Alex, Have You Lost Your Mind? Leaving Me for a 20-Year-Old “Heiress,” But I Never Expected to Find My Own Happiness at Your Wedding!

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 1

James, I dont understand you. Have you lost your mind? What do you mean, youre leaving?

I mean exactly that. Ive had a girlfriend for a while now! Shes sixteen years younger than me! Ive decided Id be better off with her!

Shes young enough to be your daughter!

Nothing of the sort! Shes already twenty.

James stepped closer.

Besides, Amelias father is incredibly wealthy. I can finally live the life Ive always dreamed of! Understand? And then shell give me a childunlike you!

Each word struck Helen painfully. Deep down, she knew this might happen, as they had no children. Yet she never imagined her marriage would end in such a humiliating way.

She and James had been together nearly fifteen years. Of course theyd had their ups and downs, like any couple. But Helen always believed that mutual respect was the foundation of a family.

Helen, at least shed a tear for decencys sake, or Ill feel bad.

She raised her head proudly.

Why should I cry? Im very happy for you, truly. I hope at least one of us finds their dream.

James grimaced.

Why do you always bring up your painting? Its neither a real job nor anything of value!

Well, yes, its just a hobby. If I worked a bit less and you earned a bit more, maybe I couldve done more with it too.

Oh please. What else would you do? You cant have children, so you may as well work.

She turned to where he was struggling with his suitcase.

James, this new… darling of yours isnt going to work, is she? How on earth will you two live? Youre not much for working yourself.

Thats none of your concern! But as Im feeling generous today, Ill tell you. Well only need our own money for a short while.

Once Amelia is pregnant, her father will shower us with money! And even now, well be just finedont worry about it!

He finally slammed the suitcase shut and stormed out. The front door echoed noisily behind him. Helen winced; she despised loud noises. She turned back to the window.

A shiny red car soon pulled up outside. A young woman jumped out and threw her arms around Jamess neck. Naturally, all the neighbours, especially the elderly ladies, gawked at the spectacle. Of course he couldnt leave quietlyhe had to make a show of it.

Oddly enough, Helen suddenly felt a wave of relief. Lately, their marriage had been nothing but farce. James had almost stopped coming home at all. Though she understood what was happening, she simply couldnt bring herself to unravel the last thread of what they called family.

She picked up her phone.

Lizzie, hi. Any plans tonight?

Her friend sounded surprised.

What, have you snapped out of your gloom?

Oh, dont be daft. There was never any gloom. Just a bout of the blues, thats all. Lets go out for a drink tonight? Besides, I actually have a reason.

For a moment, the line was silent before Lizzie asked cautiously:

Helen, are you alright? Which pills are you on today? For your head, or a fever? Actually, do you have a fever?

Lizzie, enough!

If youre serious, count me in. Im tired of your miserable face. Only

What? You cant make it?

No, its not that. How will your James let you out? Wholl serve his dinner on the sofa and wipe his runny nose now?

Lizzie, seven oclock, at The Crown!

Helen hung up with a smile. One of these days, shed get her own back on Lizzie. And that day would be soon.

She laughed softly. Shed wanted to do something about Lizzie ever since theyd metthough it never affected their friendship. Helen grabbed her handbag and dashed out the door. Lunchtime already, and so much to do.

Lizzie glanced nervously at her watch. Helen was never late, yet here she wasfive minutes behind.

Then her friend entered the restaurant, and Lizzies jaw droppedalong with everyone elses.

Helen had always worn her hair long, usually tied in a bun. Tonight it was cut into a stylish, honey-blonde bob. She rarely wore makeupjust a touch of mascara and a dab of cream after a bath. Tonight her face was perfectly done up.

She usually preferred trousers. But tonight she wore a loose-fitting dress that flattered her figure far better than her tightest jeans.

Helen you look fantastic

Helen triumphantly set her bag on the chair and sat down.

Like it?

Are you joking? You look ten years younger. Dont tell me you kicked James out!

Im not telling! He left on his own.

The friends looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

Half an hour later, drinks arrived from a gentleman seated nearbya man maybe five years older than them.

