*Do you hear me? I just want to open your eyes…*
Margaret sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. “I can’t forgive this. Betrayal isn’t something you just sweep under the rug. And yet… was my life so terrible? A flat in the heart of London, comfort, security. No reason to complain. But still…”
***
At school, Margaret had always been top of the class. Her parents raised her to do everything well.
Mark, on the other hand, scraped by with average marks in every subject—except maths. There, he was a prodigy, winning competitions left and right. He was always untidy, fingers tangled in his hair whenever he was frustrated. A slight hunch, thick-rimmed spectacles giving him that bookish look. Girls didn’t interest him; his mind lived in theorems and equations.
One day, someone bumped into him at break, sending his glasses crashing to the floor. In class, he squinted at the blackboard. Margaret suddenly noticed his profile—sharp as a Roman general’s, with a strong jaw, straight nose, and soft lashes framing his eyes.
A nudge at her shoulder made her jump.
“He’s actually handsome without those glasses,” whispered her friend Emma.
Margaret flushed but found herself stealing glances at him again. After school, she approached him. “You look better without them. Ever tried contacts?”
The next day, he arrived without glasses—not squinting, either. She knew his parents had bought him lenses.
“Better?” he asked at break.
“Much,” she smiled.
From then on, they were inseparable. He talked excitedly about maths, and she hung on his every word, tutoring him in English and literature.
As a maths champion, universities lined up for him. Because of Mark, Margaret changed her plans to study literature in her hometown and followed him to London just to stay by his side.
By graduation, her parents urged her to return home. She had given up hope of staying with Mark—until, at the last moment, he dropped to one knee and proposed, fumbling with a ring box like something from an old film.
Mark began his postgraduate studies, teaching undergraduates. They were given a cramped faculty flat—tiny kitchen, shared bathroom.
Margaret was an average student; teaching was her only option. A year later, she gave birth to a daughter and never returned to work. Mark earned his PhD, then won a prestigious award for solving a complex theorem. Margaret stayed home, raising little Emily.
His papers were published in international journals. Harvard invited him to lecture. A doctorate in mathematics cemented his career. Margaret genuinely celebrated his success—after all, she had played her part. They moved from the flat to a proper home in central London.
Friends saw them as the perfect family, a model to their own children. Margaret’s life revolved around Mark and Emily, who grew into a beauty and married a promising young artist.
Then, one afternoon, the phone rang.
“Mrs. Whitmore? I thought you should know. Your husband is cheating.” The woman’s voice was firm. “He had an affair with my daughter—left her in pieces. Now he’s seeing a junior lecturer. They travel to conferences together—”
The line went dead, but Margaret held the receiver, stunned. She wasn’t one for gossip, so she went to the university herself, finding his lecture hall and waiting.
When the doors opened, students poured out. Mark walked right past her—he never looked around. She watched him enter his office, hesitated, then opened the door. He was kissing a young woman.
***
“What do I do now?” she asked herself for the hundredth time, staring at the floral wallpaper.
The key turned in the lock.
“I haven’t made dinner,” she thought reflexively—then stiffened. Why should she? Let *her* cook now. She pulled a suitcase from the cupboard.
“Taking your dresses to the cleaners?” Mark asked, stepping into the bedroom. His tone wasn’t curious—it was mocking. She met his gaze squarely.
“No. These are *your* things. You’re leaving.”
“What? Why?” Now he looked shocked.
“You *know* why. I saw you with her today. She’s pretty. You could’ve told me yourself.”
“Told you *what*?”
“A kind stranger did, instead—about your affairs. At least have the decency to admit it.”
“I don’t understand—” He looked away.
She sat on the bed, hands over her face. “Mark, I gave you everything. You never even *saw* me anymore.”
He reached for her shoulder. She jerked away.
“I can’t stay. Do you think she’ll let you sell this flat?” She snapped the suitcase shut. “Go to her.”
“You’re wrong. *I’m* not leaving. If you want to go, then go.”
The words winded her. She walked out, legs trembling, and collapsed on a bench outside.
“Margaret, love—are you ill?” A neighbour paused beside her.
She shook her head, called a taxi. No point making a scene.
“Mum?” Emily frowned when she arrived. “You’re alone? What’s wrong?”
“I left your father. Can I stay here while I figure things out?” She sank onto a stool.
“*Left* him? Why?”
“He’s with someone else. I won’t pretend it’s fine. He’s a public figure—people will talk. They already are.”
Emily brought her water. “Of course you can stay, but… Victor works from home. He doesn’t like interruptions. Even *his* mum calls before visiting. Maybe… a hotel?”
Margaret stared. She’d shielded Emily from every hardship, and this was her welcome?
“You’re right. A hotel would be better.” She stood, numb.
Emily called a taxi. Margaret left without another word.
Why had this happened? Had she misjudged her own daughter? Should she have stayed, demanded the flat? Returning now would be humiliation.
At the hotel, sleep was impossible. By morning, hunger finally struck. She bought a paper in the square—*Jobs Today*—and circled a few tutoring ads.
Her phone was nearly dead. Tomorrow, while Mark was at work, she’d go back for her charger.
But when she returned, the phone rang—an unknown number.
“Mrs. Whitmore? Your husband’s in hospital. A heart attack. He asked for you.”
She nearly asked why *her*—wasn’t there someone else now? But she went anyway.
Mark brightened when she entered. “Margaret, forgive me. I was a fool. Come home.”
“And what about—”
“She’s gone. I made a mistake.”
She visited daily with soup. He recovered quickly. Then, one afternoon outside his room, she heard him laugh—*”Annie! I thought you’d left me!”*
She sank onto a bench in the hall. He’d lied again.
A silver-haired doctor found her. Over tea, she spilled everything.
“Bitterness will destroy you. See a solicitor. And I’ll remind your husband what risks he’s taking.”
She never went back to the hospital. Two days later, the doctor called. The young woman had fled, fearing she’d be stuck nursing an old man. That night, Mark had another attack.
At the funeral, colleagues and students praised him endlessly.
Afterward, Margaret left London. What was there for her now? It’s never too late to start again.
