“Are you alright, love?” A concerned male voice snapped her out of her daze. She looked up at the stranger with tear-filled, unseeing eyes—and burst into loud, unrestrained sobs, oblivious to the startled passersby stepping aside.
Helen barely recalled the last time she’d slept more than five hours. Her days began before dawn and ended long past midnight. Cleaning a massive flat, cooking for three men (husband, son, bedridden father-in-law), laundry, ironing… By evening, her second shift began: mopping floors at an office block. There was no time left for herself—none at all.
It hadn’t happened overnight, but gradually. First, her mother-in-law, who lived downstairs, started “dropping in for tea” more often, leaving behind piles of dirty dishes and unsolicited advice. Then her husband decided housework was solely a woman’s duty.
Their grown son quickly learned the rules too. Even at her part-time job, her boss had no qualms piling extra work onto her, hinting bluntly: “Don’t like it? The door’s that way.” Helen just nodded and carried on.
Once, before marriage, she’d been a brilliant baker. Her cakes had been the talk of the town. But endless family struggles, her father-in-law’s illness, and constant money troubles forced her to abandon her passion for whatever paid, no matter how gruelling.
Her daughter had long since married and moved abroad—no help expected there, and Helen never complained, quietly rejoicing in her happiness from afar.
Exhaustion became her middle name. Each night, she collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep, only to wake hours later and repeat the madness. Years of this life left their mark.
She’d long stopped caring for herself. The extra weight her husband mockingly called “bear mode,” dull hair tied back, an old dressing gown, and a perpetually weary face.
Helen had given up, forgetting the last time she’d bought something pretty, not just practical. Her husband, Simon, didn’t just lose interest—he looked at her with poorly concealed disgust.
His jabs grew crueller, and that recent “Olympic bear” jab was just one of many. He vanished most evenings, returning at dawn with empty eyes and the scent of another woman’s perfume.
Her mother-in-law completed the picture. Her venomous whispers and complaints about the “hopeless daughter-in-law” were a daily torment. Passing her bench, Helen felt the woman’s judgmental stare and caught snippets of gossip.
It was bleak, humiliating, but she lacked the strength to fight. Each day, she felt less like a woman, less like a person—just an invisible function, a silent machine serving others.
“Bloody hell, Helen, look at you!” gasped an old school friend during a chance meeting. “Just walk away! Take care of yourself!”
“I can’t, Liz. Family comes first,” Helen murmured, avoiding her gaze. But the words struck deep.
The breaking point came abruptly. Exhausted, she fell asleep on the bus, missed her stop, and wandered toward the tube through a lively street lined with cafés.
Then she froze.
At a table sat Simon, glowing like a polished kettle, his arm around a sleek blonde in a dress probably worth three of Helen’s paychecks. The world dulled around her. Ice clamped her chest; her ears rang. Summoning her last strength, she approached.
“Simon?”
He turned. His face flickered with panic, then irritation. The blonde eyed Helen head to toe with disdain.
“Darling, who’s this?” she drawled.
Simon, avoiding Helen’s eyes, muttered, “Oh, her? Just… nobody. Works with me.”
*Works with me.* Not his wife, not the mother of his child—just *works with me*. He’d shamed her. Blushed for her in front of that painted doll. It was worse than a slap. Years of pain, sacrifice, unnoticed devotion—all crashed down at once.
She turned and stumbled away, blind to her path, swaying like a drunk. The world blurred. One thought hammered: *Works with me… works with me…*
“Love, you okay?” The same kind voice snapped her back. She looked up at the stranger—and sobbed openly, uncaring of the stares. She wasn’t crying over betrayal. She mourned her wasted life, shattered dreams, the Helen who no longer existed.
She returned home in a daze, ignored her hissing mother-in-law, unlocked the door.
“Mum, did you wash my blue socks? Put them away?” called her 25-year-old son. Not a word about her lateness or puffy eyes.
Her phone rang. Her boss.
“Helen, Smith’s off sick again! Be in early—total chaos here!”
“I’m not coming,” she whispered.
“*What?!* Have you lost the plot?! I’ll—” She hung up, tucked the phone into her worn coat.
Without a word, she packed a small bag with essentials and left the flat that hadn’t been her home in years. Headed to her mum’s. For two weeks, calls flooded in—Simon, her son, her boss. Helen stayed silent. She understood: they didn’t need *her*, just her functions—cook, clean, cover.
She sat for hours at her mum’s kitchen window. Then, one day, clarity struck. Simon wasn’t the only one to blame. *She* had let this happen.
Rage surged. She slammed her fist on the table. An old mug Simon had once gifted her—silly hearts printed on it—shattered on the floor.
“That’s it,” Helen thought, staring at the pieces. “The old me is dead. No going back.”
A year later…
Sunlight bathed the terrace of a cosy café. Helen sipped fragrant coffee, laughing at her companion’s joke. Slim, polished, in an elegant dress and stylish haircut, her glowing eyes drew admiring glances from nearby tables.
That year had transformed her. She’d rediscovered baking—her hands remembered everything. Her cakes became the talk of London. She joined a gym, shed twenty kilos, revamped her wardrobe. Her son visited, apologised—she forgave but didn’t return. Simon called—she never answered.
Her companion—the man who’d asked, “You okay?”—had bumped into her weeks prior. He’d struggled to believe this radiant woman was the broken soul he’d seen that day. Now, he joked, and Helen shone with happiness.
Then her gaze landed on a figure passing the café. A man in faded jeans, a stretched jumper, unshaven, with dead eyes, lugging heavy grocery bags. Hearing her laugh, he turned. Saw Helen. Froze. His jaw dropped. He recognised her—but couldn’t believe it.
“Simon, why’ve you stopped? We’ll miss the bus!” screeched a familiar voice—his mother. She spotted Helen, her coffee, her smile—and collided with her son. Groceries tumbled.
“Helen, do you know them?” her companion asked, eyeing the odd pair.
She took a sip, smiled faintly, and answered, staring straight at her ex-husband:
“Oh, them? Just… someone from work.”
What do you think—did Helen do the right thing? Should betrayal like that ever be forgiven? Or is it better, like her, to smash the old mug and start anew?
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