**Return to the City of Betrayal**
I was stirring a pot of vegetable stew in the kitchen when my phone buzzed sharply on the counter. A text from my best friend, Lily: *”Meet me at the café. We need to talk.”* The words were curt, detached. I tried calling her back, but she didn’t answer. A knot twisted in my chest, but I knew I had to go. I turned off the stove, changed quickly, and within half an hour, I was walking into our favourite café. There, in the corner booth, sat Lily. And beside her—James. My husband. Their closeness left no room for doubt.
“Lily? James?” My voice trembled as much as my hands.
Lily didn’t even flinch. She slid onto James’ lap and pressed her lips to his cheek. He tried to stand, but I was already turning away, pushing through the door before either could speak.
That moment was the final straw. There had been suspicions before—odd behaviour, late nights at the office—but the betrayal of my childhood friend shattered everything. My heart, my trust.
Lily and I grew up together in a quiet village in Cornwall. She was an orphan—her mother vanished when she was young, and she never knew her father. A stern grandmother raised her. My parents, warm and loving, often included Lily in our family outings—picnics, trips to the cinema, summer fairs. She clung to us as if she belonged. Our childhood was a constant *”we”*: we climbed trees, played make-believe, dreamed of escaping to the city.
I was the one who made it out. I studied medicine, married James, the son of a wealthy entrepreneur, bought a flat in London, and became a doctor. Lily stayed behind, working at a shoe shop. When I suggested she move in with us, she agreed without hesitation. James even helped her find a rented flat nearby.
What I didn’t know was that they’d already been talking behind my back. That he’d met her at the station. That an affair had begun long before I ever suspected. It all came out later—the distance in my husband, Lily’s cold text summoning me to the café, and then that moment I’d never forget.
A month later, James filed for divorce. Lily moved into our flat. I clenched my teeth, packed my things, and returned to my hometown. I found work at the local clinic, rented a small room, and tried to rebuild. Then the head physician offered me a promotion—the old department lead was retiring.
One day, during rounds, I met a new patient—a kind-eyed older man named Leonard. There was something familiar about him, though I couldn’t place it. Later, as we spoke, he suddenly chuckled.
“You wouldn’t be the same girl I caught falling out of that oak tree years ago, would you?”
The memory struck like lightning. As children, Lily and I had climbed an old oak by the schoolhouse. My dress snagged on a branch—I panicked, slipped—then strong arms caught me mid-air. *”What were you thinking? That wasn’t safe,”* a voice had scolded gently.
Now that same voice wrapped around me like warmth I hadn’t felt in years.
Two weeks later, Leonard invited me to celebrate his discharge. I hesitated, then agreed. After that, everything unfolded naturally. We grew close, spent more time together—and before long, we married.
Now, we live in a countryside cottage outside Bath. We have twin boys. My parents couldn’t be happier. And life, at last, feels whole again.
As for Lily? She’s back in Cornwall, living in her grandmother’s old flat. James lost interest quickly and threw her out. Last I heard, she’s working at a greengrocer’s—bitter, lonely.
Karma has a way of circling back. And when it does, it hits harder than expected.