Lizzie grinned slyly at Helen.

Looks like youve already got admirers.

Helen chuckled, waving him over. Lizzie stared.

I really like you today!

They stayed late into the night. The mans name was Simon: witty, clever, unassuming and very charming.

He put Lizzie into a taxi, then offered to walk Helen home.

Id walk to the edge of town if youd let me! Ive got a car, but Im not driving in this state.

You neednt go farI live just two roads away.

They wandered for hours, talking endlessly. The sunrise was painting the sky as they arrived at her house.

Helen, I never askedwhat were you celebrating tonight? Its not your birthday, is it? Should I have brought a present?

No well, perhaps. My husband left me yesterday.

Helen flashed him her brightest smile. Simon gave her a startled look.

Well, Helen you do know how to surprise someone.

Three weeks later, Helen and Lizzie were chatting in a café.

Helen, how are things with Simon?

She smiled.

Lizzie, I dont think Ive ever been so content. I feel like myself around him. He just knows how to put my mind at ease.

But, is something bothering you?

Well James just wont settle down. He sent me an invitation to his wedding.

Blimey Why on earth?

I imagine he wants to see me in tears, or just wants to impress his new wife.

What a piece of work Helen, take Simon. Go, wish them well, and then leave with your head held high. Thatll show him!

James sat with Amelia.

You look stunning

I know. Do you think my dad will turn up?

How could he not? Youre his daughter, after all

Daughter He hasnt given me a penny in a year, keeps trying to teach me about working. Some father.

James put his arm round her.

Dont worry, he wont miss his only daughters wedding!

Theyd taken out a loan for the wedding, convinced her father would forgive her recklessness and turn the taps back on.

James?

Will your ex come?

Can you believe it? She rang yesterdayshes coming.

No way!

Way. Must want me back.

Most likely. I do love a dramatic scene!

Helen explained her plan to Simon on the drive over. He smiled, and told her something that left her speechless.

They walked arm-in-arm towards the head table. Helens smile was radiant.

James and Amelia, on the other hand, didnt look the picture of happiness. They approached.

Amelia whispered, Dad?

And James only managed, Helen?

He hardly recognised her. Never imagined his ex-wife could look so beautiful.

Simon handed Amelia a bouquet and an envelope.

Its lovely youre married and independent now. Because, you see, Helen and I are off to travel the world together.

Simon turned to James.

Im sure youll take good care of your new mother-in-law. Sorry, we must dash.

They slipped outside. Helen could barely contain her laughter, not knowing what Simon would think, but he suddenly turned to her.

You do realise now youll have to marry me?

Helen thought for a moment and answered solemnly,

Well, if one must, one must

Arm in arm, they headed for the car as Simon was already booking tickets for somewhere warm by the sea.

Sometimes, what feels like the end is only the beginning. Happiness follows when you let go of whats gone and embrace whats ahead.

