**Betrayal in the New House**
Oliver and Penelope married and moved into a new flat on the outskirts of Manchester. They were over the moon—nesting, decorating, dreaming of the future. But six months later, Oliver’s parents came to visit. At first, they seemed puzzled by Penelope’s presence, and over dinner, after a few glasses of wine, the fireworks began.
“What’s *she* doing here?” Oliver’s mother snapped.
“What do you mean? I’m his *wife*!” Penelope shot back, her cheeks burning.
“Wife?” His mother cackled, her laugh dripping with disdain. “Don’t make me laugh! Oliver’s already *got* a wife—and two kids. Our grandchildren! And who are you? Just after his flat, I suppose?”
Penelope looked to Oliver, but he just stared at his plate, muttering,
“Go stay with your mum. I’ll sort this. I’ll send them packing in the morning.”
When Penelope turned eighteen, her mother had started dropping hints about marriage. She wasn’t pushy, just worried—Penelope spent too much time curled up with her books. Not that she was unsociable—she’d been a star at school and university, just never fancied any of the lads who fancied her. A good novel always trumped a dull date. Her mum fretted she’d end up alone.
Penelope graduated, landed a job as a manager, but life was still the same: work, home, work. So her parents decided it was time she lived on her own. They’d bought her a three-bed flat years ago and rented it out. After a quick refurb, they handed her the keys—effectively kicking her out.
Penelope felt *betrayed*. How could they just boot her out like that? But life went on. She hated cleaning the big flat and grocery runs—until Oliver came along. He took over the chores and won her heart doing it.
When she introduced him to her parents, her mum frowned. She’d hoped for a husband with a degree and his own place. Oliver, a car mechanic, rented a room in a dodgy shared house nearby. Her dad just shrugged. “We’ll see.”
But Oliver *loved* her, and that was enough. They had a quiet wedding—just her parents. His, from some far-off Welsh village, didn’t come, and the couple kept putting off the visit.
A year later, they started talking kids. Oliver suggested selling her old walk-up flat for a modern one on the outskirts.
“Try lugging a pram up five flights of stairs,” he argued.
Penelope agreed, though her mum disapproved. On signing day, Oliver landed in hospital with appendicitis. Penelope had to handle the paperwork alone, dragging her mum along out of habit—someone always decided things *for* her.
Oliver came home to their shiny new flat. They hung curtains, arranged furniture, and for a while, life was perfect—until his parents arrived.
Over dinner, his mother dropped the bomb. Stunned, Penelope stared at Oliver—who just told her to *leave*. She packed a bag, drove to her mum’s, her heart shattered.
The next day, she returned. His parents were gone; the flat gleamed.
“What was *that* yesterday?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Don’t fret. Had a missus before, two kids. But *you’re* my life now,” Oliver said, shrugging.
“You *lied* to me! That’s *betrayal*!” she shouted. “I can’t live with a liar!”
“Can’t? *Leave*, then. The flat stays *mine*. Sue me—I’ll pay your half at a snail’s pace,” he sneered.
“*You’re* the one leaving,” she said icily. “Good thing Mum made sure the flat’s in *my* name. She smelled a rat…”
Penelope stayed alone in the empty flat. Evenings with books didn’t soothe her anymore. Her heart ached—she’d *loved* him, *trusted* him. And he’d hidden a whole other life.
Her mum visited, whispering, “Darling, I *told* you he was wrong. But you’re not alone—I’m here.”
Penelope nodded, but the emptiness lingered. She didn’t file for divorce—let *him* do it. The flat bought by her parents was her fortress now, but also a reminder of broken dreams. Oliver called, begged forgiveness. She never answered.
Sometimes, turning a page, she’d imagine their life without the lies. But reality was harsh: just her, her books, and a heart in pieces.
