**Mirage**
At dinner, Father kept throwing disapproving glances at his son. Oliver knew—Mum must have told him about his plans to study at an institute in London after finishing school.
Father abruptly pushed his empty plate away and fixed Oliver with a hard stare. *Here it comes*, Oliver thought. He wished he could melt into the floor or vanish on the spot. Under that glare, the spaghetti in his throat turned to glue—neither swallowable nor spittable.
Mum came to the rescue. Distracting Father, she set a mug of tea before him and nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Thanks, Mum. I’m full. I’ll have tea later,” Oliver said, rising from the table.
“Sit *down*,” Father barked.
Oliver knew better than to argue and obeyed.
“I’ve got homework—” he began.
“It can wait. Your mother says you’re off to London. What’s wrong with here? We raised you, thought you’d be our help in old age, and now you’re running away?”
“I’m not running—” Oliver mumbled.
“Then explain. What’s so special about London, eh? Gold-paved streets?”
“There are more opportunities. I want to be an architect—our local uni doesn’t offer it.” Oliver raised his voice, too.
“James, let him go. His teachers say he’s bright,” Mum soothed, resting a hand on Father’s shoulder.
“We can’t afford your fancy education. Everything’s paid there—here, it’s free. See the difference?” Father’s temper flared.
“I’ll get a scholarship,” Oliver insisted. “I’m going either way.”
“James, calm down. He’s not leaving tomorrow—exams first. Go on, love, do your work.” Mum jerked her chin toward the door. Oliver didn’t need telling twice.
“Stop coddling him! Raised him just to abandon us. Who’ll fetch us a glass of water when we’re old?”
Oliver froze by his bedroom door, gripping the handle, listening.
“Don’t be morbid. London’s close—two hours by train. He’ll visit…”
Father grumbled something unintelligible.
“Drink your tea before it’s cold. Sugar?” Mum asked.
“Blimey, treat me like a child—I can manage,” Father snapped.
The storm had passed. Oliver shut himself in his room. His heart sang. Late March—just two months of school left, then exams. None of it mattered. London awaited, brimming with promise. He *would* make something of himself…
After graduation, Oliver and Mum went to the capital to submit his applications. Mum’s cousin, a plain, lonely woman, greeted them coldly. She griped about the city swelling with newcomers—”London’s not elastic, you know…”
“Fine, he’ll stay. Might liven the place up. But I’ve got high blood pressure, sleep poorly. No late nights, no guests. Breakfast included, dinner if I’m feeling generous—lunch is your lookout,” she laid down the rules. Mum just nodded.
“How much for rent?” Mum ventured, hoping she’d refuse or take offense. Family shouldn’t charge family. No such luck.
“You know how it is. This is *London*, not your backwater.” Her thin lips twisted. “Costly living. Don’t take it personally—” She named a sum that might as well have been a king’s ransom back home.
Mum gasped, exchanging a look with Oliver.
“Mum, I could just stay in halls—”
“Don’t be silly. How’d you study? We’ll manage. Your father needn’t know.”
“She’s got airs, hasn’t she? Barely a Londoner herself.” On the train home, Mum sighed. “I’ll handle your father.”
Oliver got in. He arrived early to settle in. Commuting from the city’s outskirts meant long, awkward journeys—but this was *London*!
He left at dawn, wandering till dusk. At Primrose Hill, the skyline stole his breath. A tour group paused nearby; their guide, a pretty young woman, began explaining the view.
Oliver edged closer. She noticed but didn’t shoo him away. When the group left, she lingered, scrolling her phone.
“You tell it well,” he said.
She smiled. “Where are you from?”
“That obvious?”
“Newcomers always look the same—lost and dazzled.”
He admitted he’d come to study, though living on the outskirts felt no different from home. Lost in chat, they strayed from the hill.
“I live nearby,” she said suddenly. “Tired yet? Come for tea if you’ve time. After, I’ll fetch my daughter from nursery.” She laughed at Oliver’s stunned face.