In Pursuit of a Mistress — “Vera, what are you doing?” her husband Roman gaped as she handed him a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. — “Nothing much. While you’re lazing about, all the mistresses are being snapped up.” Vera pulled the duvet off him, sending goosebumps racing over poor, defenseless Roman. — “What are you talking about?” — “After the things you said last night, about the day not being far off when you’d get yourself a mistress, I’ve made a decision. The hour is upon us, Roman. It’s half-past five: time to get up and head to your naughty front line.” — “I was joking! We just had a row, remember? I’m sorry, I was out of line.” — “Oh no, you were completely right. It’s me who’s to blame. I let the fire of passion between us fizzle out. Used up all the petrol myself. Now there’s nothing but ash — can’t even grill a potato, let alone ignite a flame. I am rectifying this. Up you get.” — “Are you kicking me out?” — “I’m whipping you into shape. You’ll work out every day until you shake that spare tyre off. A mistress isn’t a wife — she won’t keep a Michelin mascot by her side. Up, I said!” Accepting he was beaten, Roman dutifully rolled out of bed and, in penitence, wriggled into his shorts over his boxers. — “Remind me to get you some proper trunks. In those parachutes, I’m afraid a single gust will carry you right off the lover’s bed.” After ten minutes jogging round the house under his wife’s beady eye, a breathless Roman collapsed indoors and, gripping the floor with his teeth, began to drag himself towards the sanctuary of his bed. — “Where are you slithering off to?” Vera blocked his path. — “I want to die on the mattress, in my sleep.” — “No dying, we’re looking for a mistress, not a coroner. Off to the shower. Twice a day, minimum. You couldn’t spare me, so for heaven’s sake, spare your new friend your natural aromas. And from now on, you brush morning and night!” came her voice, already halfway to the bathroom. “Scrub your head well — we’re off to the photo studio today.” — “Why?” — “To get a proper photo for the dating site. I can’t take it myself, I know you too well — the lens would still see a rigger, the king of pints, and a connoisseur of fried pasta with butter. We need a shot of an alpha male.” — “Vera, seriously, can we stop now?” — “Don’t waste all that wordplay — save it for the ears of tender young damsels. Now, let’s pick a candidate.” Roman perked up — he enjoyed browsing profiles as a harmless fantasy, and now, officially allowed, he could do so with impunity. He began pointing. — “How about her?” — “Are you joking?” — “What’s wrong?” — “Roman, I’m supposed to feel ashamed of myself next to your mistress, not for you. Just look! Even your old Mini looked better before trade-in. She’d need a sign: Caution, Facade Elements Prone to Detach.” — “Then what about her?” — “Her? Oh heavens, Roman! What will people think if my husband cheats with anyone he can get? Now this — this is a good option!” — “No way, she’d never answer me…” — “Honestly… Remind me, how did I fall for such an insecure guy? What was it that kept us together for fifteen years?” — “My sense of humour?” Roman ventured. — “Let’s be honest — if laughter truly extended life, your jokes would’ve widowed me on the honeymoon. Let’s not tempt fate finding out. Come, we’ll buy you a suit — we’ll fish for a mistress bait-and-tackle style.” — “Enough, Vera, can’t we just make up?” — “Where do you see a fight? Having a mistress is a sign of success. And being the wife of a successful man is a status. Frankly, one mistress won’t be enough…” In the shopping centre, Vera steered Roman to the priciest shop and emptied all the mannequins en route. — “Vera, these trousers and this jacket cost as much as winter tyres,” he protested as she pushed him into the fitting room. — “Don’t worry — we’ll get you rubbers at the pharmacy too, any kind you want, summer or winter, and with double protection. I don’t want any stray bouquets in this house.” — “Vera!” — “What, Vera? Safety above all! We’re not picking a scooter here — it’s the hypotenuse for our obtuse triangle.” — “Have you called your boss?” — “About what?” Roman asked, wrestling his arm into the blazer. — “Financial matters, obviously. You’ll need a raise now. How else will you support two ladies? I’m fine with cabbage soup, but a mistress? There’s a formula: one dinner out, three glasses of wine, five stars in the hotel — skimp on anything and the whole foundation collapses.” Roman finally straightened his tie. — “Handsome — just like our wedding day,” sniffed his wife. — “It suits you,” confirmed a neighbouring customer. — “Are you taking him? He’s on the hunt for a mistress.” — “No thanks, I’ve already got three,” she smiled wickedly. — “Don’t even think of picking her, Roman,” Vera warned, “We need someone loyal — like a debit card to another bank: safe for a discreet transfer. Now, to the perfume counter, let’s give you a few spritzes before you’re released into the wild.” They wandered the mall another hour before Vera nodded with satisfaction. — “All right Roman, you’re ready. Even without a photo. Now go and remember everything I taught you — be as suave and confident as you were when you sold the Mini.” Vera went home to make soup. Roman set off in search of the mistress for whom he’d trained all day. An hour later, the intercom buzzed at Vera’s flat. — “Good afternoon, my sweet lady. Is your husband at home?” The velvet, smouldering voice was unfamiliar but thrilling. — “Oh!” Vera gasped, as the ladle slipped from her hands. “No, he’s gone to his mistress.” — “May I come up? I have something rather special to propose.” From the suggestive tone, Vera’s temperature soared then plummeted — she nearly reached for the Night Nurse, but instead, buzzed the visitor in thrice. Within three minutes, Roman appeared at the door holding a lush red bouquet, ushering Vera by the waist. The little hallway suddenly felt very warm. — “Were you crying?” Roman asked, noticing her red eyes. — “A little. Thought I’d mucked things up but turns out, they were just what we needed — for the fire.” — “So, are you up for an evening with a charming, witty companion?” Roman’s eyes burned with hunger and possibly 50ml of brandy’s courage. “I’ll take you to a restaurant and tell the dazzling story of your beauty. True-life narrative — you’ll love it.” — “I w-w-want to,” Vera stammered, joining the game. “Just let me take my soup off the stove and fix my lashes.” — “I’ll call us a cab,” Roman winked. — “Where shall we go?” Vera grinned from ear to ear. — “Five-star restaurant!” — “There aren’t any here — just a ‘Five Cheese’ pizzeria.” — “Then pizza it is! Only the best for my mistress.” — “What if your wife gets jealous?” — “We’ll do our utmost to make sure she does,” Roman winked mischievously.

