**Broken Trust: A Story of Betrayal That Can’t Be Forgiven**
*— Oh, Lillian! Hello, love,* my mother-in-law faltered as she opened the door. *We weren’t expecting you till the day after tomorrow.*
*— Good evening, Margaret,* I replied calmly, hugging her. *I’ve got work on Monday—they cut my leave short. Thought I’d come back early. Is my husband here with our son?*
Margaret hesitated.
*— James is here, but Anthony… he went to see his colleague off—Lucy. Didn’t you call him?*
Now it was my turn to be surprised.
*— He didn’t answer. And who’s Lucy, if you don’t mind me asking?*
*— Oh, it’s nothing…* Margaret wavered. *Anthony brought James for the weekend, and Lucy… well, she was just in the car. I invited her in for tea and cake.*
*— Of course you did.* I kept my voice steady. *Where are they now? How long have they been gone?*
*— About two hours,* she mumbled, avoiding my eyes.
*— Lovely,* I said coldly before turning to my son.
My stomach churned. I hugged five-year-old James, took him, and left with only a curt goodbye. On the drive home, he chattered away.
*— Me, Dad, and Aunt Lucy had ice cream, went on the carousel, and saw Gran! It was brilliant!*
I nodded, but my thoughts spiralled. For the first time in ten years, I’d taken a holiday alone—a spa retreat I’d won for my years of service. A chance to finally rest, after years of battling ulcers and stress. Anthony had insisted, *Go. Mum will help. I’ve got this.*
I’d doubted but trusted him. Now my son was talking about cosy cafes with *Aunt Lucy*—someone I’d never heard of, already bonding with my child and drinking tea with my mother-in-law.
Late that night, my phone rang.
*— Lill, hi… sorry, my phone died…* Anthony’s voice was sheepish.
*— Hi. Where are you?*
*— At Mum’s. Staying over with James. Everyone’s asleep…*
*— Funny that. I’m at home. James is in his bed, and you’re not here. Hiding in the wardrobe, are you?* My voice was quiet, fury boiling beneath.
Silence. Then the line went dead.
Forty minutes later, he was at the door.
*— Don’t start a row. You know now, anyway. Yes, there’s Lucy.*
*— Have you lost your mind? You took her to your mother’s? You let my son spend time with her?!*
*— I wanted to see if she’d fit. With my family. With James.*
I nearly stumbled. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was real.
*— You… wanted to introduce your mistress to our family? What’s next—a playdate with me?*
*— Don’t twist it. I didn’t know you’d be back.*
Tears sprang to my eyes—not because he’d cheated, but because he spoke as if choosing a new sofa. No remorse. Just cold calculation.
He went to bed.
The next morning, I dropped James at nursery and drove to Margaret’s.
*— Margaret, just tell me one thing—why? What did I ever do to you? I nursed you when you broke your hip, made preserves for your cottage. Why betray me?*
She looked down.
*— I’m sorry. I didn’t know before you left. And then… I couldn’t say no to Anthony. He’s my son.*
*— And what am I?* I whispered.
No answer. I turned and left.
That evening, Anthony was home.
*— I suppose divorce is obvious. We’ll need to discuss the flat.*
*— What flat? The one my father left me a month before we married?*
*— But I put money into it. The renovations…*
*— From your parents, not you. Consider it an investment in your son’s future.*
His face twisted.
*— Half of it’s mine!*
*— Forget it,* I said firmly. *After what you’ve done, you get nothing.*
He screamed, hurled insults, dug for the cruelest words. I pressed against the wall, shaking. Then James woke, frightened, and ran out. That stopped him. He wouldn’t dare continue in front of our son. He left.
He filed for divorce. The court sided with me.
A year passed.
James visited his father at first, then stopped—Anthony’s new wife, Lucy, wanted nothing to do with him. She clashed with Margaret, too.
I decided it was time to end it. I sold the flat and moved to Brighton—where that spa had been. A place to start fresh. For the first time, just for myself.
