Molly, love, are you free this Saturday? the voice of her motherinlaw floated through the handset, warm and familiar, with that particular inflection Molly had learned to recognise perfectly over the past three years. We need to bring the jars of preserves down to the cellar; the verandas packed already. And the attic is a mess I cant seem to get to.
Of course, Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, Ill be there first thing in the morning! Molly said, pinching the phone to her ear while stirring a pot on the stove. Should I bring Mark with me?
Oh, no, his project is on fire, you know how it is. Let him stay home and work in peace.
They agreed that Molly would catch the nineoclock coach. She hung up, returned to the kitchen, humming a catchy jingle from a recent advert. Outside, the weak winter sun struggled through the window, and a sadlooking ficus drooped on the sill a plant she still couldnt bring herself to toss.
On Saturday morning she squeezed onto a packed coach, the air thick with petrol and the smell of someones homemade scones. She claimed a window seat and rested her cheek against the cold glass. Beyond the outskirts of London, fields stretched out, dotted with strips of woodland, and the steady drone of the engine soon lulled her to sleep.
She woke with a sudden jolt and a startled cry. The coach had rolled to a halt on the roadside, tilted onto its right side. The driver announced that a tyre had blown, the spare was rotten, and a replacement would have to come from the city.
Two hours at least, maybe three, he added, throwing his hands in the air.
The passengers grumbled and began to disembark. Molly lingered by the bus for about ten minutes, then, with a determined sigh, stepped onto the road and raised her hand.
A battered old Skoda pulled up, driven by a kindly grandfather.
Heading into town? Hop in, love, Ill give you a lift.
She jumped onto the front seat, typed a quick message to her motherinlaw: The coach broke down, Im heading home, can we reschedule for next weekend? She sent it. The phone buzzed with a delivered receipt.
Forty minutes later Molly stood in front of her fivestorey flat in Manchester, climbing calmly to the third floor. She fumbled for her keys, finally finding the right ring, and slipped it into the lock.
The phone rang suddenly. Mrs. Whitmore flashed on the screen.
Hello?
Molly! the voice cracked with panic. Where are you? Did you get there? Are you at the cottage already?
No, I just messaged the coach broke down, Im back at the door, Ill go in in a moment
Dont go in!
Molly froze, key still in the lock.
What?!
Dont open the door! Turn around and come straight to me, now!
Mrs. Whitmore, are you alright? Molly tried to laugh nervously. Whats happening? Im right outside
Please, Molly! I need you here, right now!
But the key turned, the lock clicked, and she pushed the door open.
Time seemed to stop.
The hallway was a tableau of scattered shoes: her ballet flats, Marks trainers, and a pair of glossy heels on a heelspike. A strangers umbrella leaned in a stand. A cloyingly sweet perfume hung in the air not hers.
In the doorway of the living room stood Mark, in casual trousers and a Tshirt, barefoot. Wrapped in his arms was a woman with dark hair, narrow shoulders, and bright red nail polish digging into his back.
They kissed as if the world had vanished.
Marks eyes flew open first; he saw his wife in the doorway and went pale. Blood drained from his face so fast Molly feared he might faint.
The woman, a twentysomething with startled doe eyes, snapped her head toward the hallway, snatched her bag, heels, and umbrella, darted past Molly, leaving a perfumeladen gust behind, and vanished up the stairs.
Molly still held the phone to her ear.
Molly! the motherinlaw screamed. Molly, answer! Did you go in? Molly!
How many times Molly croaked.
What?
How many times have you distracted me, Mrs. Whitmore? Those jars, the garden beds, the attic How many times have you shielded your son? How many times have you laughed behind my back because I didnt know the truth?
Silence. Then a soft buzz as the call dropped.
Molly lowered her hand, eyeing Mark, who stood in the middle of the room, silent.
Well? she asked indifferently. Got anything to say?
Molly, I can explain
She burst into a wild, hysterical laugh.
Explain? Seriously? You actually think you can just say that?
It meant nothing! Shes nothing, just
Just what? Just landed on my face by accident?
Mark stepped forward. Molly stepped back.
Stay away from me. Dont you dare.
Listen
No, you listen. She was surprised at how steady her voice sounded. This flat is mine. I bought it before we married, using my inheritance from my grandmother. You have no right to be here. You have fifteen minutes to pack and get out.
Molly, lets talk
Fourteen minutes.
You cant just
Thirteen.
He saw the resolve in her eyes, heard the firmness in her tone, and understood she wasnt bluffing. He raced to the bedroom, slammed the wardrobe doors shut. Molly leaned against the hallway wall, counting her breaths. Inandout. Inandout. She forced herself not to crack.
Twelve minutes later Mark emerged with a hastily packed bag and a jacket slung over his shoulder. He stopped at the door.
Keys, Molly said calmly.
He fumbled in his pockets, tossed his keyring onto the console, and left.
The door closed softly behind him. Molly stood for a minute longer, then clicked the lock twice, added the chain, and slid down the wall to the floor, sobbing.
On Monday she filed for divorce. The paperwork was processed quickly; they were childless, assets split, no claims. A clean formalities.
Mark never called. Neither did Mrs. Whitmore. It was as if the three years they had lived together had never happened at all.
A week later Molly sat in a cosy café with Sarah, her best friend since university. Sarah stared at her, latte cooling, mouth open.
Wait, you mean your motherinlaw knew? She sent you to the cottage on purpose while he was there
Seems that way.
Wow!
Molly gave a crooked smile.
You know whats funniest? I always thought of her as a second mother. I believed I finally had a real family. Turns out it was a stage. They were both pretending from the start.
From the start?
Think about it. When we met, I already had my own flat, a steady job, a decent salary. He was living in a rented room, doing odd jobs Molly took a sip of bitter coffee. Maybe not from day one, but pretty soon he realised he could settle in comfortably.
Do you think he ever
I dont know. She stared into her mug, the foam swirling. Maybe he loved in his own way, but not enough to stay faithful. Not enough to stop lying every day. And his mother She wanted a daughterinlaw whod be a workhorse: carrying jars, digging garden beds, sorting things out, while keeping her son under her thumb.
Sarah reached across the table, squeezing Mollys fingers.
Im so sorry, Molly.
Dont feel sorry. Molly lifted her eyes. Im not going to wilt. I lost three years, sure, but that happens. Im not going to waste another day on those people.
So what now?
Molly finished her coffee, set the cup down.
Now I live. From scratch. No fake husbands, no counterfeit mothersinlaw. I have my flat, my job, my life. Thats enough.
She rose, threw on her coat. Outside the café, a cold drizzle fell, fine and relentless. Yet Molly smiled. All the bad had been left behind.
Was it painful? Yes. Was it infuriating? To the point of grinding teeth. But she would survive. And this tale is just another lesson a hard, bitter one, but a lesson nonetheless.
Sarah caught up with her at the door.
Molly, are you really okay?
I will be, Molly turned, her voice steady. Give it time. Ill be happy again.
She stepped into the rain and walked home. Waiting there was a new project: a cake recipe shed been postponing, and thoughts of a future she would now build herself.