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged to the rusty garden gate, fumbled with the ancient lock, and finally stepped inside her chilly old cottage, settling wearily on a chair beside the cold hearth. The house, closed up for three months, smelled unlived-in—dusty ceilings strung with fresh cobwebs, a mournful creak from the antique stool, the wind howling down the chimney—her old home seemed to complain: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave in charge? How will we get through the winter? “Wait a bit, my dear. Let me catch my breath, I’ll light the fire and we’ll be warm again…” Just a year ago, Granny Val bustled around: touching up the paint, fetching water, bowing before her icons, tending the stove, and whirling through the garden, planting and watering. The house had come alive with her—floorboards chirping under her brisk steps, doors and windows springing open to her touch, the oven working overtime baking delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She’d buried her husband early, raised three children on her own, saw them all educated and settled. One son was now a sea captain, the other an army colonel, both living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed nearby in the village, serving as chief agronomist—always at work, popping by on Sundays for quick visits and a taste of Val’s famous pies. Her granddaughter, Svetlana—sworn by all the village as a true beauty, with striking grey eyes and long, golden, wavy hair—was her greatest comfort. Svetlana studied in the city and returned as an agricultural economist, married the local vet, and with a special social programme, moved into a sturdy new brick house—a veritable manor by village standards. But while Val’s garden flourished, Svetlana’s was bare—she wasn’t made for growing things, kept too gentle by her grandmother, and soon the arrival of a son, Vasya, left no time for gardening. Svetlana urged her grandmother to move in with them: the new house was modern, no stove to light, plenty of room. At 80, Val’s once-nimble legs finally faltered, and she agreed. But after a while, Svetlana despaired: “Granny, I love you—but you’re always sitting! I’d hoped you’d help me around the house!” “My legs aren’t what they were, dear…” “Strange, you only got ‘old’ when you came to me!” So, not living up to expectations, Val was sent back home, disheartened and sick from guilt over failing her beloved granddaughter. Now even shuffling between bed and table was a struggle; going to church was impossible. Father Boris, who’d long depended on Val’s help at the historic village church, began visiting her at home. Spotting her shivering in an old cardigan and scuffed slippers, he sighed—Granny needed looking after. He recruited Anna, a sturdy neighbour, and soon the cottage warmed up—Father Boris fetched wood, made tea, wrote her sons’ addresses on envelopes when her shaky hand couldn’t. Her letters boasted, “I’m doing very well, my dear son. Thank God, I have everything I need!” But the pages were smeared with teardrops. Life adjusted. Anna checked in, her husband old sailor Pete ferried Val to services. Svetlana, heartbroken, fell seriously ill and within months, cancer claimed her. Her husband took to her grave, leaving four-year-old Vasya neglected and hungry, until Tamara intervened. But with work and little time, Vasya was set for a local boarding school—well run, but no substitute for home. That’s when Granny Val turned up, delivered by sailor Pete. “I’ll take Vasya,” she declared. “Mum, you can barely walk! You can’t manage a child!” “While I’m alive, he’s not going to an orphanage.” The usually gentle Val’s firm words left Tamara no argument. Neighbours whispered, “She must be losing her mind—she needs looking after herself, and now she’s taken on a child!” Father Boris visited, fearing the worst, but found warmth and laughter: Vasya, clean and content, listened to tales on the old gramophone, while Grannie Val, lively and quick, whipped up curd buns just as she once did. Back at home, Father Boris relayed the miracle to his wife, Alexandra, who responded with a story of her great-grandmother Vera: on her deathbed, Vera overheard her newborn great-granddaughter cry and, against all odds, got up, cared for the baby, and lived ten more years, “because there was still work to be done at home.” As the old song goes: “It’s not our time to go—there’s still work to be done at home!” And Father Boris smiled in agreement.

