**Deceit**
Fate plays strange tricks on people. Some are fortunate enough to find their one true love early in life. Others only stumble upon it after enduring betrayals, divorce, and the crushing weight of lost hope.
James was one of the latter. He met his first wife, Emily, at university. A pretty, quiet girl from a sleepy market town in the Midlands, she caught his eye straight away. James himself was ordinary—nothing remarkable about him. Emily took her time returning his affection.
But in their final year, when so many students had already paired off—some even settling down with families—Emily finally relented. James was over the moon, of course, and wasted no time proposing. To his delight, she accepted.
James’s mother saw the truth: Emily didn’t fancy returning to her provincial roots. Marrying James secured her a life in a well-off London commuter town, a spacious flat in the city centre, and a comfortable career. But seeing her son so hopelessly in love, she bit her tongue.
They married as soon as they graduated. The reception was held at a countryside hotel, packed with their university crowd. The only absentees were Emily’s parents.
She explained that her father was bedridden, and her mother couldn’t leave him. Any further questions were met with tight-lipped answers, her eyes brimming with tears. James’s parents decided not to pry—why upset the poor girl more?
“We’ve taken him everywhere, but no one could help,” Emily murmured, her face shadowed with grief.
James’s parents tried their best to fill the void, and for years, they all lived happily. Emily fell pregnant almost immediately. She never sought work—why bother when maternity leave was just around the corner? Nine months later, their son, George, was born, named after her father at his parents’ insistence.
It took eight years before she conceived again. By then, they’d bought their own place. The birth was difficult—premature, leaving their tiny daughter, Lucy, frail.
Neither of Emily’s parents ever met their grandchildren. Her father died a year after George’s birth; her mother followed eight months later.
Once Lucy started school, Emily grew restless. She wanted a job. Years out of the workforce left her unqualified for much, but James’s parents pulled strings, landing her a position as a director’s assistant—really just a glorified secretary.
She threw herself into the gym, dressing sharply, painting her face. Suddenly, she was a career woman, not a housewife. Friends ribbed James—how had he kept such a stunner hidden all this time?
Emily lost interest in the children. George was finishing school, heading off to university soon. Lucy spent most of her days with James’s parents, spoiled rotten to make up for her mother’s neglect.
Emily’s nagging grew worse. James had let himself go, she said—he needed to hit the gym, shed the gut. And more often than not, she’d hold up her boss as an example. “He’s older than you, but you’d think he was thirty.”
James knew what that meant. One day, he dropped by her office under the pretence of discussing his father’s upcoming birthday gift.
The reception was empty. He knocked on the director’s door, then pushed inside. A second door stood ajar. The gasps and moans from within left no room for doubt.
James flung it open. His demure Emily, skirt hiked to her waist, was straddling the director, trousers around his ankles. Seventeen years together, and he’d have known her anywhere.
He stood frozen, then quietly shut the door and left. He couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t dragged her off, why he hadn’t punched that smug face.
Emily came home that evening, smiling like the cat that got the cream. Now it all made sense—why she’d been rejecting him, citing headaches, exhaustion. All along, she’d been wearing herself out pleasing her boss.
James confronted her. She didn’t deny it.
“Well, since you know, this makes it easier. I’m leaving you.”
“And the children?”
“George is grown. Lucy can decide for herself.”
Lucy didn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t live with her mother’s new husband—or with James. “You might remarry. I’ll stay with Gran and Grandad.”
So James was alone. Not a boy anymore, but a man in his prime. The director had a house; Emily took the car. James didn’t fight it. Let her have everything—he didn’t care.
Then he met Claire. Her husband had left her too. No children—a youthful infection had seen to that. They simply lived together.
George graduated, married. Lucy dropped out of college. James’s father passed unexpectedly. His mother lingered two years longer. Lucy inherited the flat outright.
The money vanished fast. Work didn’t appeal to Lucy. She started dropping by her father’s place. Claire would fuss, overfeeding her, packing leftovers. Soon it became routine—every few days, Lucy came for dinner, leaving with a bag of food.
“You’re spoiling her,” James grumbled.
“She’s caught between two worlds. Your parents indulged her, yes, but we can’t abandon her.”
“I suppose not. But she’s taking advantage.”
“Who else do I have to spoil?” Claire said softly.
James hadn’t seen Emily since the divorce. She and the director lived in some gated estate, shopped elsewhere. Their paths never crossed.
Then one evening, Lucy arrived, distraught.
She was dying, she said. A brain tumour. They could operate—in Germany, Israel. But the cost was staggering. Emily and her husband had contributed, but it wasn’t enough.
Claire soothed her. “How much do you need?”
“Fifty thousand. Just for the surgery. More for tests, flights… I’ll have to sell the flat, but there’s no time. I’m going to die.”
James sold his car the next day. A friend lent him thirty grand. Lucy wept with gratitude, clutching the money.
“Of course, love. I couldn’t let you go. We’ll even come with you.”
“No, it’s too expensive. The tickets are already booked.”
James frowned. “Don’t they take bank transfers?”
She nodded hastily. “I’ll deposit it now.”
“Let me come. Carrying cash alone isn’t safe.”
She refused, insisting her mother mustn’t know. Then she vanished.
A week passed. No word. Claire reassured him—calling abroad was pricey, and if something had gone wrong, they’d know.
Another week. Claire’s birthday. They went to a restaurant to escape the tension.
And there was Emily. Still radiant, untouched by time. Beside her sat a much younger man.
James stormed over. The conversation was terse. Emily looked baffled, shaking her head.
He returned, ashen. “She says Lucy’s fine. Off in the Maldives with some bloke.”
Claire tried to console him. “She’s spoiled, not malicious. At least she’s healthy.”
James seethed. Lucy’s phone was off. “Just wait till she’s back.”
“You’d have given her money for a holiday if she’d asked, wouldn’t you?”
“Not that much. Not the car.”
“Then that’s why she lied.”
Months later, George came with news: Emily was dying. Cancer. Days left.
Claire insisted they visit.
The vibrant Emily was gone. Sunken, frail, she begged his forgiveness. And he gave it. What grudges matter at death’s door? If she hadn’t left, he’d never have found Claire—his true match.
But Lucy never came. Never apologised. The money, the lie—all of it buried under silence.
A hard lesson: trust, but verify. Even with family. Especially with family.
