Do you know how he looks at you? With love and admiration, declared her daughter, rather pleased with herself.
Richard stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Droplets of water glistened on the taut muscles of his chest. Not just a man—every woman’s dream. A sweet ache throbbed in Victoria’s heart as she watched him.
He perched on the edge of the bed, reaching to kiss her. She turned her face away.
“Don’t. If you do, I’ll never leave. I must go—Emily is probably home by now,” she murmured, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
He sighed heavily.
“Vicky, how much longer must this go on? When will you tell your daughter about us?”
“Three months ago, you didn’t even know I existed, and you were perfectly content,” Victoria retorted, rising to dress.
“I don’t think I was truly living back then—just waiting for you. I can’t bear a single day without—”
“Don’t break my heart. Don’t see me out,” she interrupted, slipping silently from the room.
The street felt alive with prying eyes as she walked. Strangers seemed to know exactly where she had been. Men watched with curiosity; women with silent judgment.
No wonder—her figure, her poise, her striking face with those full lips and expressive eyes. Dark, unruly curls escaped the clip at her nape. Yet all Victoria wished was to disappear.
***
She had married young, at just twenty, swept away by what she thought was mutual, unshakable love. Almost immediately, she fell pregnant. Her husband begged her to reconsider, insisting they were too young, too unprepared. But Victoria refused, certain motherhood would soften him. It never did. Many men, she supposed, were indifferent to children.
Then came the call. A woman, anonymous but certain, gave her an address where her husband often spent his evenings. Victoria waited until he came home, confronted him outright. First, denial—then excuses—then fury.
“Some madwoman whispers poison, and you believe her? You’re no better! I’m leaving, and you’ll regret this!”
The door slammed behind him. For a while, life hardly seemed worth living—until Emily’s tiny hands pulled her back to reality.
Two weeks later, Victoria stood beneath a tree by the address she’d been given. Soon enough, her husband strolled past, arm in arm with a younger woman. They disappeared into the building.
The divorce was swift. Victoria knew herself well enough—she could never forgive. She enrolled Emily in nursery and threw herself into work.
Over the years, men came and went—none compelling enough to risk her heart again. Until Richard. Tall, handsome, her equal in every way. Their affair burned bright, consuming. One evening, Emily asked where she was going, dressed so carefully.
“On a date,” Victoria answered, half-teasing, half-serious.
Her daughter only hummed, eyes knowing. She never asked again.
Emily had inherited her mother’s figure, though not her beauty—something Victoria was secretly glad for. Beauty, she knew, was more trouble than it was worth.
She had never kept close friends. The envy of other women had seen to that. Perhaps that was why she’d married so young—hoping to find companionship in a husband.
“He’s rather plain for you, even if handsome,” her mother had remarked.
***
“Emily, I’m home,” Victoria announced, stepping inside.
“Upstairs, doing homework,” came the reply.
After changing, Victoria busied herself in the kitchen. Soon, Emily wandered in, tearing off a piece of bread.
“Don’t spoil your appetite—dinner’s nearly ready,” Victoria chided, setting plates on the table. “I need to speak with you.”
“Then speak,” Emily said between bites.
“My birthday’s coming up. I thought I might invite… a friend.”
“The one you’re sleeping with?” Emily’s tone was unnervingly casual.
“Seeing. And mind your tongue—I’m still your mother.”
“What’s the difference at your age?”
“Does it bother you if I invite him?”
Emily shrugged. “Do what you like. Is Gran coming?”
Victoria exhaled. Fifteen was a difficult age. At least Emily hadn’t protested.
“Gran will visit Sunday. I just want you two to get along.”
“Whatever. Invite him.”
Saturday morning found Victoria cooking frantically, eager to impress. Richard arrived with roses, a ring. The gesture stunned her. Eager to charm Emily, he filled the room with boisterous laughter and stories. Her daughter, however, remained solemn.
Once he’d gone, Victoria sought Emily in her room, reaching to embrace her. The girl shied away.
“You don’t like him?” Victoria asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter why.” A pause. “Mum, I know you’re young, that love matters. But he’s using you. Can’t you see?”
“Has Gran been filling your head with nonsense?”
“Gran’s got nothing to do with it. I have eyes.”
Victoria stood, moving toward the door.
“Mum—do you love him?”
Without turning, she nodded.
“Fine. Keep seeing him. Just don’t bring him here to live.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
No further explanation came. Strangely, Victoria felt relief. Things with Richard had moved too fast—the ring, his secrecy about his life while speaking endlessly of theirs. And Emily? Merely an obstacle.
When he called the next day, asking to meet, he never once asked if her daughter had approved. Did it not matter, or did he assume no woman could refuse him?
She declined.
That evening, Emily laughed brightly with her grandmother, neither mentioning Richard. *Perhaps my daughter sees what love has blinded me to*, Victoria thought.
Time passed. They resumed their trysts at his place. Then came his outburst when she refused to move in—calling Emily selfish, predicting loneliness.
“You’d discard me so easily?” Victoria demanded.
“I didn’t mean—” he backtracked.
They parted coldly.
Two nights later, Emily arrived home late.
“Where were you? Your studies—”
“Done. Listen, Nikki and I found something out about your Richard.”
Victoria froze.
“He doesn’t live where he says. He’s got a wife—or some woman—and a little boy.”
“Rubbish. You’ve no right to spy—”
“We saw them, Mum. He didn’t come back out. He smoked by the window, no shirt—”
Victoria fled to the bathroom, muffling sobs. When she emerged, Emily had vanished upstairs.
Alone on the balcony, staring at city lights, it all made sense—his sparse flat, the empty fridge. A love nest, nothing more.
*How long would the lies have lasted?* She gasped for air, grief clawing at her chest.
“Mum!” Emily yanked her back, terrified.
Victoria faced her. “I’m fine. Just promise—no more spying.”
Next day, she confronted Richard. His pallor confirmed everything.
“I thought you weren’t like other women—no nagging, no suspicion—”
“Save it,” she cut in, leaving the ring behind.
Weeks passed. Emily’s school trip loomed. On the eve of departure, she asked abruptly, “Mum… what about Peter? The one downstairs?”
Victoria blinked. “Who?”
“Peter. The quiet one. He loves you.”
Victoria remembered the unassuming, bearded neighbor—always appearing when she struggled with groceries, never accepting payment.
“He looks at you… like you’re the only woman in the world.”
Victoria laughed. “Kindness isn’t enough.”
After Emily left, she stood outside Peter’s door. He opened instantly, as if expecting her.
“My lock’s stuck. Could you…?”
“Give me a moment,” he said.
When his knock came, she barely recognized him—clean-shaven, in a suit. He smiled, crow’s-feet crinkling.
“You’ll fix a lock dressed like that?”
His chuckle was warm. “Seems the lock works fine.”
The kitchen table was set for two.
“Sit. Emily’s away—too much food.”
He hesitated. “I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I, really.”
And just like that, she understood. Love had been waiting all along—patient, unnoticed, steadfast. Right next door.
