**Waiting**
During my final year at university, Jane was proposed to by Max, her boyfriend of nearly a year. Like many young couples, they dreamed of married life. Jane felt certain she was the happiest woman alive—marrying for love, just as her grandmother had always advised.
“Sweetheart,” her gran used to say, “marry only for love. Trust me, I’ve lived a lifetime, and I know what I’m talking about. Don’t believe those old sayings about love growing with time—it doesn’t.”
Jane adored Max and was sure he felt the same. So, without hesitation, she said yes.
“Lucy, you’ll be my maid of honour,” she told her best friend, whom she shared a dorm room with.
“Of course—who else?” Lucy replied.
Three days later, Jane’s world shattered. She caught Max and Lucy in the study room of their dorm in a compromising position.
“Couldn’t even pick a decent spot?” she spat before storming out in tears.
Max begged for forgiveness later, stammering, “Jane, it’s not what you think—”
“I understand perfectly, Max. I want nothing to do with you—much less marriage. You’re a traitor, and so is my ex-best friend. You two deserve each other. Go ahead and marry her for all I care.”
The betrayal left Jane disillusioned with men. She vowed never to trust them again. If they could play games, so could she.
“It might be cynical,” she thought, “but I won’t let myself be fooled or heartbroken again.”
Max and Lucy married, and she quickly got pregnant. After graduating, Jane stayed in London, landing a job at the same office where Max worked in another department. They occasionally crossed paths.
The first time he saw her, Max spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here. How’ve you been?”
“Brilliant, thanks,” Jane replied cheerfully, refusing to let him see her pain. “And you?”
“Just adjusting to fatherhood. Lucy had a girl.”
“Congratulations,” Jane said flatly before excusing herself.
At the office Christmas party, a tipsy Max hovered around her. Jane toyed with him effortlessly, letting him pour out how much he missed her—before shutting him down and later informing his wife of his advances.
She knew it was revenge, but she didn’t regret it.
Jane dated casually but shied away from commitment. If a man mentioned marriage, she ended things. Then a new colleague, Arthur—a department head—started paying her attention.
“Careful, Jane,” her coworkers teased. “Arthur’s smitten.”
“Let’s see where this goes,” she shrugged.
He fell hard, inviting her to cafés. She indulged him a few times but kept her distance.
Then her friend Emily warned her, “Did you know Arthur’s married with four kids?”
“What? Four?” Jane gasped.
“Absolutely. HR confirmed it. Everyone knows he’s chasing you. Do you really want to deal with an angry wife blaming you?”
“Thanks, Em. I wasn’t planning to steal him anyway—just stringing him along for fun.”
The next time Arthur asked her to dinner, she refused. “No thanks. Your kids don’t deserve a father who strays.” He never approached her again.
Years passed, and Jane remained guarded. At thirty-two, she was attractive, successful—and unmarried. She amused herself by toying with married men, observing how easily some betrayed their wives.
Then she met Oliver at her new workplace. Quiet, kind, and never pushy, he was different. They often lunched together, even walked to the bus stop after work. She sensed a connection but also an invisible barrier.
Once, after a work party, he offered her a ride home but declined her invitation for tea. She knew he fancied her—his glances, their deep talks—but something held him back.
A colleague later revealed why. “You know Oliver’s married, right?”
“I do,” Jane admitted.
“Then you know he’ll only ever be a friend.”
Jane laughed. “I don’t ‘do’ friendships with men.”
“You’re not telling me something happened between you?” her colleague scoffed. “No one would believe it. Oliver’s devoted to his wife. He lives for her.”
“Men like that still exist?” Jane asked, stunned.
Later, at a colleague’s birthday dinner, she confronted Oliver while they danced. He didn’t hide his marriage—seven years, with a six-year-old son.
“Do you love your wife?” she asked bluntly.
“Jane, don’t assume. Let me explain. We fell in love instantly, married without hesitation. Then she fell ill—bedridden, likely forever. I used to cheat, like many men. I think her illness is my punishment. She even begs me to divorce her, but I can’t. This is my cross to bear.”
“You’ll waste your life like this?” Jane pressed.
“Probably not a lifetime. The doctors aren’t hopeful.”
She saw tears in his eyes before he turned away. He wasn’t lying—his wife’s life meant everything. Nothing would sway him.
“I understand,” Jane said softly. “But I’ll wait for you.”
“Wait for what?”
“You, Oliver. I’ll wait for you.”
A year passed. Jane ignored other men. She wasn’t waiting for his wife to die—just waiting for *him*, believing they’d be happy together someday.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t about revenge or games. Sometimes, it’s about patience—and recognising the one who’s worth waiting for.