“YOU MISSED IT, MARINA! THE PLANE’S GONE—AND SO IS YOUR JOB AND BONUS! YOU’RE FIRED!” HER BOSS YELLED DOWN THE PHONE, WHILE MARINA STOOD IN A TRAFFIC JAM, STARING AT THE OVERTURNED CAR SHE’D JUST PULLED A STRANGER’S CHILD FROM. SHE’D LOST HER CAREER, BUT FOUND HERSELF. Marina was the perfect corporate warrior: 35, regional director, sharp, organized, always on call, her life planned to the minute on Google Calendar. That morning was supposed to deliver the deal of the year—with a Chinese contract—if only she could make it to Heathrow by 10:00. She left early: Marina never ran late. Speeding along the motorway in her brand-new crossover, she mentally rehearsed her pitch. Then, a hundred yards ahead, a battered Fiat spun out, clipped the kerb, and rolled into the ditch, flipping over multiple times. Marina hit the brakes on instinct. Her mind instantly calculated: *If I stop, I’ll be late. Millions are on the line. They’ll destroy me.* Other drivers slowed, filmed, and moved on. 8:45. Time was running out. She was about to accelerate around the building traffic jam, but saw a small child’s mittened hand pressed to the shattered window. She cursed, slammed the steering wheel, and pulled onto the hard shoulder. In heels, she ran through the snow. Petrol stung her nose. The driver, a young man, was unconscious and bleeding; a little girl sobbed in the back, pinned by a seat. The door jammed. Marina snatched up a rock, smashed the glass, never mind the shards ripping her coat. She hauled the girl out, then wrestled the man to safety with a trucker’s help. The car went up in flames less than a minute later. Marina sat in the snow, clutching the rescued child, her hands shaking, tights ripped, face sooty. Her phone went wild: it was the boss. — “Where are you? Check-in’s about to close!” — “I can’t make it, Victor. There’s been a crash. I was pulling people out.” — “I don’t care who you rescued! You’ve blown the deal! You’re finished in this industry, understand? Get out!” She hung up. The ambulance arrived in twenty minutes. The medic checked the survivors. — “They’ll live. You’re their guardian angel, miss. If not for you, they’d have burned alive.” The next day, Marina was unemployed. Her boss kept his word, spreading rumors that she was unstable and irresponsible. Her field was tight—her reputation, ruined. Job after job rejected her. The car loan payment loomed. She sank into depression. — “Why did I stop?” she wondered late at night. “I should’ve kept driving like everyone else. I’d be drinking champagne in Shanghai right now—not left with nothing.” A month later, an unknown number rang. — “Marina? It’s Andrei—the guy from the Fiat.” His voice was weak but cheerful. — “Andrei? How are you—and your daughter?” — “We’re alive. Thanks to you. Marina, we’d love to see you. Please.” She visited their cramped council flat. Andrei, still in a back brace. His wife, Lena, wept and kissed Marina’s hands. Little Dasha gave her a child’s drawing: a wobbly but bright angel with black hair. They drank tea and ate cheap digestives. — “We don’t know how to thank you,” Andrei said. “We can’t offer much—we’re just a mechanic and a nursery worker. But if you ever need anything…” — “What I need is a job,” Marina said, half-laughing. “I was sacked because I stopped that day.” Andrei thought. “My mate owns a farm—not a pigsty, but a proper place. He’s looking for a manager, not to muck out stalls, but handle paperwork, grants, logistics. The pay’s not much, but there’s a place to live. Fancy it?” Marina, once squeamish about mud on her shoes, had nothing to lose. The farm was huge but neglected. Uncle Pete, the owner, was passionate but clueless about the books. Marina rolled up her sleeves. No more glass-top desks—just a rough wooden table. No Armani suit—jeans and wellies. She sorted the paperwork, snagged subsidies, found buyers. Within a year, the farm was in profit. And Marina found herself enjoying it. No politics, no fake smiles. Just the scent of milk and hay. She learned to bake bread, adopted a dog, dropped the hour-long makeup routine. Most of all—she felt alive. One day, a city restaurant buyer came with a group. Among them—Victor, her old boss. He recognized her, sized up her jeans and windburned face. — “Well, Marina, is this where you’ve ended up? The dung queen? You could’ve been in the boardroom. Bet you regret playing the hero that day.” Marina looked at him. In that moment, she realized she didn’t hate him. He meant nothing. Like a plastic cup. — “No, Victor,” she smiled, “I don’t regret it at all. I saved two lives that day—and a third: my own. I saved myself from ever turning into you.” Victor scoffed and walked away. Marina headed to the barn, where a newborn calf nuzzled her palm. That evening, Andrei, Lena, and Dasha came over. They were family friends now, grilling burgers and laughing together. Marina gazed at the star-filled sky—so bright, so different from the city—and knew she was truly home. Moral: Sometimes losing everything is the only way to gain what’s real. Careers, money, status—they’re just scenery. They can go up in flames in a moment. But humanity, a clear conscience, a saved life—these stay with you forever. Don’t be afraid to take the detour when your heart tells you to—maybe it’s your real turning point.

