My name is Anna Cooper, and I live in the quaint town of Tewkesbury, where Gloucestershire displays its historic charm and quiet lanes. When I found myself wrapped in the arms of my colleague, Tom, my heart sang with joy. I dreamed of being his one and only, his beloved. Over time my dream did come true, but not without a bitter twist—I had to share him with his wife, Emily.
Not long after I started at our company, Tom and I were sent on a business trip to London. We were tasked with sealing an important deal. We managed successfully, and afterward, Tom suggested, “Shall we celebrate with a drink? Such contracts aren’t signed every day.” I gladly agreed. In the hotel bar, we ordered some whiskey, and the alcohol loosened our tongues. Conversation flowed like a river, and suddenly he kissed me. I was taken aback but didn’t push him away. In the elevator, he held me with such passion that I didn’t resist—his breath was more intoxicating than the whiskey. The night we spent in his room was magical, unforgettable, and full of fire.
When we returned to Tewkesbury, I couldn’t hold it in and confided in my colleague, Sarah—someone I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall for him!” she warned sharply. “Why?” I asked, surprised. “He’s married.” Those words struck like thunder. Tom was only 27, and I found it hard to believe he was already married—as men these days rarely tie the knot so young. I asked him directly, and he didn’t evade. “Yes, he’s been married a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetings at the apartment he inherited from his grandparents turned into a secret ritual. With each day, I sank deeper into him.
One Sunday morning, lying beside him, I dared, “Tom, get a divorce. You’ll be happier with me.” He looked at me with sorrow, “I love you, but I can’t.” “Why not?” I blurted out. “She’s very ill.” I froze. “What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t you tell me?” my voice trembled. “She has breast cancer; we found out recently. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut deep, but I understood: she needed him at that moment. I felt sorry for Emily. When he mentioned her surgery was scheduled for Thursday, I spent the day praying for her, sincerely, with tears. After her release, Tom and I stopped meeting—I knew his place was beside his wife.
Four months passed. Tom didn’t once call me to meet. I asked him what was going on. “Emily is still unwell; she may need another operation,” he responded wearily. “I understand your pain, but consider me too,” I implored. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s think of something this weekend.” On Saturday, we met at the same apartment. The night was hot, full of passion. But before leaving, I brought up divorce again. His face darkened: “I’ll never do it. She’s the sister of my boss.” I was stunned. “So that’s it? And the cancer—was that a lie?” He remained silent and left, slamming the door to avoid more conflict.
A few days later, a tall brunette walked into the office. She asked for Tom. Sarah showed her to his office. “Who’s that?” I whispered to Sarah later. “His wife,” she replied. I invented an excuse to enter his office—supposedly for papers—to see her. Emily didn’t just look healthy—she radiated beauty, confidence, elegance. Next to her, I felt like a grey mouse. Returning, I asked Sarah, “Have you heard she has cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense; everyone would know,” she retorted. That’s when it hit me: he had been lying to me from the start.
Soon, I began to feel weak and nauseous. I complained to Sarah, and she suggested, “Maybe you’re pregnant?” I brushed it off, but took a test—two lines. The doctor confirmed: I was two months along. I was in shock. I recalled that night—we hadn’t taken precautions. My thoughts were in chaos: should I keep the baby or not? I called Tom. “Get an abortion!” he blurted coldly. “No, I won’t,” I replied firmly. “Then I’ll make sure you’re fired,” he threatened. “You won’t intimidate me!” I retorted. Out of spite, I decided to have the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But he wasn’t—I was let go. A friend helped me get a job as a shop assistant in a local bookstore owned by her brother. He didn’t want to hire a pregnant woman but showed compassion.
My daughter was born in the seventh month—frail but alive. I named her Grace, in honor of her father—Tom. I didn’t tell him. Nor do I think I ever will. He abandoned me, left me to fend for myself at my most vulnerable, when I was alone with a child and no job. I see his face in my dreams—handsome, deceptive—and my heart aches with pain. He chose his wife, his career, while I was discarded like an unnecessary page. But I didn’t break. I’m raising my daughter, fighting for her, though every day is a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies; I will live for Grace—my light in this darkness.
