**Mirage**
At dinner, his father kept throwing disapproving glances at his son. Oliver knew instantly—his mother must have told him about wanting to study at a London university after finishing school.
His father shoved his empty plate away abruptly and fixed Oliver with a hard stare. “Here it comes,” Oliver thought. He wished the floor would swallow him whole or that he could vanish into thin air. Under that glare, the spaghetti in his throat turned to stone—impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.
His mother rescued him. She distracted his father, placing a steaming mug of tea in front of him and nudging the biscuit tin closer.
“Thanks, Mum, I’m full. I’ll have tea later,” Oliver said, rising from the table.
“Sit down!” his father barked.
Oliver knew better than to argue, so he sank back into his chair.
“I’ve got homework…” he tried.
“It can wait. Your mother says you’re planning to run off to London. What’s wrong with here? We raised you, thought you’d help us in our old age, and now you want to bolt?”
“I’m not running away…” Oliver muttered.
“Pull the other one. What’s so special about London, eh?”
“There are more opportunities there. I want to be an architect—they don’t offer that course here.” Oliver’s voice rose in frustration.
“Jim, let him go. His teachers say he’s bright,” his mother said soothingly, resting a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“We can’t afford it. Everything’s paid there—here it’s free. See the difference?” His father’s temper flared.
“I’ll get a grant,” Oliver insisted. “I’m going either way.”
“Jim, calm down. It’s not tomorrow—exams are still months away. Go on, love, do your homework.” His mother flicked her eyes toward the door. Oliver didn’t need telling twice.
“Stop coddling him! Raised him for nothing. Won’t even fetch us a glass of water when we’re old…”
Oliver froze at his bedroom door, fingers gripping the handle as he listened.
“Calm down. It’s too soon to talk about old age. London’s just two hours by train—he’ll visit…”
His father grumbled something incoherent.
“Drink your tea before it’s cold. Sugar?” his mother asked.
“Don’t treat me like a child. I can manage,” his father snapped irritably.
The storm had passed. Oliver shut himself in his room, heart singing. Late March—two more months of school, then exams. None of it mattered. London awaited him, a life teeming with promise. He’d make something of himself…
After graduation, Oliver and his mother traveled to London to submit his applications. His mother’s cousin, a plain, solitary woman, greeted them coldly. She scoffed about the hordes flocking to the city—as if London could stretch forever.
“Fine, he can stay. Company for me. But I’ve got high blood pressure—need my sleep. No late nights, no guests. Breakfast and dinner I’ll share—lunch is on you.” His aunt laid down the rules while his mother nodded silently.
“How much for the room?” his mother ventured, hoping she’d take offense or refuse. Money between family? No such luck.
“You know how it is. This is London—not your little…” Her lips twisted. “Life’s expensive here. Don’t take it personally.” She named a sum that might as well have been a king’s ransom back home.
His mother gasped, exchanging a glance with Oliver.
“Mum, I’d rather stay in halls…”
“Don’t be silly. How would you study? Dad and I will send money—don’t worry. Just focus.”
“Listen to you. Since when did London make you so uppity?” On the train home, his mother sighed. “Don’t tell your father about the money. I’ll handle him.”
Oliver got in. He arrived in London days before term started, eager to explore. Commuting from the outskirts would be a slog, but—this was London!
He left early each morning, wandering until dusk. At Primrose Hill, the view stole his breath. A tour group stopped nearby, their guide—a young, striking woman—beginning her spiel.
Oliver edged closer. She noticed but didn’t shoo him away. When the group left, she lingered, scrolling through her phone.
“You’re a great speaker,” he said.
She smiled. “Where are you from?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Newcomers always have that look—lost and dazzled.”
Oliver confessed he was here to study, though living on the outskirts felt no different from home. They wandered off the hill deep in conversation.
“I live nearby,” she said suddenly. “Tired? Come up for tea. I’ve got time before collecting my daughter from nursery.” She laughed at his startled face.
Her name was Diana. Nearly twice his age. She fed him soup, poured tea. Oliver melted into the warmth, reluctant to leave.
“Can I visit again?” he asked at the door.
Diana studied him—not mocking, not pitying—just looking.
“Come by,” she said simply.
He lasted one day before returning on the third. Looming outside her building, he nearly bolted—then spotted her with her daughter, Lily. He fumbled excuses, but Diana saw through him instantly. While he played with Lily, she cooked. They ate together. The girl threw a tantrum, demanding Oliver read her a bedtime story.
Then… it was too late to trek back to his aunt’s.
“Stay,” Diana said.
He did. He lied to his parents—a shared flat with a classmate, paid for by his father. No need for extra money (though his mother still slipped him secret transfers).
On holidays, he visited home, counting days until London. His hometown now felt cramped, dull.
Oliver often collected Lily from nursery, took her to parks. Weekends were for cinemas and museums. Guilt gnawed at him—after first year, he switched to part-time studies, found work. What began as one night stretched into years.
By third year, he met Emma—lively, gorgeous. Evenings grew longer. “Work’s busy,” he’d murmur, avoiding Diana’s eyes. She’d nod sadly, reheating his dinner. Nights, he’d turn away, “too tired,” dreaming of golden-haired Emma.
“Is there someone else?” Diana asked one evening. “You’re free—I’m not your wife.”
Oliver admitted it, relieved to end the deceit. He saw the unspoken “And me” in her eyes.
Packing his things (far more than he’d arrived with), he left. Halfway down the stairs, he braced for the slam of the door—but heard nothing. Diana stood listening until his footsteps faded.
Outside, he gulped air, hating his cowardice. The tube swallowed him whole. He justified it—the age gap, the lack of promises. Emma was young, intoxicating. Finally, he breathed easy, thinking only of her.
Now he could court Emma properly. He did. A storeroom at work became his home. At Emma’s (when her parents were out), he showered, washed clothes. Of course, they slept together. When her parents found out, Emma was already pregnant. Polite people, they wed them swiftly, no fuss. Oliver didn’t tell his parents. He hadn’t visited in ages.
In their spacious flat, he felt a guest—unlike Diana’s. Her parents noted his missteps, kindly but condescending. Tolerated for Emma’s sake. Her father gave him a job at his firm.
Oliver had dreamed of architecture—now he pushed paper. Irritable, sullen. Passion fizzled fast—he and Emma were nothing alike. Without the baby, he’d have left.
Then, on the way to a scan, a scooter knocked Emma down. She lost consciousness—then the baby. She shut down, shut him out. He felt their silent blame.
Diana haunted him—their trio of a life. He dawdled after work, haunting cafés. One evening, his feet led him to her door. A neighbor held it open. He took the stairs three at a time.
When she answered, she didn’t seem surprised.
“Lost or just nostalgic?” she teased—but her eyes lit up.
“I came to see you.” He corrected: “To see you both.”
“You’ve grown up,” she said, setting the table.
“Where’s Lily?”
“Dance class. Back in an hour.”
“You haven’t changed.” He pulled her close…
In bed, he confessed: tired, adrift.
“Emma’s parents sent her to the coast. I can’t stand them. Her father’s firm—it’s meaningless.”
“That bad?” Diana asked.
“We’re nothing alike. Love was a wave—it’s gone now. I’m a stranger there. Here, with you, I’m home.”
He spent Emma’s month away with Diana. Emma returned revived. Her parentsThe wave of luck he chased had always been beside him, but like a mirage, he only saw it when it was gone.
