“Mum, I’ll be home late—it’s Lena’s birthday. We’re all going to the cinema,” Tom said, kissing Marina on the cheek before disappearing into the bathroom. His carefree laughter drifted through the door as he hummed under the sound of running water.
Marina stood by the window, listening to life bustling around her again. Tom was happy. Light. Free. Everything she had never quite been.
At eighteen, she’d believed in simple happiness too. Mark had seemed like the man of her dreams—brave, handsome, confident. They fell in love, married, started fresh. But within a few years, Marina realised her life had narrowed to chores, silence, and loneliness.
Mark began staying late “at work,” coming home sullen and distant. Then came the jar of baby food in his bag. And the nappies. They’d etched themselves into her memory like proof.
“It’s… not what you think,” he’d mumbled.
“Then what is it, Mark? What?!” she’d screamed, clutching the jar like it was the last thread of reality.
After that, everything fell apart. It was hard, but she endured. She raised Tom alone, without support—only her mother-in-law stayed, never letting her down.
Tom grew up kind, clever, responsible. She was proud. But sometimes… the emptiness crept back. Like now.
Sinking into the armchair, she picked up her phone—a notification flashed: *Paul has sent you a friend request.* Paul… Her school crush. The boy who’d waited by the gates with daisies. She hadn’t realised she still remembered his smile. Yet her chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Liz, you won’t believe this,” she called her best friend. “Paul—yes, *that* Paul from Year 11—just found me on Facebook!”
“Seriously? The one who was head over heels for you? Mark used to grind his teeth just hearing his name. Add him! I hear he’s doing well these days. Recently divorced, too.”
She added him. And the whirlwind began. Messages. Jokes. Shared nostalgia. Sweet flirting that made her cheeks burn. Paul was attentive, polite, genuine. For the first time in years, she felt alive.
“Tom, I’d like you to meet someone,” she admitted one evening.
“Paul?” He grinned. “Mum, I’ve noticed. And I’m happy for you.”
She glowed. Properly. But it didn’t last. Paul’s replies grew sparse. Then curt. Then came the message that choked her:
*Marina, I’m sorry. There’s someone else. You chose Mark back then—it hurt. Now you know how it feels.*
She stared at the screen, stunned. A man in his fifties… holding onto a grudge? Had it all been a game? Payback for teenage heartbreak?
“Absolute snake,” Liz sighed when she heard. “Reply. With dignity.”
They crafted the message together—dry, sharp, perfect:
*Dear Paul, Thank you! I haven’t laughed, flirted, or felt this womanly in years. You made me feel twenty again. Hope your new *ladyfriend* appreciates your theatrics. Best of luck. Kisses (platonically). Marina.*
His instant reply was a flood of wounded pride. But Marina was already laughing—really laughing.
A week later, a blonde woman cornered her outside Tesco:
“You! Homewrecker! You ruined things between me and Paul!”
Marina froze—then, startling herself, smirked:
“Oh, you’ve got the wrong person. The *real* homewrecker is Jean. Forest Road, number 15. Took my husband, and now Paul. A real *professional*.”
The woman gaped. Marina walked away, stifling giggles.
Sunlight brushed her face. And suddenly, she knew: she was happy. Without men. Without drama. Without proof.
Tom’s text chimed:
*Mum, me and Lena are giving living together a go. We’ll see how it goes.*
Marina smiled. *This* was real happiness. Watching her son choose wisely.
And her? At last, she’d chosen herself.