When Hope Leonard Fell Ill: Her Daughters Didn’t Visit, Only Granddaughter Natalie Cared—But at Easter, the Daughters Arrived Expecting Farm Treats! Hope Met Them at the Gate and Said Coldly, “Why Are You Here?” Shocked, the Eldest Daughter Gasped, “Mum, What’s Going On?” Hope Declared, “I’ve Sold the Whole Farm… Go to the Shops if You Want Food! Natalie Is Not Your Servant—She Has Her Own Life to Live!” Life in Little Olney Was Dull and Dreary, So Any Excitement Became a Village Event—But Granddaughter Natalie’s Return in Her Shiny 4×4, Outshining the Local Elite, Was a Cinderella Story Everyone Envied. Village Ladies Sighed, Old Men Wept at the Spectacle, and Gossip Spread: The Girl Who Grew Up Working for Her Grandmother, Looked Down On By All, Now Had the World at Her Feet. Yet, It Was Musician Paul Who Noticed She’d Never Forgotten Her Roots, Greeting Him With a Warm Smile. Raised by Grandmother Hope Leonards After Being Orphaned, Natalie Was Once Called “Cinderella” for Her Chores and Humble Ways. Despite Hope’s Strictness and Reputation, Natalie’s Singing Talent Shone at School Auditions, Thanks to the Encouragement of Her Teachers and Mr Paul the Musician. Even as Local Success and Competitions Came Her Way, Natalie Remained Devoted, Nursing Her Grandmother When Illness Struck—While Hope’s Own Daughters Only Appeared for Easter Goodies. This Year, with Her Health Failing and No Visits from Her Own Children, Hope Decided to Sell the Farm, Telling Her Daughters Coldly They Could No Longer Treat Her Home as a Larder. “Natalie Isn’t Your Servant! She Deserves a Chance at Life!” Hope Stood Firm, Thanking Her Friend Zoe for Helping Her See the Truth—and Dreaming of a Better Future for the Granddaughter Who’d Always Been Her True Hope. Years Later, When Natalie Returned as a Famous Singer With Her Own Family, Hope Met Them With Pride and Tears—Grateful Her Cinderella Had Created Her Own Happy Ending.