*”Hello, are you listening? Just wanted to open your eyes…”*
Emily sat at the kitchen table, wondering what to do. *”I can’t forgive this. Betrayal isn’t something you just sweep under the rug. Then again, have I really had it so bad? A flat in central London, a comfortable life. No reason to complain. Still…”*
***
At school, Emily had been top of her class—just the way her parents raised her, to always do things properly.
Mark, on the other hand, scraped by with mediocre grades in everything except maths. There, he was a genius, winning every competition. He always looked a mess—hair perpetually ruffled from his habit of running his fingers through it when frustrated, slightly slouched, thick-rimmed glasses making him the spitting image of a bookworm. Girls didn’t interest him; theorems and equations were his entire world.
One day, someone bumped into him during break, sending his glasses clattering to the floor in pieces. In class, he squinted helplessly at the board. Emily suddenly noticed his profile—sharp as a Roman general’s, with a strong jaw, straight nose, well-defined lips, and lashes that could put a mascara advert to shame.
A nudge in the shoulder snapped her out of it.
*”Honestly, without those glasses, he’s not half bad,”* her friend Charlotte whispered.
Emily looked away, embarrassed—but five minutes later, she was staring again. After school, she approached him. *”You look much better without them. Ever tried contacts?”*
The next day, he arrived at school glasses-free—and no longer squinting. Emily figured his parents had caved.
*”Better?”* he asked her at break.
*”Infinitely,”* she smiled.
From that day on, they were inseparable. He babbled about integrals and algorithms while she gazed at him like he’d hung the moon. She helped him scrape through English Lit.
As a maths prodigy, unis were lining up to take him. For Mark, Emily changed her plans to study literature in her hometown and followed him to London.
By graduation, Emily’s parents insisted she come home. She’d given up hope of staying with Mark—until, just before her train, he fumbled onto one knee, ring box in hand, like something out of a rom-com.
Mark did his PhD, then lectured undergrads. They got a tiny flat in the faculty housing, with a shoebox kitchen and a bathroom the size of a phone booth.
Emily, an average student at best, became a teacher. After a year and a half, their daughter Sophie arrived, and she never went back to work. Mark solved some famously stubborn theorem, won awards, got invited to Harvard. They upgraded to a proper London flat.
Everyone saw them as the perfect family. Sophie grew up stunning, married a promising young artist early.
Then, in one phone call, it all crumbled.
*”Mrs. Whitmore? I thought you should know. Your husband’s cheating. Don’t hang up—”* The woman prattled on about her *”poor daughter”* and some *”young lecturer he’s whisking off to conferences.”*
Emily stood frozen, the dial tone humming in her ear. She wasn’t one for gossip—she had to see for herself. She went to the uni, waited outside his lecture hall. Students poured out; Mark strode past, oblivious as ever. When he ducked into his office, she gave it a minute, then opened the door—
There he was, tangled up with some pretty young thing.
***
*”Now what?”* she asked the floral wallpaper for the hundredth time.
The key turned in the lock.
*”Oh god, I didn’t make dinner—”* Habit flared, then fizzled. *”Let *her* cook.”* She yanked a suitcase from the cupboard.
Mark leaned in the bedroom doorway. *”Taking *all* your dresses to the dry cleaner?”* Amused, not confused.
Emily met his eyes. *”No. These are *your* clothes. *You* are leaving.”*
*”Why? Where?”* Finally—shock.
*”You’re really asking? I *saw* you today. You could’ve told me yourself instead of leaving it to strangers.”*
*”Told you what?”*
*”They *phoned* me, Mark. About the students, the lecturers. Just admit it.”*
*”I don’t—”* He looked away.
Emily sank onto the bed, face in her hands.
*”Emily—”* He reached for her shoulder.
She jerked away. *”I gave my *life* to you. Made sure you never had to worry about a thing. And you—you thought I’d never leave. Well, guess what? I *can’t* leave. I’ve got *nothing*. This flat, *your* money… All I know is keeping house. You stopped seeing me *years* ago.”*
*”So *go* then!”*
She nearly choked. *”You’d bring *her* here? Into our bed?”*
Silence.
She walked out. He didn’t stop her. On the bench outside, her legs failed.
*”Emily, love, you alright?”* A neighbour.
She shook her head, called a taxi. No use airing dirty laundry.
Sophie answered the door wide-eyed. *”Mum? What’s happened?”*
*”I’ve left your father. Can I stay a few days?”*
*”*Left* him? *Why*?”*
*”He’s got some girl half his age. I won’t pretend it’s fine. He’s *somebody*—people will talk.”*
Sophie handed her water. *”Stay, but—Vince works from home. He *hates* interruptions. Won’t even let *his* mum visit unannounced. Maybe… a hotel?”*
Emily stared. *This* was the daughter she’d shielded from every hardship?
*”You’re right. A hotel’s better.”* She stood.
Sophie scurried off, returning with news of *”somewhere nice and cheap.”*
*”Thanks,”* Emily said, already halfway out.
***
Why *her*? Where had she gone wrong with Sophie? Should she have stayed, fought for the flat? Too late now.
At the hotel, morning brought the crushing weight of *”fifty, alone, *unwanted*.”* No appetite, though she’d eaten nothing since yesterday. She wandered to a park bench.
A discarded *”Jobs Today”* newspaper caught her eye. Circled ads for nannies, cleaners. *”Professor’s wife becomes a maid.”* She shuddered. Tutoring, maybe? She’d helped Mark with English before his trips abroad.
She bought a fresh paper, scanned the ads.
Her phone died mid-call. Tomorrow, while Mark was at work, she’d fetch her charger.
***
Morning came. Plugging in her phone, she packed essentials—then it rang. Unknown number. If Mark or Sophie had regrets, why hide behind anonymity?
*”Yes?”*
*”Mrs. Whitmore? Your husband’s in cardiology—heart attack. He asked for you.”*
She nearly snapped *”Call his *new* wife,”* but went anyway.
Mark brightened when she entered. *”Emily, forgive me. It won’t happen again.”*
*”What about—”*
*”She’s gone. I *need* you.”*
For days, she brought soup. He improved. Then, outside his room, she heard:
*”Annie! You came!”*
She collapsed onto a hallway sofa. *Liar.*
A doctor led her to his office, listening as she unraveled. *”Bitterness will destroy you. See a solicitor. I’ll *try* to talk sense into him.”*
She never went back. Two days later, the doctor called—Annie had bolted at the first sign of illness. That night, another attack.
The funeral was packed. Kind words, flowers.
After, Emily went home—not to London, but *home*. No use staying without him.
*Never too late to start over.*
