One Mistake—A Lifetime to Pay
Angela shuffled down the drizzle-slicked streets of Manchester, dragging a battered suitcase behind her. The wind clawed at her hair, the icy rain needled her skin, and every step sent a fresh stab of pain through her heels—raw and blistered from her foolish choice of shoes. But nothing hurt as much as her heart.
“How did I get here?” she whispered, staring into the murky puddles. “How could I have been so blind?”
Six years with William. Promises, holidays, shared keys to his flat, gifts, flowers… and now—just a suitcase, the pavement, an empty bank account, and not a penny from the man who’d vowed to cherish her. Just a cold dismissal. Just a shrug and the words, “I’ve met someone else.”
Angela didn’t cry. She had too much pride for that. But inside, she was hollow.
A cosy café glowed in the grey afternoon. The warmth, the hum of voices—it pulled her in. She ordered a black coffee and a couple of scones, collapsing into a seat by the window. For the first time all day, she sat. The place was alive—women chatting, couples leaning close, an elderly pair sharing tea. And there, by the window, a man in a sharp suit, bent over a laptop, all focus and purpose.
Angela nearly dropped her cup. It was him. Peter.
The same Peter she’d left seven years ago for William. Back then, he’d lived with his gran, worn threadbare jumpers, saved every pound for coding courses, and begged her to wait—just a little longer. But she hadn’t wanted to wait. Hadn’t wanted a life in that old flat with its ticking grandfather clock and the scent of cough drops. She’d wanted glamour. She’d wanted it now.
And here he was. Grown. Assured. Successful, by the looks of it. Angela stared, her coffee forgotten. Memories flickered—their evenings cramped in that tiny kitchen, sipping tea; his gran, soft-spoken and kind; Peter scrambling eggs for her, calling her “my princess.”
Her lips pressed tight. Here was her chance. Maybe he wasn’t married. Maybe he’d remember. Maybe he’d forgive.
She stood. Crossed half the room. Her heart hammered, her legs weak. Then—a voice, bright and clear:
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Peter looked up. A little girl, no older than five, raced toward him. Behind her, a woman with sleek chestnut hair. He swept his daughter into his arms, kissed his wife’s cheek, led them to his table.
Angela froze. Then turned, silent, back to her seat. The suitcase. The scones. The coffee gone cold. Her chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.
A mistake. The worst kind. Leaving someone who truly loved you for a mirage. For pretty words that meant nothing in the end.
Now Peter was happy. And she was nothing. No home. No love. No future. Just ghosts and a suitcase in her hand.
She stepped outside, the door clicking shut behind her. And suddenly, she understood: the real mistake wasn’t choosing the wrong person. It was failing to treasure the one who’d loved you right.
