One wrong choice—paying for it a lifetime.
Angela trudged down a rainy autumn street in London, dragging a heavy suitcase behind her. The wind tangled her hair, and the cold drizzle soaked through her coat. Every step ached—her heels were rubbed raw. But nothing hurt as much as her heart.
*How did I let this happen?* she whispered, staring at the puddles. *How could I have been so stupid?*
Six years with William. The promises, the trips, living in his flat, the gifts, the flowers… And now? A suitcase, the pavement, an empty bank account, and not a penny from the man who swore he’d always take care of her. Just tossed her out. Just said, *I’ve met someone else.*
Angela didn’t cry. Too proud to humiliate herself like that. But inside? A black hole.
Walking past a cosy café, she couldn’t resist—she needed warmth, stillness. She stepped in, ordered black coffee and a couple of custard tarts, then sat by the window. For the first time all day, she actually sat. Looked around. The place was packed—women chatting with friends, couples, an elderly pair. And by the window—a man in a sharp suit, focused on his laptop. Businesslike. Successful.
Angela nearly dropped her mug. It was him. *Peter.*
The same Peter she’d left seven years ago for Will. Back then, he lived with his gran, wore second-hand shirts, saved up for coding boot camps, and begged her to wait—*just a bit longer, it’ll all work out.* But she hadn’t wanted to wait. Hadn’t wanted a life in that cramped flat with ticking clocks that smelled like medicine. She’d wanted *better.* Wanted it *now.*
And now? Peter—grown, confident, polished. Clearly doing well. Angela stared, her coffee long forgotten. Memories flashed: evenings on his tiny kitchen floor, sipping tea. His gran, kind and soft-spoken. Peter making her scrambled eggs, calling her *my princess.*
She bit her lip. This was her chance. Maybe he wasn’t married. Maybe he’d remember. Maybe he’d forgive.
She stood. Made it halfway across the room. Her heart hammered, her knees weak. Then—a bright voice cut through.
*Daddy! Daddy!*
Peter turned. A little girl, maybe five, dashed to him. Behind her—a stunning woman with long waves. He scooped up his daughter, kissed his wife, led them to his table.
Angela froze. Then turned on her heel, walked back to her seat. Suitcase. Custard tarts. Cold coffee. Her chest ached so badly she could’ve screamed.
The mistake. The big one. Leaving someone who loved you for a fantasy. For smooth words from a man who’d toss you out like rubbish.
Now Peter had everything. And she? Nothing. No home, no love, no future. Just memories and a suitcase.
She stepped outside, shut the café door behind her, and finally understood—real mistakes aren’t choosing the wrong person. They’re not cherishing the ones who truly loved you.
