**He Loved, But Not Me**
Charlotte stood by the window, watching the courtyard where her husband, Oliver, chatted with their neighbor, Victoria. Again. For the third day in a row. They stood by Victoria’s car while she spoke animatedly, hands gesturing. Oliver listened intently, nodding, occasionally laughing.
Charlotte stepped back, not wanting to be seen. A familiar weight settled in her chest—not jealousy, no. Something else. Recognition.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” asked her daughter, Lily, peeking into the kitchen. “He promised to help with my maths.”
“In the garden,” Charlotte answered, keeping her voice steady. “He’ll be in soon.”
Lily nodded and disappeared down the hall. Charlotte flicked the kettle on and reached for the biscuit tin. Her hands moved on autopilot while her mind wandered elsewhere.
When Oliver walked in, his face bore that soft, absent smile—the one that only appeared after conversations with Victoria.
“Hello,” he said, heading to the fridge. “Tea ready?”
“Just boiled.” Charlotte set a mug in front of him. “Long chat with Victoria?”
“Not too long. She was telling me about her new job. Can you believe it? Landing a role like that at her age!”
Admiration warmed his voice, pride lacing his words as if it were his own success. Charlotte stirred sugar into her tea in silence.
“What will she be doing?” she asked.
“Client relations manager. She’s got the degree, the experience. Honestly, Victoria’s brilliant—bounced back right after the divorce.”
*Victoria.* Always Victoria. Their neighbor, who had moved in six months ago. Beautiful, forty-two, freshly divorced, no children. Successful. Independent. Interesting.
Everything Charlotte had once been, before she became a wife and mother. Not that she regretted her choices, but sometimes…
“Lily’s waiting for you with maths,” she reminded him.
“Oh, right. Forgot. I’ll go now.”
He drained his tea and left. Alone again, Charlotte picked up his empty cup. A few stray tea leaves clung to the bottom. Her grandmother had taught her to read them once, but she didn’t need divination now. The present was clear enough.
Oliver was in love. Not with her—his wife of seventeen years—but with Victoria. He might not even realize it yet, or perhaps he wouldn’t admit it, but Charlotte saw the signs. The new shirts, the extra shaving, the way he sought excuses to step outside when Victoria came home. The way his eyes lit up when he spoke about her.
They used to light up like that when he looked at Charlotte.
“Mum, Dad said you have a degree too,” Lily asked later, textbook in hand. “Why don’t you work?”
The question caught her off guard. Lily’s gaze was pure fourteen-year-old curiosity.
“I worked when you were little,” Charlotte said. “Then I chose to stay home for the family.”
“Isn’t it boring?”
*Was it?* She’d never asked herself that. After Lily was born, she’d slipped into motherhood and never stepped back out. Oliver earned enough—they wanted for nothing. It had felt like the right thing.
“No,” she told Lily. “There’s plenty to do.”
“Oh. Auntie Victoria says women should be independent. That you shouldn’t vanish into family life.”
Charlotte stiffened. When had Lily talked to Victoria about this?
“When did she say that?”
“Yesterday, by the lobby. She asked about school. She’s really interesting, isn’t she? Knows loads, been everywhere.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “Interesting.”
That evening, with Lily doing homework, she and Oliver sat in the living room. He scrolled through an article; she flipped through a magazine. A picture of domestic quiet—if not for the suffocating silence.
“Oliver,” she finally said. “We need to talk.”
He looked up. “About?”
“Us. Our family.”
“What’s wrong with us?”
She hesitated, weighing her words. How do you tell your husband you see him falling for someone else?
“Feels like we’re drifting,” she ventured.
“From what?” Oliver frowned. “We’re fine. No problems.”
“When did we last talk? Properly, not just chores?”
“Dunno. Does it matter?”
His indifference stung. The conversation was over before it began.
“Suppose not,” she murmured, returning to her magazine.
The next day, Charlotte went to the gym—something she’d put off for years. Lily was older now; there was time.
In the changing room, she ran into Victoria.
“Charlotte!” Victoria beamed. “Fancy seeing you here! Finally joining?”
“Thought it was time,” Charlotte said with a smile.
Victoria looked radiant in her workout gear—toned, effortless. Charlotte glanced at herself in the mirror and swallowed a pang of frustration.
“Want to train together?” Victoria offered. “More fun with company.”
“Sure,” Charlotte agreed, though everything in her resisted.
Afterwards, they grabbed coffee. Victoria stirred hers, sighing.
“God, I’m so glad we’ve become friends. After the divorce, it got lonely.”
“Why did you split?” Charlotte asked, knowing it was intrusive.
“He cheated,” Victoria said simply. “Didn’t even hide it well. Thought I’d stay for appearances.”
“You didn’t.”
“No. Why live with someone who doesn’t respect you? Better alone than in a sham marriage.”
Charlotte mulled over the words. Did Oliver respect her? Or was she just part of the furniture now?
“You and Oliver seem solid,” Victoria said.
“Mm. We’re all right.” The lie stuck in her throat.
“He’s lovely. Kind, thoughtful. You’re lucky.”
There it was—a warmth in Victoria’s voice that went beyond neighborly politeness.
Back home, Charlotte stood before the bedroom mirror. Forty. Not old, not young. Softness from childbirth that never left, tired eyes that had lost their spark. Next to her, their wedding photo: young, smitten, Oliver gazing at her like she hung the moon.
Now Victoria was his moon.
At dinner, Oliver praised Victoria’s resilience, his voice tinged with pride. Even Lily noticed.
“Dad, why do you care so much about Auntie Victoria?” she asked bluntly.
“Just being kind,” Oliver muttered.
Later, he suggested moving—to a neighborhood near Victoria’s old flat. Charlotte shut it down.
Over the weeks, Oliver’s visits to Victoria grew frequent: fixing her tap, helping with her CV, always returning with that guilty glow.
One evening, Charlotte found Victoria leaving their building, flustered.
“Oliver helped with paperwork,” she blurted. Then, softer: “Charlotte, we need to talk.”
In Victoria’s flat—scented with Oliver’s cologne—the truth came out.
“There’s something between us,” Victoria admitted. “We didn’t plan it.”
Charlotte nodded. Finally, the façade cracked.
“And now?”
“I can’t do this anymore. Either he leaves you, or we end it.”
At home, Charlotte confronted Oliver.
“Victoria told me.”
His face paled. “Lottie, I can explain—”
“Do you love her?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“And me?”
His silence was answer enough.
They divorced quietly, for Lily’s sake. Oliver moved out. The house felt cavernous without him.
One morning, Charlotte woke early, put on her blue blouse, and looked in the mirror. A different woman stared back—weary, but steady.
Oliver never called.
Spring came. Flowers bloomed. Charlotte laughed—real laughter—as Lily held her hand.
Love fades. But it’s not the end.
It’s the beginning.
