**Deception**
Fates vary. Some meet their one true love early and live happily ever after. Others endure betrayal, divorce, and years of heartache before stumbling upon it—if they’re lucky.
George fell into the latter category. He met his future wife at university. Pretty, reserved Tanya had come from a sleepy market town in the Midlands, and George fancied her instantly. He was an ordinary bloke, nothing remarkable, and Tanya took her time warming up to him.
Then, in their final year—when half the campus was pairing off, some even marrying and starting families—Tanya finally gave George a chance. He was over the moon and, naturally, proposed almost immediately. To his delight, she said yes.
George’s mum saw right through it. Tanya had no intention of returning to her dull hometown. Marrying George meant a nice flat in Manchester, a respectable job, and a foot in the door of city life. But seeing how smitten her son was, she bit her tongue. No point shattering his rose-tinted glasses.
They married right after graduation. The reception was held at a posh countryside pub, packed with student friends. Only Tanya’s parents were absent.
“Dad’s ill, bedridden,” she’d explained, eyes welling up. “Mum can’t leave him.” Further questions were met with clipped replies. George’s parents decided not to pry—poor girl was clearly distressed. Offers of help were politely declined.
“We’ve seen every specialist. No one can help him,” Tanya murmured, her face shadowed with sorrow.
George’s parents did their best to fill the void, doting on her like their own. Life rolled on nicely. Tanya fell pregnant almost immediately, skipped job-hunting—why bother when maternity leave loomed? Nine months later, their son arrived. At her insistence, they named him after her late father: Gregory.
A second baby took eight years. By then, they’d bought their own flat. The birth was rough, premature—a tiny, fragile girl. They called her Lucy, after George’s mum.
Neither of Tanya’s parents ever met their grandchildren. Her dad died a year after Gregory’s birth; her mum followed eight months later.
When Lucy started school, Tanya declared she was bored stiff at home. Any hope of using her degree had long evaporated—no experience, no contacts. George’s parents pulled strings, landing her a job as a director’s assistant (read: glorified secretary).
Suddenly, Tanya was always at the gym. Smart suits, perfect makeup, the whole corporate-lady package. Friends ribbed George for “hiding” such a stunner at home.
The kids? Forgotten. Gregory was off to uni soon; Lucy practically lived with her doting grandparents, spoiled rotten in lieu of maternal attention.
Tanya’s critiques of George grew sharper: “When’s the last time you hit the gym? Look at that gut.” Comparisons to her toned, 50-something boss became routine.
George knew what that meant. One day, he popped by her office under the guise of discussing his dad’s milestone birthday gift.
The reception area was empty. He knocked on the director’s door, then walked in. Silence. Then, from the adjoining room—unmistakable sounds.
He yanked the door open. There was his “modest” wife, skirts hitched up, astride the sprawled, trouser-less director. Seventeen years together, and he’d have known that back anywhere.
George just stared, shut the door, and left. No shouting, no punches thrown. It felt surreal, like watching a bad telly drama.
Tanya waltzed in that evening, smug as a cat in cream. Suddenly, it all made sense—the headaches, the “exhaustion,” the cold shoulder. She’d been busy, alright. Just not with him.
When George confronted her, she barely flinched.
“Well, since you know… Saves me the trouble. I’m leaving.”
“And the kids?”
“Greg’s grown. Lucy can decide for herself.”
Lucy chose neither parent. “You’ll remarry,” she told George. “And Mum’s new bloke’s a prat.” The grandparents’ house it was.
So George was alone. Not a bad catch, really—decent job, own flat. Tanya took the car. Fine. Let her have it.
Enter Lydia. Also divorced, no kids (“Complications,” she’d said vaguely). They moved in together.
Greg graduated, married. Lucy dropped out of college. Then George’s dad died; his mum followed two years later. Lucy inherited the house, burned through the cash, and—unemployed—started dropping by for free meals.
“You’re spoiling her,” George grumbled as Lydia packed leftovers.
“She’s stuck in the middle. Poor thing,” Lydia said. “Besides, I’ll never have kids. Let me fuss over someone.”
Tanya? Vanished. Director upgraded her to a McMansion. Different postcode, different life.
Then Lucy arrived in tears one day.
“Brain tumour,” she sobbed. “They can’t operate here. Germany or Israel—but it’s £80K just for surgery!”
George sold his car, borrowed from mates. Lucy clutched the cash, weeping gratitude. “Don’t tell Mum. She’d kill me for asking you.”
A week passed. No news. Lydia reassured him: “Calling’s expensive. No news is good news.”
On Lydia’s birthday, they dined out. And there—across the room—was Tanya, glowing, with a man half her age.
George stormed over. A heated chat later, he returned shell-shocked.
“Lucy’s fine. Off to the Maldives with some bloke.”
The “tumour”? A con. Lydia soothed him: “She’s just spoiled. At least she’s healthy.”
Lucy never apologised. George repaid his debts, bought a banger, seethed.
Then Greg came with news: Tanya was dying. Cancer. Weeks left.
Lydia insisted they visit. The vibrant Tanya was gone—just a shrunken, gaunt woman begging forgiveness.
And George forgave her. What use were grudges now? Without her leaving, he’d never have met Lydia.
Funny old world, innit?
