**Mirage**
Over dinner, Dad kept shooting disapproving looks at his son. Andrew guessed—Mum must’ve told him about his plans to study at a university in London after finishing school.
Dad shoved his empty plate away and fixed Andrew with a hard stare. *Here it comes*, Andrew thought. He wished the floor would swallow him whole, or that he could turn invisible. Under his father’s glare, the spaghetti turned to glue in his throat—impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.
Mum stepped in. She distracted Dad, sliding a mug of tea toward him and nudging the biscuit tin closer.
*”Thanks, Mum, I’m full. I’ll have tea later,”* Andrew said, pushing back his chair.
*”Sit down!”* Dad barked.
Arguing was pointless, so Andrew sat.
*”I’ve got homework—”* he started.
*”It’ll wait. Your mother says you’re set on London. What’s wrong with here? We raised you, thought you’d be our support in old age—and now you’re running off?”*
*”I’m not running—”* Andrew mumbled.
*”Don’t give me that. What’s so special about London, eh?”*
*”There are more opportunities there. I want to be an architect—there’s no course for that here,”* Andrew fired back, raising his voice.
*”Alex, let him go. His teachers say he’s got promise,”* Mum said soothingly, resting a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
*”We can’t afford it. Everything there costs money—here, it’s free. See the difference?”* Dad’s temper flared.
*”I’ll get a scholarship,”* Andrew said stubbornly. *”I’m going, no matter what.”*
*”Alex, calm down. It’s not tomorrow. He’s still got exams. Go on, son, do your work.”* Mum flicked her eyes toward the door. Andrew didn’t need telling twice—he bolted.
*”Stop coddling him! We’ve raised a burden. Who’ll look after us when we’re old?”*
Andrew froze by his bedroom door, gripping the handle, listening.
*”Don’t be morbid. London’s close—just two hours by train. He’ll visit…”*
Dad muttered something indistinct.
*”Drink your tea before it gets cold. Need sugar?”* Mum asked.
*”Oh, for—I’m not a child. I can manage,”* Dad snapped.
The storm had passed. Andrew shut himself in his room, his heart singing. Late March—two more months of school, exams, but none of it mattered. He was going to London, where life would be exciting, full of possibilities. He’d make something of himself…
After graduation, Andrew and Mum went to the capital to submit his applications. Mum’s cousin, a plain, lonely woman, greeted them coldly, grumbling about *”everyone flocking to London like it’s got room to spare.”*
*”Fine, he can stay. Might liven the place up. But I’ve got high blood pressure—no late nights, no guests. I’ll do breakfast, share dinner, but lunch is on you.”*
Mum just nodded.
*”How much for rent?”* she asked cautiously, hoping the woman would refuse or take offense. Family shouldn’t charge family. No such luck.
*”You know how it is—London’s not your backwater. Life’s expensive here. Don’t take it badly…”* She named a sum that would’ve been astronomical back home.
Mum gasped, exchanging a look with Andrew.
*”Mum, I could just stay in halls—”*
*”Don’t be silly. How would you study? We’ll manage. Your father and I will send money—just focus on your work.”*
*”Listen to her,”* Mum sighed on the train home. *”She’s barely been in London five minutes and already acting high and mighty. Don’t tell your father about the money. I’ll handle him.”*
Andrew got in. He arrived in London a few days early to settle in. Commuting from the outskirts to campus meant changes—long, inconvenient—but still, this was *London*.
He left early each morning, wandering the city until late. At Primrose Hill, the view took his breath away—the skyline sprawling before him. A tour group paused nearby, their guide, a young woman with a bright smile, explaining the sights.
Andrew edged closer to listen. She noticed but didn’t shoo him away. When the group moved on, she lingered, scrolling her phone.
*”You tell stories well,”* he said.
She smiled. *”Where are you from?”*
*”Is it that obvious?”*
*”Newcomers always have that look—lost and dazzled.”*
He admitted he was here to study but living on the outskirts, which felt no different from his sleepy hometown. Talking, they drifted from the hill without realizing.
*”I live nearby,”* she said suddenly. *”Tired? Come up for tea if you’ve got time. I’ve got to fetch my daughter from nursery soon.”* She laughed when his face fell.
Her name was Diana. She was nearly twice his age. She fed him soup, poured tea. Andrew lingered, not wanting to leave.
*”Can I visit again?”* he asked at the door.
Diana studied him—not mocking, not pitying, just *seeing* him.
*”Come by,”* she said simply.
He lasted one day. On the third, he stood outside her building, hesitating, until he saw her with her daughter, Lily. He babbled excuses about *”just passing by,”* but Diana saw right through him. He played with Lily while Diana cooked. They ate together, the girl fussing when he tried to leave—*”Read me a story! Tuck me in!”*
Then… It was too late to go back to his cousin’s.
*”Stay,”* Diana said.
He did. He told his parents he’d rented a flat with a classmate—his father paid for it. The commute from his cousin’s was too far. No need to send more money. But Mum still secretly transferred small sums to his card.
On breaks, he went home, counting the days until he returned to Diana. His hometown felt claustrophobic now.
Andrew often collected Lily from nursery, played with her. Weekends were for parks, cinema trips. Guilt gnawed at him—living off Diana—so after first year, he switched to part-time studies and found work. What started as one night stretched into years.
By third year, he met Emma—a dazzling, mischievous girl. Now he stayed out late, muttering about *”work”* while avoiding Diana’s eyes. She’d nod sadly and reheat his dinner. In bed, he turned away, *”too tired,”* dreaming of golden-haired Emma.
*”There’s someone else, isn’t there?”* Diana asked one evening. *”You’re free—I’m not your wife.”*
Andrew confessed, relieved he wouldn’t have to lie to Emma anymore. *”And me,”* Diana’s eyes said.
He packed his things—more now—and left. Halfway down the stairs, he braced for the slam of the door. It never came. Diana stood listening to his footsteps fade…
Andrew burst outside, gulping air, hating his own cowardice. He hurried to the Tube, justifying himself the whole way. The age gap was too wide. He’d never promised her anything. *She* had invited him. And Emma—young, vibrant—was everything he wanted. Finally free, he let himself think of her.
Now he could openly pursue Emma. He did. He slept in a storeroom at work. When her parents were out, he’d shower at hers, do laundry. Of course, they became intimate. When her parents found out, Emma was already pregnant. Polite people, they skipped the shouting and pushed for a quick wedding. Andrew didn’t tell his parents. He hadn’t visited in ages—too busy working.
In their spacious home, Andrew felt like a guest. Nothing like Diana’s. His in-laws corrected his mistakes—gently, but with condescension. He knew they tolerated him for their daughter’s sake. His father-in-law got him a job at his firm. Emma, used to luxury, expected the same.
Andrew had dreamed of architecture. Now he pushed paper. He grew sullen. The passion faded fast—he and Emma had nothing in common. If not for the baby, he’d have left.
Then, on the way to a check-up, a scooter knocked Emma down. She lost the baby. She shut down, wouldn’t let him near. He felt the blame in everyone’s eyes.
He thought of Diana more and more. Home was unbearable. He lingered after work, sat in cafés. One evening, his feet carried him to Diana’s street. A woman held the door—he darted inside, taking the stairs two at a timeWhen Diana opened the door, her weary smile told him she’d been waiting all along—not for apologies or promises, just for him to finally come home.
