*”I came to say I’ve met someone else”: How one stray suspicion shattered five years of love*
Lucy and George met by chance—on a beach where the August sun baked the sand, the salty breeze tangled with the scent of sunscreen, and somehow, against all odds, romance bloomed. She was tall, striking, with dark curls and a smile that could outshine the Brighton Pier. He approached her, and just like that, they were inseparable. The holiday ended, but their story was only beginning.
George lived in the next town over. For five years, weekends were theirs—weekdays swallowed by work and errands, but Saturdays meant his cottage, the apple orchard, steaming mugs of tea, and still-warm scones from the village bakery. Lucy often stayed at his place—it felt cosier, freer. She lived with her son; George lived alone in the flat his parents had left him. He was *technically* divorced, or so he claimed once things got serious. She believed him—insisted, even. “Finalise it by tomorrow,” she’d said. And he did. For her.
Five years passed. Her son married and moved out, leaving Lucy on her own. Weeknights grew quieter, lonelier. Only George’s cottage kept the glow alive—the orchard, a basket of apples, the hush of the countryside, tea on the patio.
That evening started like any other. Warm air, sliced apples in a bowl, fresh scones, easy laughter. Then—his phone rang. George answered. Lucy barely noticed at first, but the call dragged on. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.
She recognised the voice. His ex-wife.
Thoughts swarmed. They still lived in the same town… shared a daughter… Had he been seeing her all along? Meeting up? Pretending it was just about the child?
She couldn’t take it. When he finally hung up, she snapped. Accusations, old wounds, every unspoken doubt poured out. George said nothing. Then he stood so abruptly his chair toppled over.
“Just go,” he muttered and walked out.
Dazed, she packed her things but didn’t head to the station—no, she went to *his* flat. She still had keys. Cooked dinner. Tidied up. He returned after midnight, silent and distant. Didn’t even greet her properly. She stayed anyway. For three days, she tried—jokes, gestures, peace offerings. He ignored her. Didn’t kick her out, but didn’t let her in either.
So she left. But come the weekend, she went back.
He opened the door.
“Hi, George. I came to say… I’ve met someone else. He’s a widower. Don’t know where it’s headed yet. But… be happy.”
And she walked away.
George just stood there, stunned. The woman he’d rebuilt his life for—gone, leaving him right where he’d started. Alone.
Funny, isn’t it? The brightest love can crumble over a single doubt, one phone call, a grudge left to fester. The past doesn’t forgive if you drag it along. Sooner or later, it taps you on the shoulder—and takes everything back.
