After her divorce from her husband, Marianne struggled to piece herself back together. She had loved Henry unconditionally—that was just her nature. When she loved, she gave herself entirely, pouring everything into her marriage and their son. Of course, with her son, it was different. A mother’s love for her child was unshakable, no matter what.
Oliver, after finishing school, decided to dedicate his life to helping others, so he enrolled in medical school. Marianne had assumed he’d always stay close, but he chose a university hundreds of miles away. Henry didn’t care either way—he’d grown indifferent to everything.
“Come on, Marianne, if Oliver wants to be a doctor, let him. It’s his life, his decisions,” Henry had shrugged.
But becoming a doctor had been Oliver’s dream since childhood.
“Mum, you know I’ve always wanted to help people. It’s not like this is news to you. I know you want me nearby, but I’m a grown man. We’ll see each other less, but I promise I’ll visit when I can. You know I love you—you’re the most wonderful mum in the world. Don’t forget that. If you ever need me, I’ll be there,” Oliver reassured her, packing his things.
This was his last break before graduation.
“Sweetheart, I know I can count on you—thank you for your kindness. And I still have your father. We’ll be fine. Just focus on your studies,” Marianne replied, forcing a smile.
After graduating, Oliver married, moved to London for work, and soon had a daughter. Marianne longed to see them more often, but distance kept them apart, and she waited impatiently for his visits.
She and Henry had been married for twenty-five years—on paper, everything seemed fine. Marianne was beautiful, educated, sharp. Henry, ironically, had pursued her relentlessly at university, slipping into her life unnoticed despite her many suitors.
She wasn’t confrontational—she smoothed over conflicts at home and work with tact and grace. But Henry was brash, abrasive. Somehow, she’d found ways to handle him. She’d helped him establish his car repair business, crafting the business plan herself and supporting him every step of the way.
One evening, Marianne met her friends, Lucy and Emma, at a café. Lucy was celebrating the birth of her first grandchild. The three had been close for years—Emma worked in the same office as Marianne, while Lucy was a homemaker with a grand country house where they sometimes gathered. But today, they’d opted for a quick coffee in town.
Laughing over their usual topics—life, children, husbands—Lucy suddenly asked, “Marianne, do you trust Henry completely?”
Marianne tensed. “Of course. We have no secrets. Why?”
Lucy and Emma exchanged glances before Lucy continued. “I’ve seen him a few times—at cafés, the supermarket—with a young woman. She was holding his arm. I watched them for a while. He didn’t notice me—he was too wrapped up in her. But it was always the same girl.”
Marianne blinked in confusion. “Maybe it’s someone from his office? He’s got a few young women working there. Honestly, I’ve never noticed anything. Sometimes he’s late, but he has clients—he can’t turn them all away.”
Still, after that conversation, Marianne became more watchful. She questioned his late nights but eventually dismissed her suspicions.
Then came the day when a young, heavily pregnant woman appeared at their doorstep. She smiled sweetly.
“Good afternoon.”
Marianne frowned. “Good afternoon. Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“Oh, you’re so pretty—and young! You *are* Marianne, right? Henry told me his wife was older and unwell,” the girl babbled. “You’re really his wife?”
Marianne stiffened. “Yes. Clearly, I’m in good health. And you are?”
“I’m Hannah. I’m carrying Henry’s baby. We’ve been together for a while. He keeps promising to tell you but never does. He says you won’t let him go, that you won’t agree to a divorce. But soon, we’ll have our little one, and I need him.”
Marianne stood frozen as Hannah rambled on.
“I’ll admit, I was surprised to see you. I expected an old woman—Henry’s nearly fifty. But you’re lovely! Still, I need him. You understand, don’t you?”
“How old are you?” Marianne asked slowly.
“Twenty-one. We met online, like everyone does these days.”
“You’re dating a man twice your age? Our son is twenty-five!” Marianne fought to keep her voice steady.
Hannah scoffed. “Don’t lecture me. I don’t care about morality. I need an older man with money. How else would I raise a child? So, let him go. He doesn’t love you anymore.”
“Fine. Take Henry. Go.” Marianne pushed her out and shut the door.
Hannah, expecting a fight, just shrugged and walked away.
Alone, Marianne collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing. Later, she steeled herself for the confrontation.
When Henry arrived, she was waiting.
“Hello, darling. See that suitcase? It’s yours. Take it and leave.”
Henry paled. “Marianne, what’s gotten into you?”
“Your pregnant girlfriend stopped by. So you’re free. Get out.”
He stammered, eyes darting. “I don’t want a divorce!”
She opened the door and shoved him out.
A month later, they met at a café to settle things. Henry demanded half the flat—her father had bought it for her before their marriage. It was a spacious two-level home.
“The flat stays mine. You keep the business. And don’t forget—you wouldn’t have that business without me *or* my father.”
“But I’m renting! Soon, there’ll be a baby. We should split it.”
“Or we divide everything equally—but you’re *still* not getting the flat. Think it over. You’ve got three days.”
In the end, with her father’s intervention, Henry backed down.
Six months later, Marianne had adjusted to solitude. Only occasionally did she reflect:
*What have I learned? Never love a man more than yourself. He won’t value your devotion. The more I gave, the more Henry took for granted. He won’t remember how I cherished him—how I watched him sleep, straightened his collar. But now? I’ll love myself first. And my family—my son, his wife, my granddaughter.*
Before visiting them, she bought gifts, thrilled at the reunion.
*My life is good. It gets better every day. No use dwelling on the past.*
With them, she never felt lonely. Her granddaughter clung to her, and Oliver—aware of the divorce—never brought it up. Once, he’d called Henry. A young woman answered.
“Henry’s in the shower. Can I take a message?”
Oliver hung up and never called again.
On the train home, Marianne caught an older man glancing at her. Silver-haired, with sad eyes. At the station, he approached.
“Excuse me—I’m Edward. May I know your name?”
She smiled. “Marianne.”
His gaze was warm, kind.
“Pleasure to meet you. My car’s nearby—let me drive you. I’ve just returned from a business trip.”
She agreed.
“I was visiting my son—and my granddaughter.”
“Granddaughter? You don’t look old enough!”
Edward had been alone for six years—his wife, daughter, and grandson lost in a crash. It had taken him years to recover.
They talked as if they’d known each other forever. Then came dates, love, happiness. A year later, on his fiftieth birthday, Edward proposed in front of all his friends.
With him, Marianne finally understood what it meant to feel truly protected. He shielded her from every worry. She had never imagined such men existed.
