Dina had always loved inviting friends over. Her mother allowed it, being the same way herself. For as long as Dina could remember, their home was always full of her mother’s friends, especially on weekends. Birthdays, too, were never without guests. Her father, a quiet man, tolerated these visits well—sometimes even joining them for tea and a joke. But more often, he tinkered in the garage alone, keeping mostly to himself.
Dina adored the lively atmosphere when her mother’s friends dropped by, even just in passing. They rarely drank wine—tea and coffee were their usual—but when they gathered, laughter filled the house, sometimes even songs.
“Mum, can Becky and Lizzie come over?” she’d ask.
“Of course, darling. There’s biscuits and sweets on the table—help yourself,” her mother would reply before leaving for work.
If too much time passed between visits, her mother would bake pies and declare, “I’ll invite Nancy and Auntie Miriam from next door. Dina, love, run and fetch them.”
This was simply how life was. Even at university, Dina brought friends home on weekends or holidays, with her mother’s blessing. Her mother’s warmth had become her own.
On her final year at university, Dina married Thomas, a fellow student. They moved into their own home, where she resumed hosting friends. At first, Thomas resisted.
“Back home, we always had guests. It’s how I was raised. Would you mind if we kept that tradition?” she asked.
“My mother never cared for company. Even when my father brought a mate round after work, it was an argument waiting to happen,” he admitted. “But if it makes you happy, fine.”
Gradually, he adjusted. Together, they chose which friends to invite, settling into a regular circle—though Thomas never warmed to one of Dina’s closest friends, Eleanor. A widow, Eleanor carried a quiet sorrow.
“How can you stand her?” he’d complain. “She barely says a word. What’s the point of having guests if they won’t laugh?”
“But she listens,” Dina argued. “She gives good advice, and she never judges. Sometimes I just need someone to talk to—not everyone has to be loud.”
“Seems a dreary sort of friend.”
“To you, maybe. But I like her. She doesn’t need a crowd. Just someone to sit with.”
Years passed. They built a larger house, had a son, and still Dina gathered with friends—sometimes in the garden with the children, but mostly indoors where there was space for all.
Most of her friends lived with in-laws, but Lizzie had her own flat with her husband and son. Still, she preferred Dina’s home. The husbands would occasionally join, sharing a pint in the garage or garden shed while the women chatted inside.
Once, during a quiet moment, Eleanor hesitated before speaking. “Dina, I don’t trust Lizzie. Be careful—she pays too much attention to Thomas.”
“Don’t be silly,” Dina scoffed. “She’s just friendly.”
But the thought nagged at her.
“Maybe she’s jealous,” she mused later. “After all, she has no husband. Mum always said to be wary of lonely friends. Perhaps I should distance myself.”
She even mentioned it to Thomas.
“I told you she was odd,” he said.
Eventually, Dina cut ties with Eleanor—but nothing else changed. Life continued. When someone was away, they helped each other, picking up children from school.
“Dina, could you fetch my Jamie from nursery?” Lizzie often called. “Harry’s gone fishing with his mates, and I’m stuck at work.”
“Of course. They’re in the same class anyway.”
Then, one day, Dina arrived at the nursery and ran into Lizzie. They decided to take the boys to the park. As they walked, Jamie piped up, “Mum, is Uncle Thomas coming over tonight? He brought crisps yesterday.”
Lizzie flushed and stayed silent. Dina frowned.
*Plenty of men are named Thomas*, she told herself. But then—why would Lizzie’s husband not be the one Jamie meant?
The night before, Thomas had claimed he’d been at his brother’s, helping with furniture. He hadn’t returned until nearly midnight.
When Lizzie’s phone died, Dina offered hers. “Need to make a call?”
“No, it can wait,” Lizzie said hastily.
They never made it to the park. “Oh, I just remembered—I need to see my mum,” Lizzie blurted, dragging Jamie away.
Dina walked home, unease curling in her chest.
*Thomas always laughs hardest at Lizzie’s jokes.*
She remembered how he praised the honey cakes Lizzie brought. “Lizzie’s baking is brilliant,” he’d say—right in front of her, too, and Lizzie would beam.
“My husband never compliments me like that,” Lizzie once sighed.
A suspicion took root.
She rang Thomas’s sister-in-law. “Kate, did you buy new furniture yesterday? Thomas said he was helping you.”
“Thomas? He wasn’t here,” Kate said. “We didn’t buy anything.”
Dina’s stomach dropped.
That evening, Thomas left his phone behind when he went to the garage. A message lit up the screen—from Lizzie.
*Jamie accidentally told your wife you were here yesterday.*
Dina stormed outside. “Explain this.”
Thomas read it, then met her gaze. “It’s true. I was there.”
She reeled. She’d expected a denial.
“You *lied* to me! Both of you! I never want to see either of you again!”
He followed her inside. “Dina, let’s just forget it. Pretend it never happened. I won’t do it again. And you can drop Lizzie—everything will go back to normal.”
“*Normal*?” she whispered. “No. You cheated. I’ll never trust you again. And Eleanor *warned* me—but I cut her off instead.”
She packed his bags and left them by the door. That night, he stayed at his mother’s.
The next day, Lizzie waited at the nursery. “Dina, it was a misunderstanding! That text wasn’t for Thomas—I sent it to the wrong person!”
“You’re no friend of mine. And he’s no longer my husband. Goodbye.”
As Dina turned, Lizzie shouted after her, “Fine! He’ll be mine soon enough!”
She wasn’t wrong. Within months, Thomas moved in with Lizzie, helping raise her son while her own husband was cast aside.
One Saturday, Dina bought a small cake and gift, then knocked on Eleanor’s door.
“Eleanor… I’m sorry,” she said when it opened. “You tried to warn me. But I was blind. Thomas and Lizzie—they *were* together. I’ve filed for divorce. Please, forgive me.”
Eleanor hugged her. “I’m not angry. I wouldn’t have believed it either.”
They drank tea, talking and laughing while Dina’s son doodled happily.
Such betrayals happened—had always happened—would always happen. That was life.
