Charlotte stood by the window, watching the backyard where her husband, Oliver, was deep in conversation with their neighbour, Rebecca. Again. For the third day running. They stood by Rebecca’s car, and Rebecca was telling some animated story, her hands dancing in the air. Oliver listened intently, nodding, occasionally laughing.
Charlotte stepped back so they wouldn’t see her. A familiar feeling settled in her chest—not jealousy, no. Something else, heavier. Clarity.
*”Mum, where’s Dad?”* asked her daughter, Sophie, poking her head into the kitchen. *”He promised to help with my maths.”*
*”In the garden,”* Charlotte answered, keeping her voice light. *”He’ll be in soon.”*
Sophie nodded and disappeared down the hall. Charlotte switched on the kettle and reached for the biscuit tin. Her hands moved on autopilot while her thoughts raced elsewhere.
When Oliver finally walked in, he wore that particular smile—pleased, slightly distant. The one that only appeared after talking to Rebecca.
*”Hello,”* he said, making his way to the kettle. *”Tea on?”*
*”Just boiled,”* Charlotte said, setting a mug before him. *”Long chat with Rebecca?”*
*”Not too long. She was telling me about her new job. Imagine, landing a marketing role at her age!”*
His voice brimmed with admiration, as if it were his own triumph. Charlotte stirred sugar into her tea in silence.
*”What’ll she be doing?”* she asked.
*”Client relations. She’s got the qualifications, loads of experience. Rebecca’s really something—pulled herself together so fast after the divorce.”*
Rebecca. Always Rebecca. Their neighbour, who’d moved in across the street six months ago. A striking woman of forty-two, freshly divorced, no kids. Successful, independent, fascinating.
Everything Charlotte had once been, before becoming a wife and mother. Not that she regretted her choices, but sometimes…
*”Sophie’s waiting for your help with maths,”* she reminded him.
*”Right, completely forgot,”* Oliver said, gulping his tea before heading off.
Left alone in the kitchen, Charlotte picked up his empty mug. A few tea leaves clung to the bottom. Her grandmother had taught her to read them once, but she didn’t need divination now. The present was clear enough.
Oliver was in love. Not with her, his wife of seventeen years, but with Rebecca. He might not admit it yet, but Charlotte saw all the signs—the extra care with his appearance, the new shirt, the sudden interest in shaving. The way he found excuses to linger outside whenever Rebecca returned from work. The way his eyes lit up when he spoke about her.
Once, they’d lit up like that for Charlotte.
*”Mum, Dad says you’ve got a degree too,”* Sophie said, reappearing with a textbook. *”Why don’t you work?”*
The question caught Charlotte off guard. Sophie looked at her with the blunt curiosity of a fourteen-year-old.
*”I did work, when you were little,”* Charlotte said. *”Then I chose to focus on home and family.”*
*”Isn’t it boring?”*
Boring? She’d never asked herself that. After Sophie was born, she’d taken maternity leave and never gone back. Oliver earned well; they wanted for nothing. It had felt right—being there for her husband and child.
*”No, not boring,”* she told Sophie. *”Plenty to do.”*
*”Hmm. Auntie Rebecca says women should be independent. That you shouldn’t vanish into family life.”*
Charlotte stiffened. When had Sophie discussed this with Rebecca?
*”When did she say that?”*
*”Yesterday, by the driveway. She asked about school, and we got talking. She’s really interesting, isn’t she? Knows loads, been everywhere.”*
*”Yes,”* Charlotte agreed. *”Interesting.”*
That evening, while Sophie did homework, Charlotte and Oliver sat in the lounge. He scrolled through something on his tablet; she flicked through a magazine. A picture of domestic bliss, if not for the suffocating silence.
*”Oliver,”* Charlotte finally said. *”We need to talk.”*
He looked up. *”About?”*
*”Us. Our family.”*
*”What’s wrong with us?”*
She hesitated, choosing her words. How do you tell your husband you see him falling for someone else? How do you explain feeling invisible in your own home?
*”I think we’ve grown apart,”* she said carefully.
