“Hello, are you listening? I just want to open your eyes…”
Tabitha sat at the kitchen table, wondering what to do. “I can’t forgive. You can’t just forgive betrayal like that. But then again, haven’t I lived well all these years? A flat in central London, a comfortable life. Nothing to complain about. And yet…”
***
At school, Tabitha had been a straight-A student. Her parents had raised her to do everything well.
Meanwhile, Oliver scraped by with barely passing grades in every subject—except maths. There, he was a genius, winning every competition. He was always dishevelled, with a bad habit of running his fingers through his hair when frustrated. A slight hunch, thick-rimmed glasses—he was the picture of a bookish boy. Girls never interested him; his mind lived among theorems and equations.
One day, someone bumped into him between lessons, and his glasses clattered to the floor, shattering. In class, he squinted helplessly at the board. Suddenly, Tabitha noticed his profile—strong, like a Roman general’s, with a defined jaw, straight nose, full lips, and lashes a girl would envy.
A nudge at her shoulder made her jump.
“Not bad without the glasses, is he?” whispered her friend Molly.
Tabitha flushed and looked away—but minutes later, she was staring again. After school, she approached him and told him he looked better without them.
“Ever tried contacts?”
The next day, he arrived at school glasses-free—and without squinting. She realised his parents had bought him lenses.
“How’s this?” he asked her at break.
“Much better,” Tabitha smiled.
From then on, they were inseparable. He rambled about equations while she gazed at him, smitten. She helped him with English Lit.
Oliver, the maths prodigy, had his pick of universities. Because of him, Tabitha changed her plans—instead of studying English in her hometown, she followed him to London.
As graduation neared, her parents insisted she return home. She’d given up hope—until, at the last moment, Oliver dropped to one knee, fumbling with a ring box like something from an old film.
Oliver took a teaching post at the university. They were given a cramped faculty flat—a shoebox with a kitchenette.
Tabitha had been an average student with no prospects beyond teaching. A year later, she had a daughter and never returned to work. Oliver earned his PhD, won awards for proving some impossible theorem. Tabitha raised their child.
His papers were published abroad. Harvard invited him to lecture. A professorship cemented his reputation. Tabitha took pride in his success—she’d helped make it happen. They moved to a better flat in Bloomsbury.
Friends called them the perfect couple. Tabitha’s world revolved around Oliver and their daughter, Imogen, who grew into a beauty, marrying a promising young painter.
Then, in a single afternoon, everything shattered.
Tabitha was prepping dinner when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Whitmore? I thought you should know. Your husband is unfaithful.” The woman’s voice was calm. “He had an affair with my daughter. Nearly destroyed her. Now it’s a junior lecturer. They attend conferences together—”
The dial tone buzzed, but Tabitha kept the receiver pressed to her ear. She wasn’t one for gossip—she needed proof. She went to the university, waited outside his lecture hall.
When the doors burst open, students spilled into the corridor. Oliver strode past without seeing her—he never looked around. She gave him a minute, then pushed the office door open.
He was kissing a younger woman.
***
“What do I do?” she asked herself again, staring at the faded floral wallpaper.
The key turned in the lock.
She hadn’t made lunch. She panicked—then stilled. Why bother? Let *her* cook now. She fetched a suitcase from the cupboard.
“Taking all your dresses to the cleaners?” Oliver’s voice held amusement, not surprise.
She met his gaze.
“These are *your* things. You’re leaving.”
“Why? Where?” Now he was startled.
“You’re really asking?” Her voice cracked. “I saw you at the university. She’s pretty. You could’ve told me yourself.”
“Told you *what*?”
“Someone called. Told me about the students, the junior staff. Just admit it.”
“I don’t—” He looked away.
Tabitha sank onto the bed, face in her hands.
He reached for her—she jerked back.
“I gave up everything for you. So you could play the genius. And you—you treated me like furniture.”
He said nothing.
She left.
The bench outside the building held her weight as her legs failed. A neighbour paused. “You alright, love?”
Tabitha shook her head. She called a cab. No use making a scene.
“Just you?” Imogen frowned when Tabitha arrived. “What’s wrong?”
“I left your father. Can I stay awhile?”
“*Left* him? Why?”
“He’s with someone else. I couldn’t pretend. Everyone will know soon.”
Imogen brought her water.
“Stay, but—Victor works from home. He hates interruptions. Even his own mother calls first. Maybe… a hotel? Or go back?”
Tabitha stared. She’d shielded Imogen from every hardship—and now she was being turned away.
“You’re right. A hotel’s better.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
Imogen returned, rattling off directions to somewhere cheap but decent.
Tabitha left.
Why had she raised a daughter like this? Should she have stayed, fought for the flat? Too late now.
At the hotel, sleep came in fits.
Morning brought fresh clarity—and fresh pain. Nearly fifty. Unwanted by anyone.
She wasn’t hungry, though she hadn’t eaten. The park bench welcomed her. A discarded newspaper—*Jobs Today*—caught her eye.
“Professor’s wife becomes a maid.” The thought sickened her. Tutoring? She’d helped Oliver with his English.
She bought a fresh paper, circled ads.
Her phone died mid-call. Tomorrow, she’d go home for her charger.
The next morning, she packed quietly. Her phone rang—unknown number.
“Mrs. Whitmore? Your husband’s in hospital. Heart attack. He asked for you.”
She nearly asked why—but went anyway.
Oliver brightened when she entered.
“Forgive me. I’m ashamed of what I said. Come home.”
“And your—”
“She left. I messed up.”
She visited daily, brought soup. He improved. Then, outside his door, she heard him—
“Annie! You came!”
She sank onto a chair in the hall.
“Alright, dear?” An elderly doctor guided her to his office, poured tea. She told him everything.
“Bitterness will rot your soul. See a solicitor. I’ll talk to your husband—explain the risks.”
She nodded.
At home, she didn’t return to the hospital. Two days later, the doctor called. The young lover had fled. That night, Oliver’s heart gave out.
The funeral was packed. Kind words flowed.
Afterwards, Tabitha left London. What was there for her now?
It’s never too late to start again.
