**First Pancake Always Comes Out Wrong**
Olivia was a pretty girl of twenty-seven. Her life felt like the lyrics of some old song: “You choose, they choose you, but somehow it never seems to match up.” Plenty of blokes fancied her, but most just wanted one thing—to jump straight into bed. Why waste time on courtship? That’s just how things were these days. Opportunities slipped away if you hesitated—someone else would snatch them up.
She’d grown up in a house of women—her mother and grandmother, both proper and refined, had raised her. Olivia had been named after a great-great-grandmother who’d been schooled in the ways of Victorian ladies, back when England still clung to such traditions.
Her grandfather had passed young, and her parents divorced when she was just twelve. As a girl, Olivia buried herself in romance novels where valiant heroes defended their ladies’ honour, braving hardship just to keep them safe. She dreamed of that kind of love—pure, devoted, with stolen kisses under the moonlight. Modern as she was, she understood the world, yet this was the love she craved.
Most lads these days had no patience for old-fashioned romance. They rushed through life chasing instant gratification. A single rose on the first date, maybe, then straight past sweet nothings to something far more intimate. No moonlit walks, no whispered promises. Flowers only reappeared on anniversaries—if the relationship lasted that long.
Plenty of girls liked it that way—why waste time when you could cut straight to the fun? But Olivia wasn’t built for quick flings. She fell hard, heart pounding, stomach fluttering—only to watch the object of her affection drag some other girl off to bed. Men were in a hurry to have their fun while they still could, free of wives and children.
All her mates had married ages ago—some already divorced, remarried, and on their second set of kids. They’d sigh and ask when she’d finally meet her prince. But fate seemed to have misplaced hers. What if she never found him?
Dreams aside, time ticked on. The single men dwindled; the divorced ones multiplied. Tired of waiting, she threw herself at Jake—handsome, with a flat in London and a decent motor. What more could a girl want?
Yet months passed, and still no ring. Then she learned the truth—he was married. Not that he’d meant to deceive her. He’d just lost his head over her. And she’d never asked, had she? Besides, he and his wife lived apart. The divorce hadn’t happened because there’d been no reason—until now. He’d sort it tomorrow, he swore.
Olivia, thrilled, didn’t even think to ask if he had kids.
She waited patiently for Jake to untangle himself, eager to have him all to herself. When he finally did, she realised the cost—he’d handed over the flat and car to his ex to get the divorce. A one-bed wasn’t worth splitting, so he’d let her keep it, “like a gentleman.” Now he had nothing—just a mortgage debt and child support.
Was this what Olivia had dreamed of? Any sensible girl would’ve dumped him. But she’d been raised right. Her mother and gran had taught her never to abandon someone in trouble, so she stuck by him—like some tragic heroine out of a Brontë novel.
If they suspected the truth, it was too late to interfere. Especially when Jake finally proposed, borrowed more than he should’ve, and threw a lavish wedding.
They moved into a rented flat—Olivia kept that quiet. At first, she was happy. Whatever came, they’d face it together. Any doubts, she ignored. Then she fell pregnant.
Jake picked up extra work, coming home late, collapsing into bed. By morning, he’d grumble at her still sleeping form before vanishing again.
So here she was—living the dream. She played the happy wife for her family, but they knew. The due date loomed, and fear gnawed at her. How would they survive? She wasn’t working; his wages vanished into debts like sand through fingers. Her coat wouldn’t button over her belly—winter was here. They needed baby things. They needed to eat.
Nights blurred into panicked calculations. How had she landed here? The rose-tinted glasses were long gone. Love? What a joke.
“I’ll sort it,” Jake mumbled, stumbling in late. “Work’s keeping me.” But no extra cash appeared.
“The rent’s due. Leave me something,” she pleaded one morning.
“Sorry, had to pay a debt. Ask your mum.”
So she did. Where her mother and gran scraped the money from, she didn’t know. They’d never been well-off.
“Pay this month, then leave him. We’ll manage,” Gran urged.
She snapped at Jake later, ashamed but furious.
“You’re on maternity. Find some work from home,” he retorted.
“Who hires a pregnant woman?”
“Not legally. Use your brain.”
Easier said than done. Money required money. Then it hit her—tutoring. She had the education, spoke fluent French. Kids these days learned nothing in school—not the teachers’ fault, just the rushed curriculum. Word spread fast. Soon, desperate parents begged for her time.
Now *he* asked *her* for cash.
After the birth, she cradled her son, the weight of fear lifting briefly. Friends donated prams, cots, clothes enough for years. Then one pal shattered the illusion—Jake wasn’t working late. He was upstairs with the neighbour.
Confronted, he raged. “Who’s jealous of *us*? Our shoebox flat? Our debt?”
Tears burned, but she shoved them down. Useless things.
She left soon after. Jake begged. “I’ll fix it. I love you both.”
“You’re unreliable. A liar. Good at making babies, nothing else.” She took the boy to her mother’s.
Life improved when she returned to work. She swore off men—who’d want her with a child?
Then Jake’s mother showed up. “A boy needs his dad.”
He arrived later, roses in hand, on his knees. “I’ve changed.”
“Your mistress dumped you, didn’t she?” Olivia shut the door.
At work, she ignored advances—until one man persisted. He bonded with her son. Gran and Mum hoped *this* time—
Jake stormed in. “So *this* is why you left!”
“I left *years* ago.”
His mother returned with gifts, guilt-tripping her. “He’s the father.”
“Then where were you when we starved?”
Jake saw his son occasionally, awkward and clueless.
Meanwhile, Olivia’s new man proposed. No big wedding—her first had been lavish and hollow.
One day, Jake called. “I miss him.” She knew he was snooping. Sure enough, he spotted the ring.
“You remarried? What about *me*?”
“Should’ve thought sooner.”
“He’ll raise *my* son?”
“You didn’t want to.”
“Then drop the child support.”
“Not a chance.”
“Fine. I’ll get a ‘job’ paying peanuts. You’ll get pennies.”
He did. But he didn’t look broke. New clothes, rare visits—probably his mother’s doing.
Olivia was happy now. Jake kept flailing.
Sometimes, the first marriage is like the first pancake—a mess. But in the end, everyone lands where they belong.
