers outside had kept them up. The mother-in-law had toddled off home earlier.
But the year started badly for Claire. After lunch, Simon vanished. Just like that. Hopped into his car and drove off without a word to anyone. Gone.
By nightfall, she couldn’t sleep. Worry gnawed at her. Dark thoughts crept in.
“What if he’s had an accident?” Her head throbbed from the storm of panic.
She waited for a call, a message, anything—but nothing. Simon’s phone was off. A sleepless night later, she dragged herself up with a headache, blood pressure spiking. The kettle boiled. Oliver was still asleep when her phone pinged—Simon’s message: “Don’t look for me. I’ve left you.”
Her hands shook, heart hammering. What now?
Should she show her mother-in-law? No—no need to upset her yet.
Then a thought: What if she’s in on it? Oh, sod it—she marched next door and knocked.
“Have a look at this little gem from your son,” she said, voice tight with hurt.
“Claire, love, that can’t be right. He never said a word!” The mother-in-law gawped. “Didn’t you notice anything?”
“No, I was half-convinced you were in cahoots.”
“Me? Never! If I’d known, I’d have wrung his neck. But it’s too late now.” Her hands trembled too. “Don’t you worry, I’ll always be on your side. That good-for-nothing—” She spat out a word Claire wouldn’t repeat.
At least Simon was alive. That was something. She’d imagined far worse.
Breakfast was out of the question. Anger burned—her Simon, a sneak and a coward. Couldn’t even tell her to her face what he wanted.
She dialled his number again. A woman answered.
“Who’s this?” Claire asked.
“His wife,” came the smug reply. “And you?”
Claire’s blood ran cold. “Oh—just a friend’s wife. Need to chat with him about my husband. Your address?”
She jotted it down. Right then. Time for a little visit.
“Oliver, love, have some breakfast,” she said, forcing cheer.
“Mum,” he asked, “Dad’s not back yet?”
“No, sweetheart. Don’t know where he is.” She kept her eyes down. Best not set off a teenager’s temper.
She rang Eleanor. “Happy New Year. Simon’s left me.”
“What? Don’t joke.”
“Wish I were. He’s shacked up with someone else. I’m going to see them.”
“Claire, let me come—”
“No. I’ll handle it.”
After breakfast, she took the bus to a quiet, leafy street. The house door swung open—unlocked. Inside, Simon and the woman were mid-meal.
He bolted up, stunned silent. The woman frowned. “Who’s this?”
“His actual wife,” Claire said. “We have a son. And you are?”
The woman’s face darkened.
“Who invited you?” Simon finally roared. “Get out!”
The woman turned to him. “You said she died two years ago.”
Simon wilted. “I was scared of losing you, Veronica. Meant to tell you later—”
Claire stared. Had he really called her dead? While she stood there, very much alive?
“How long’s this been going on?” she asked Veronica.
“A year. We love each other.”
Claire almost laughed. A year? And she’d noticed nothing?
“He tell you he couldn’t move in because his mum was sick? That now she’s dead, he’s free?”
Veronica blinked. “Yes—”
Claire burst out laughing. “Christ, he’s buried us all! I’m alive, his mum’s alive—found out this morning her son’s a cheat. Well, enjoy yourselves. I’ll file for divorce myself.”
She left, head high. Let them stew.
At home, Eleanor rushed over. Claire slumped into a chair.
“Claire, love—”
“He told her I was dead. Dead! And buried his own mother while he was at it.” She laughed, brittle. “Honestly, who does that?”
Eleanor sat, stunned.
“Bloody hell, Simon. Who’d have thought?”
The divorce went through. Simon, in a rare flash of decency, left the house to Claire and Oliver—kept only the car.
Claire told her mother-in-law, “Your son buried us both. Left me the house, like I married him for a sofa and a set of plates. What about the years? The struggles?”
The mother-in-law was speechless. Never expected this from her boy.
Claire remembered Simon’s hospital stay a year back—major surgery. She’d nursed him day and night, slept in a ward full of groaning men.
“Not long after, he’s shacking up with Veronica,” she thought bitterly. “Fed him with a spoon, and he tells her I’m dead? The man’s a coward. If you’re going to leave, do it properly. Sneaking off, lying—what was the point?”
She told Oliver the truth. He just hugged her.
“Mum, don’t stress. If he wants another family, let him. We’ve got each other.”
She kissed his head. “My grown-up boy.”
So now it was just Claire and Oliver—and the mother-in-law next door, who still treated Claire like family. Simon? Well. He’d buried them all. Might as well stay dead to them.
