“Yes, that’s just me,” he’d say, unashamed of the other women—yet he never planned to leave his family.
All of Marina’s friends told her she was mad. And she knew it herself. But even with that knowledge, she couldn’t bring herself to change anything. Her feelings for her husband had faded long ago, slipping away unnoticed between endless chores, sleepless nights, and the grind of work. Once, she’d rushed home, light with love. Now, she trudged through the door, exhausted, hollow-eyed. At forty, she looked fifty—no exaggeration, just the bleak truth.
The only one who truly pitied her was… her mother-in-law. Anne Prescott. A woman with a sharp tongue but a heart too big for her chest. She’d moved in with Marina and her son after coming down from the quiet countryside of Shropshire for medical treatment unavailable in their small town. They’d put her in the nursery, and she’d taken charge of seven-year-old Emily while Marina worked dawn to dusk.
As for her husband… Oh, James. He carried on as if some midlife devil had taken residence in his mind. Late nights became early mornings. He reeked of cloying perfume, brushing it off as “a new cologne,” though the whole building knew he’d taken up with someone. Maybe several someones.
He mixed up names—calling Marina “Louise,” then “Holly,” then “Sophie”—each time with the same smug look, as if to say, *So what? Caught me. What now?* He didn’t even hide it. He wore it like pride. *”Yes, that’s just me.”*
It might’ve gone on forever if, one night at three, the hallway phone hadn’t shrieked like an alarm. Another woman hunting for her “sweetheart,” demanding, *Where is he? Why isn’t he answering?* Marina reeled—not from the call, but from how easily that woman had clawed into her home, her night, her life.
When James stumbled in at dawn, hungover and bleary-eyed, Marina snapped. She hurled his things into the hallway with such force even the cat bolted under the sofa. He stammered excuses:
*”Fine, there’s someone else. But I’m not leaving my family! We have kids. Mum’s ill. We’re supposed to stick together!”*
But Anne stepped out of the bedroom, voice sharp for the first time in years:
*”If you want her, go. Just go. I’ll find a place. My treatment’s almost done. The children deserve peace. Enough of this—we all deserve better.”*
Marina tried to argue—it was *her* house, *her* choice. But Anne cut in:
*”I won’t meddle, but while I’m here, I won’t have this place turned into a circus. Let him pack. I’ll stay till the week’s end, then find a room. After that—your choice.”*
Under his eldest son’s cold stare, James grumbled as he stuffed shirts into a duffel bag. It was awkward. Humiliating. And entirely fair.
After he left, Marina realized—for the first time in years—the house was quiet. *Truly* quiet. No shouting, no midnight calls, no demands. Anne visited weekly, bringing Emily fresh buns and news. And Marina? She woke up one morning without that familiar knot in her throat. She even caught herself standing straighter before the mirror.
Then, two months later—just as Anne’s treatment ended and she prepared to return home—James appeared on the doorstep. Flowers in hand. A guilty grimace. Words that turned Marina’s blood to ice:
*”Forgive me. She threw me out. I’ve realized my mistakes. Give me another chance. Let’s start over.”*
Anne, already in her coat, suitcase in hand, gave Marina a long look:
*”Your choice. But ask yourself—who deserves your kindness more? Him, or you?”*
Then she took the children to the kitchen, leaving Marina alone in the hallway, staring at the man who’d betrayed her too many times to count. The man who’d been her family. Now, just a stranger holding wilted roses.
And for the first time, the decision was hers alone.
