Mirage
At dinner, his father kept throwing disapproving glances at his son. Ethan knew—his mother must have told him about his plan to study at a London university after finishing school.
His father abruptly pushed his empty plate away and fixed Ethan with a hard stare. “Here it comes,” Ethan thought. He wished he could vanish into the floor under the weight of that glare. The spaghetti lodged in his throat, impossible to swallow or spit out.
His mother rescued him, distracting his father by setting a mug of tea in front of him and nudging a plate of biscuits closer.
“Thanks, Mum, I’m full. I’ll have tea later,” Ethan said, rising from the table.
“Sit down!” his father barked.
Ethan knew better than to argue. He sat back down.
“I’ve got homework…” he began.
“That can wait. Your mother says you’re set on London. What’s wrong with here? We raised you, thought you’d be here to help us in our old age, and now you’re running off?”
“I’m not running away…” Ethan muttered.
“Don’t give me that. What’s so special about London, then?”
“There’s more opportunity there. I want to be an architect—they don’t have that course here,” Ethan fired back, raising his voice.
“David, let him go. His teachers say he’s brilliant,” his mother murmured, resting a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“We can’t afford tuition. Everything there costs money—here it’s free. Understand that?” his father snapped.
“I’ll get a scholarship,” Ethan said stubbornly. “I’m going anyway.”
“David, calm down. It’s not like he’s leaving tomorrow—exams are still ahead. Go on, love, do your homework.” His mother gave him a subtle nod toward the door. Ethan didn’t need telling twice and slipped out of the kitchen.
“Stop coddling him! We’ve raised a selfish lad. Who’ll look after us when we’re old?”
Ethan froze outside his room, gripping the doorknob, listening.
“Stop it. You’re not old yet. London’s just two hours by train—he’ll visit…”
His father grumbled something unintelligible.
“Drink your tea before it gets cold. Sugar?”
“For God’s sake, don’t treat me like a child—I can do it myself,” his father snapped.
The storm had passed. Ethan shut himself in his room, heart pounding. Late March—two more months of school, then exams, but none of it mattered. He was going to London. A life of endless possibilities awaited him. He’d make something of himself…
After graduation, Ethan and his mother traveled to the city to submit his applications. His mother’s cousin—a plain, bitter woman—greeted them coldly. She complained about every relative flocking to London, as if she had endless space…
“Fine, he can stay. But I’ve got high blood pressure—need my sleep. No late nights, no guests. I’ll do breakfast, share dinner, but lunch is on you,” she laid out the rules. His mother just nodded.
“How much for rent?” she asked carefully, hoping her cousin would refuse out of family pride. But no such luck.
“You know how it is. London’s not some backwater. Life’s expensive here. Don’t take it personally…” She named a sum that might as well have been a million to them.
His mother gasped, exchanging a glance with Ethan.
“Mum, I’d rather stay in halls—”
“Don’t be silly, love. How’d you study there? We’ll manage. Your father and I will send money. Just focus on your degree.”
“Listen to her, acting like she’s lived here forever,” his mother sighed on the train home. “Don’t tell your father about the rent. I’ll handle it.”
Ethan got in. He arrived in London early to settle in. Commuting from the outskirts would mean long, tiresome journeys. But this was London!
He left the house at dawn, wandering the city until late. The view from Primrose Hill stole his breath—the sprawling skyline, the pulse of the capital. A group of tourists paused nearby, a pretty young guide pointing out landmarks.
Ethan edged closer to listen. She noticed but didn’t shoo him away. When the group left, she lingered, checking her phone.
“You’re a great guide,” he said.
She smiled. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“That’s obvious?”
“Newcomers always have that look—equal parts lost and dazzled.”
He confessed he’d come to study, though living on the outskirts didn’t feel like real London. It still felt like his small hometown. They talked, wandering until they’d left the hill behind without realizing.
“I live nearby,” she said suddenly. “Tired? Come up for tea. I’ve got time before picking my daughter up from nursery.” She laughed at his stunned face.
Her name was Diana. She was nearly twice his age. She fed him soup, poured tea. He didn’t want to leave.
“Can I visit again?” he asked at the door.
She studied him—not mocking, not patronizing—just thoughtful.
“Come by,” she said simply.
He lasted a day. On the third, he stood outside her building, hesitating. Then he saw her with her daughter, Sophie. He stammered excuses about being “in the area,” but Diana saw through him. While he played with Sophie, she cooked. They ate together. The girl clung to him, begging him to read her a bedtime story.
Then… It was too late to go back to his cousin’s.
“Stay,” Diana said.
He stayed. He told his parents he’d moved into a flat with a classmate—his father paying the rent to avoid the brutal commute. No need for extra money. But his mother still smuggled small sums to his account.
During holidays, he visited home. But he counted the days until he could return to Diana. His hometown now felt stifling.
Ethan often collected Sophie from nursery, played with her. Weekends were for exploring the city—cinema trips, long walks. Guilt gnawed at him for relying on Diana. After his first year, he switched to part-time studies and found work. What began as one night stretched into years.
By his third year, he met Lily—a vivacious, stunning girl. Soon, he was staying out late, avoiding Diana’s eyes, blaming work. She’d nod sadly and reheat his dinner. At night, he turned away, feigning exhaustion, dreaming of golden-haired Lily.
“You’ve met someone,” Diana said one evening. “You’re free—this was never marriage.”
He admitted he’d fallen in love—hadn’t known how to tell her. Relief washed over him—no more lying to Lily. Or to her, he read in Diana’s eyes.
He packed his things—so many more now—and left. Halfway down the stairs, he braced for the slam of the door. It never came. Diana stood on the landing, listening to his retreating footsteps…
Outside, he gasped for air, hating his own cowardice. He rushed to the Tube, justifying himself: the age gap, the lack of promises. Lily was young, intoxicating. By the time he reached the station, he was free—thinking only of her.
Now he could court Lily openly. He did. He slept in a storeroom at work. When her parents were out, he’d shower at hers, do laundry. They became intimate. When her parents found out, Lily was already pregnant. Polite, middle-class, they skipped the shouting—just fast-tracked a wedding. Ethan never told his parents. He hadn’t visited in ages.
In their large house, he felt like a guest—unlike Diana’s home. His in-laws noted his flaws, gently but condescendingly. He knew they tolerated him for Lily’s sake. Her father got him a job at his firm. Lily was used to luxury.
Ethan had dreamed of architecture. Now he pushed papers. He grew sullen, irritable. The passion faded—they had nothing in common. Without the baby, he’d have walked away.
Then, on the way to a check-up, a scooter hit Lily. She lost consciousness—then the baby. She shut down, refused to see him. He felt the blame in everyone’s eyes.
More and more, he remembered Diana. He dreaded going home. After work, he wandered or sat in cafés. One evening, his feet carried him to Diana’s street. A woman held the door—he caught it, raced up the stairs.
When she answered, she didn’t seem surprised.
“Lost, or here on purpose?” she teased, but her eyes were warm.
“I came to see you. Both of you,” he corrected.
“You’ve changed. Grown up,” she said, setting the table.
“Where’s Sophie?”
“Dance class. She’ll be back soon.”
“You haven’t changed,” he murmured, pulling her close…
Later, in bed, he confessed:He buried his face in her hair, whispering, “I should never have left,” and for the first time in years, the world felt real again.