*”How so?”* Oliver frowned. *”We’re fine. No issues.”*
*”When did we last talk properly? Not about bills or schedules, but really talk?”*
*”Dunno. Does it matter?”*
The indifference in his voice told her the conversation was over. Oliver didn’t see a problem because he didn’t want to.
*”Guess not,”* she said, returning to her magazine.
The next day, Charlotte went to the gym. She’d been meaning to for ages. Now she had time—Sophie needed her less, housework had eased.
In the changing rooms, she ran into Rebecca.
*”Charlotte!”* Rebecca beamed. *”Fancy seeing you here! Taking up fitness?”*
*”Thought it was time,”* Charlotte smiled.
Rebecca looked incredible in her workout gear—toned, ageless. Charlotte couldn’t help comparing, and it stung.
*”Why don’t we go together?”* Rebecca suggested. *”More fun with company.”*
*”Alright,”* Charlotte agreed, though every instinct resisted.
Post-workout, they grabbed coffee at a nearby café.
*”You’ve no idea how glad I am to finally have a friend here,”* Rebecca said, stirring her latte. *”After the divorce, it got so lonely.”*
*”Why did you split?”* Charlotte asked, then instantly regretted prying.
*”He cheated,”* Rebecca said simply. *”Didn’t even hide it well. Thought I’d put up with it for the sake of the marriage.”*
*”But you didn’t.”*
*”No. No point living with someone who doesn’t respect you. Better alone than in a sham marriage.”*
Charlotte sipped her coffee, turning the words over. What if Oliver didn’t respect her either? What if she’d become just part of the furniture—a convenient housekeeper?
*”You and Oliver seem solid,”* Rebecca said. *”You’re lucky.”*
There it was—a warmth in her voice that went beyond neighbourly.
*”Yes, lucky,”* Charlotte echoed, quickly changing the subject.
At home, she studied herself in the bedroom mirror. Forty. Not old, not young. Soft curves from childbirth that never quite left. Tired eyes that had lost their spark.
Beside the mirror sat their wedding photo. Young, radiant, in love. Oliver had looked at her like she was his whole world.
Now Rebecca was his world.
*”Mum, what’s for dinner?”* Sophie called from the doorway.
*”I’ll start it,”* Charlotte said, turning from the mirror.
Over dinner, Oliver chatted about work. Charlotte half-listened, pushing salad around her plate. Then he surprised her:
*”How was your day?”*
*”Gym. Got to know Rebecca better.”*
*”Really?”* Oliver perked up. *”How is she?”*
*”Alright. Told me about her divorce.”*
*”Hard time for her,”* Oliver said, shaking his head. *”She’s tough, though. She’ll manage.”*
There it was again—that admiration. Sophie noticed too.
*”Dad, why do you care so much about Auntie Rebecca?”* she asked bluntly.
Oliver flushed.
*”Just being kind. She’s had a rough go.”*
*”Right,”* Sophie said, dropping it.
But Charlotte saw the cogs turning. Kids sensed lies better than adults.
After dinner, as Oliver scrolled through his tablet, he called her over.
*”Look at these flats in the new development,”* he said. *”Maybe we should think about moving?”*
*”Why?”* Charlotte frowned. *”We like it here.”*
*”Just curious. Might find something better.”*
She glanced at the screen. The flats were near where Rebecca had moved after her divorce.
*”We’re not moving,”* Charlotte said firmly.
Oliver sighed. *”Suppose you’re right.”*
But she knew. He was already picturing life near Rebecca.
The next weekend, shopping with Sophie, her daughter asked:
*”Mum, why don’t you buy nice clothes?”*
*”I do!”*
*”All your stuff’s beige or grey. Auntie Rebecca wears bright colours.”*
*”She needs to for work.”*
*”Don’t you want to for Dad?”*
The question hit home. When had she last dressed up for Oliver?
*”YouAnd as the seasons turned, Charlotte found herself standing taller, no longer in anyone’s shadow, realizing that sometimes love walks out the door but life quietly hands you a brighter key.