Her name was Diana. Nearly twice his age. She fed him soup, poured tea. He lingered, reluctant to leave.
“Can I visit again?” he asked at the door.
She studied him—not mocking, not indulgent, just *seeing* him.
“Come by,” she said simply.
He lasted one day. Returned on the third, loitering outside, nerves tying his stomach in knots. Then he spotted Diana with her daughter, Elise. He babbled excuses—just passing by—but Diana saw through him. While he played with Elise, she cooked. They ate together. The girl fussed when he tried to leave, begging him to read her bedtime story.
Then… it was too late to go back.
“Stay,” Diana said.
He did. He told his parents he’d moved into a shared flat with a classmate—Father paying the rent. No need for extra money (though Mum secretly sent it anyway).
He visited home on breaks, counting days till London. His hometown now felt cramped, dull.
Oliver often collected Elise from nursery, played with her. Weekends were for parks and cinemas. Guilt gnawed at him—after first year, he switched to part-time studies and found work. What began as one night stretched into years.
By third year, he met Lillian—a fiery, gorgeous girl. Evenings grew later; excuses piled up. Diana would nod sadly, reheating his dinner. In bed, he turned away, pleading exhaustion, though his mind burned with Lillian.
“You’ve met someone,” Diana said one night. “You’re free—I’m not your wife.”
Relieved, Oliver confessed. He’d dreaded telling her. *And lying to Lillian*, he read in Diana’s eyes.
He packed his things—so many more now—and left. Halfway down the stairs, he braced for the door slamming behind him. Silence. Diana stood listening until his footsteps faded…
Outside, Oliver gulped air, hating his cowardice. At the tube, justifications rushed in. The age gap *was* vast. He’d promised Diana nothing. *She*’d offered. And Lillian—young, breathtaking—soon filled his thoughts.
He courted her openly now, crashing in a storeroom at work. When her parents were out, Lillian let him shower at hers. They became intimate. By the time her parents found out, she was pregnant. Too refined for scenes, they hastened a wedding. Oliver didn’t tell his parents. No visits now—just work.
In their spacious flat, he felt a guest—nothing like Diana’s home. Polite but patronising, his in-laws tolerated him for their daughter’s sake. Her father got him a job at his firm. Oliver had dreamed of architecture—now he pushed paper. Irritable, sullen, he saw passion die. Without the baby, he’d have left.
Then a scooter hit Lillian on her way to the clinic. She lost consciousness—then the baby. She shut him out. He sensed their blame.
More and more, he recalled Diana, their trio. Home repelled him. He wandered after work, haunting cafés. One evening, his feet carried him to Diana’s street. A woman exited the building; Oliver caught the door. Taking stairs three at a time, heart hammering, he rang the bell.
When she answered, she didn’t seem surprised.
“Lost or just nostalgic?” she teased, but her eyes shone.
“I came for you.”
“You’ve changed. Grown up.” She set the table.
“Where’s Elise?”
“Dance class. Home soon.”
“You’re just the same.” He pulled her close…
Later, in bed, he spilled his weariness—wrong job, wrong life.
“That bad?”
“We’re nothing alike. Passion ebbed. I’m a stranger there.”
The month Lillian convalesced by the sea, he spent with Diana. His wife returned restored; her parents, of course, told her everything. Oliver moved out for good.
That New Year, he spotted Lillian at Westfield, arm-in-arm with a man, chatting brightly. Her coat strained over a rounded belly. She didn’t see him. *Good for her.*
Not that he could complain. Diana had taken him back. He graduated, designed buildings. Elise started school. Life was sweet—until another wave of passion hit.
One eveningBut when he packed his bags once more, chasing yet another fleeting dream, he finally understood that happiness had always been a quiet room, a shared pot of tea, and the woman who loved him without condition—yet now, like all mirages, she was gone.
