One Mistake, a Lifetime of Regret
Eleanor trudged down a rainy street in London, dragging a heavy suitcase behind her. The wind whipped at her hair, and a cold drizzle soaked through her coat. Every step ached—her heels had blistered long ago—but nothing hurt as much as the sting in her heart.
*How did it come to this?* she whispered to herself, staring at her reflection in the puddles. *How could I have been so foolish?*
Six years with William. The promises, the trips, the life in his flat, the gifts, the bouquets… And now? Just a suitcase, the pavement, an empty bank account, and not a penny from the man who swore he’d always take care of her. He’d simply kicked her out. Just like that. *”I’ve met someone else.”*
Eleanor didn’t cry. She had too much pride for that. But inside—she was shattered.
Passing a cosy café, she gave in. She needed warmth. Quiet. She stepped inside, ordered a black coffee and a couple of éclairs, then took a seat by the window. For the first time all day, she sat. She glanced around. The place was busy—women chatting with friends, couples whispering, an elderly pair sharing cake. And then, near the window—a man in a sharp suit, typing on a laptop, looking every bit the successful businessman.
Her breath caught. It was *him*. Oliver.
The same Oliver she’d left seven years ago for William. Back then, he lived with his gran, wore second-hand shirts, and saved every pound for coding courses. He’d begged her to be patient—said their time would come. But she hadn’t wanted to wait. She hadn’t wanted a cramped flat, the ticking of an old cuckoo clock, the scent of painkillers in the air. She’d wanted *the good life*. Right then.
And now here he was—refined, confident, well-dressed. Clearly doing well for himself. Eleanor stared, forgetting her coffee, her dessert. Memories flashed before her: evenings spent talking over tea in his kitchen, his gentle gran, Oliver making her scrambled eggs and calling her *his princess*.
She bit her lip. Here was her chance. Maybe he wasn’t married? Maybe he’d remember her? Maybe—just maybe—he’d forgive her?
She stood. Crossed half the room. Her heart hammered, her legs trembled. Then—a bright, cheerful voice stopped her cold.
*”Daddy! Daddy!”*
Oliver turned. A little girl, no older than five, dashed toward him. A striking woman with long hair followed behind. He swept his daughter up, kissed his wife’s cheek. Then he led them to his table.
Eleanor froze. Then slowly, silently, she turned back. Her suitcase. Her uneaten éclairs. Her lukewarm coffee. A crushing weight pressed against her ribs—she wanted to scream.
A mistake. *The* mistake. You don’t toss away someone who truly loves you for an illusion. For smooth words from a man who discards you just as easily.
Now Oliver was happy. And she? She had nothing. No home, no love, no future. Just memories. And a suitcase.
She stepped outside, the café door shutting behind her. And suddenly, she understood: the real mistake wasn’t choosing the wrong man—it was choosing not to treasure the one who’d loved her properly.
