“First I age, now I fall ill! That’s it—I’m filing for divorce!” snapped her husband, slamming the door behind him. Little did he know just how wrong he was…
Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, gripping her phone. The voice on the other end had delivered news so shocking the world seemed to pause for a moment. Her thoughts raced wildly, but not a single one formed a clear plan. What now? The question hammered inside her, unanswered.
She had no intention of sharing her turmoil—years had taught her people rarely celebrate another’s joy or genuinely mourn their sorrow. Words were one thing; what lay in a person’s heart was another. Once, she’d confided in her parents—her rock. But they were gone now, and she missed them more than ever.
Her husband, James? She’d once trusted him completely. But lately, he’d grown cold—dropping sly remarks about ageing, hinting autumn had come too soon. Now it was an article about women ageing faster, then a jab about her “letting herself go.” But Charlotte didn’t see it. She still visited the hairdresser, did her nails after a disastrous salon visit, wore stylish clothes. Yes, time had marked her, but James wasn’t exactly turning back the clock either.
Other couples their age strolled hand in hand, laughing, making plans. Meanwhile, James worked late—except she knew those “late nights” weren’t spent at the office.
She wouldn’t burden the kids. Emily, newly married and expecting, had her own life, and Oliver was at university. But one thing was certain: she needed to talk to James. She had to know—was the man she’d fallen for still there?
That evening, she met him at the door, her expression grave.
“Something wrong?” he asked, catching her look.
“Yes,” Charlotte took a deep breath. “I’ve had some bad news from the doctor. If I need help… will you be there?”
James tensed. “What kind of news?”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is—are you staying, even if things get hard?”
He exhaled, ran a hand over his face, and sank into a chair.
“Char… look. You’ve given me the perfect opening. I’ve been meaning to talk. The truth is, I’m leaving. You aged too fast—now this? I’m sorry, but I can’t be your carer. I’ve got my own life. Besides… there’s someone else. You’ll manage—you always do.”
He was up in a flash, throwing clothes into a bag. “I’ll get the rest later. Get well. No hard feelings.”
The door slammed. Charlotte didn’t cry. She just smiled wearily. *Case closed.*
Days passed. She sat by the window, lost in thought, when her phone rang—Oliver’s name flashing on the screen.
“Mum, you home?” he chirped.
“Of course. When are you visiting?”
“That’s the surprise! I’ve been assigned an internship back home! Can you believe it?”
Charlotte laughed. “Best news I’ve had in ages!” For the first time in forever, her heart felt light.
A week later, Oliver was home. That evening, she steeled herself.
“Ollie… I’ve had some unusual news,” she began. “A solicitor called. Turns out… I wasn’t my parents’ biological daughter. My real mother left me as a baby and moved abroad with a wealthy man. Recently widowed, she hired a detective to find me—but died in a plane crash before we could meet. Now I’m being offered an inheritance.”
Oliver whistled. “Blimey! You’re hesitating?”
“Yes. She abandoned me—should I accept her money?”
“Mum, if you don’t, it’ll go to strangers. This way… you’ll be set.”
“You’re right. But I don’t even know where to start. No passport, no clue about the paperwork—”
“We’ll sort it,” he said firmly. “I’ll find you a solicitor.”
Days later, Charlotte stood at the airport—bound for a foreign country, escorted by William, a sharp solicitor who knew the case inside out. And, as it turned out, wonderful company.
“Charlotte,” he admitted one evening, “I nearly turned this job down. But something told me meeting you would matter.”
She smiled.
The legalities were settled, but selling the estate took time. William showed her the city—its history, its charm. Slowly, Charlotte realised something: for the first time in years, she was… happy.
When everything was finalised, William saw her off at the airport.
“I’ll miss you,” he said quietly.
“Then come visit,” she replied.
“Count on it.”
Back home, she divided the funds—a flat for Oliver, a trust for Emily, the rest tucked away.
James? Forgotten. Until one evening, a knock. There he stood—dishevelled, reeking of whiskey.
“Char… take me back,” he slurred.
“Go away.”
“Who else would want you?” he sneered.
Just then, the lift doors opened—William stepping out, flowers in hand.
“Good evening, Charlotte,” he said warmly.
James paled.
“Leave,” she repeated.
The door closed.
Two years later, Charlotte was a grandmother. William proposed—she said yes.
Then, a call from the hospital: James had had a stroke. He was asking for them.
Oliver groaned. “Mum, I wouldn’t go.”
“Darling, being human means knowing how to forgive.”
They went.
In the hospital bed lay a frail, aged James.
“Sorry…” he whispered.
Charlotte shook her head. “I’ll arrange a carer. But don’t expect more.”
That evening, in the garden, William took her hand.
“Regrets?”
“None. Without him, I’d never have known real happiness.”
She met his eyes and smiled.
