**He Didn’t Choose Me**
“No, Eleanor, you don’t understand! I can’t go on like this!” Margaret clutched her friend’s arm so tightly that Eleanor winced. “He’s marrying her! That… that empty-headed girl! And what was I? Twelve years of my life wasted?”
“Margaret, let go—you’re hurting me!” Eleanor tried to pull free, but Margaret held fast, her eyes burning with desperate fire. “Listen to me—”
“No, *you* listen!” Margaret leapt up from the kitchen chair, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “Twelve years, Eleanor! Twelve years I waited for him! When he was at university, I worked to help him with money. When he searched for jobs, I stood by him. When his mother fell ill, I sat by her bedside like her own daughter! And he… he…”
Her voice broke. She sank back into the chair, burying her face in her hands.
Eleanor gently nudged a cup of tea toward her—now gone cold.
“Perhaps… perhaps it’s for the best, Margaret? Maybe he wasn’t meant for you?”
“Not meant for me?” Margaret’s head snapped up, her glare making Eleanor flinch. “Then what *is* meant for me? To sit alone at forty, staring at the walls, remembering what might have been?”
“You’re only thirty-eight—”
“Almost thirty-nine!” Margaret cut her off. “And what now? Start over? Find someone else? Who’d even want me at this age? All the decent men are already taken!”
Eleanor fell silent, unsure what to say. She’d known Margaret since their uni days, seen her swing between hope and despair all these years. Victor would vanish for months, then reappear, promising marriage before retreating again—claiming he wasn’t ready, that they needed time. And Margaret had waited, believing every word.
“Do you remember those French lessons we took?” Eleanor ventured softly. “You used to say you wanted to travel abroad, see the world. Then you met Victor, and… well, you gave it all up.”
“What does French have to do with anything?” Margaret scoffed. “I *loved* him, Eleanor. Truly loved him! Not like those silly girls who flit from one man to the next. And he—he just *used* me!”
“He didn’t use you, Margaret. It just… didn’t work out.”
“Didn’t work out?” Margaret stood, staring out at the snow-dusted garden. “Do you know what he told me when I found out about the wedding? That I knew him *too* well. That with Olivia, it was more *exciting*—because she’s mysterious. *Mysterious!* A twenty-year-old student who does nothing but post selfies!”
“Margaret, don’t torture yourself—”
“I’m not torturing myself! I’m *furious!* How did this happen? We were happy! Remember those summers at his family’s cottage? The flowers he brought me? The way he called me the most wonderful woman?”
“I remember,” Eleanor nodded. “But that was years ago, Margaret.”
“Not even! Just last year! We were talking about *children*, for heaven’s sake—names and nurseries! And now Olivia’s two months pregnant!”
Eleanor stiffened.
“Pregnant? You never told me that!”
“What difference would it make?” Margaret slumped into the chair, all fight gone. “Now he’s not just marrying her—he’s having the baby *we* dreamed of.”
“Good Lord, Margaret…” Eleanor stood, wrapping an arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t pity me!” Margaret shoved her away. “This is *my* fault! I should’ve left years ago, the first time he said he wasn’t ready for commitment. But I thought I could *change* him, make him see how good I was!”
“You *are* good, Margaret. Kind, clever, lovely—”
“Lovely?” Margaret laughed bitterly. “Look at me! Grey hairs, wrinkles, this extra weight. And Olivia—young, slim, *fashionable.* Of course he chose her!”
“It isn’t about age or looks!”
“Then what? Explain it, Eleanor! What did I do wrong? Why couldn’t I keep him?”
Eleanor took Margaret’s hands.
“You did *nothing* wrong. You were loyal, devoted—almost a wife. But Victor… he wasn’t the man to make you happy. He’s selfish, Margaret. Always was.”
“No, you don’t know him! He could be kind, attentive—”
“When it suited him. Remember how he’d vanish when *you* needed him? How he’d promise to introduce you to his parents, then make excuses? Claim to love you while seeing others?”
“You knew about the others?” Margaret whirled on her.
Eleanor hesitated, then sighed.
“I saw him. Last year. With some blonde. Kissing in a café. I meant to tell you, but…”
“But you didn’t!” Margaret sprang up, pacing again. “You knew he was unfaithful and said *nothing!*”
“I wasn’t certain! Maybe it was just a friend—”
“Or a mistress!” Margaret stopped cold. “You should’ve told me!”
“And what would you have done? Stormed out? We both know you’d have forgiven him—like always.”
Margaret opened her mouth—then shut it. Eleanor was right. She *had* forgiven everything: the broken promises, the disappearances, the lies. Always making excuses, always hoping he’d change.
“You know what hurts most?” Margaret whispered, sitting again. “I thought we were alike. Shared dreams, values. Turns out he doesn’t even remember our conversations. When I asked if he recalled our plans, he called it ‘just talk.’”
“It wasn’t ‘just talk’ to you.”
“No. Every word mattered. Every kiss, every moment. And to him? I was just… convenient. Reliable. Until something *better* came along.”
Eleanor stirred her tea, frowning.
“What now? What will you do?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret admitted. “Some days I want to confront him, scream every hurt in my heart. Others, I just want to forget he ever existed.”
“Maybe forgetting is wiser?”
“Easy for you to say! How do I forget *twelve years?* How do I stop loving someone I loved more than myself? You know I even turned down that job in London for him—because he didn’t want to live in the city.”
“I remember. I thought you’d lost your mind.”
“So did I. I twisted my whole life around him, and he never noticed. Or worse—he noticed and *expected* it.”
Margaret stood, studying her reflection in the mirror.
“My mother always warned me: never give a man everything. Keep something for yourself. I thought love meant giving *all.* That real love demanded sacrifice.”
“Maybe she was right.”
“She was. But I wouldn’t listen. I thought if I was perfect, he’d treasure me. That patience and devotion would win in the end.”
“And now you see?”
“Now I see men don’t value what comes too easily. They want a chase, a mystery—like he said. And I was an open book. Predictable. *Boring.*”
Eleanor set down her cup.
“What if he’s wrong? What if Olivia disappoints him, and he realizes what he’s lost?”
“And then what?” Margaret turned. “He’ll come crawling back, and I’ll take him in? Wait for scraps of affection again? No, Eleanor. Even if he returns, I won’t have him.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I’m not that girl anymore—the one who settles for crumbs. I want a man who loves me for *me,* not because I’m convenient. One who’s proud of me, not ashamed.”
“Such men exist, Margaret.”
“Perhaps. But first, I need to remember who *I* am without Victor. Twelve years, I lived for *him.* What do *I* want? I don’t even know.”
“But now you can find out.”
“I can. Remember those French lessons? Maybe it’s time to try again. Or travel. I’ve never even seen Paris.”
“Brilliant! I’ll go with you—fancy it?”
For the first time that evening, Margaret smiled.
“Yes. Very much. You know… it’s good he’s marrying her. I’d have kept waiting otherwise. Hoping. Now it’s over.”
“It’s not over, Margaret. It’s just beginning. *Your* life—finally yours.”
“My life,” Margaret echoed. “Without him. Without waiting. Without hoping he’d change.”
“Exactly. And mark my words—he’ll regret this. Too late, but he’ll see what he threw away.”
“Maybe,” Margaret shrugged. “Or maybe not. And do you know? I don’t care. Let him have his *mysterious* Olivia. Let him raise their child. I’And as the years passed, Margaret found the freedom she hadn’t known she was searching for—sipping coffee in Parisian cafés, laughing with new friends, and realizing, at last, that the greatest love she’d ever needed was her own.
