My name is Anna Collins, and I reside in York, where the ancient walls hold stories of the past. When I found myself in the arms of my colleague, Tom, my heart sang with joy. At that moment, I dreamed of being his one and only, his beloved. With time, that dream came true, albeit with a bitter taste, as I had to share him with his wife, Mary.
I had just joined our company and was immediately sent on a business trip to London with Tom. We were tasked with closing a significant deal. We succeeded wonderfully, and afterward, Tom suggested, “Shall we have a glass of wine to celebrate? These deals don’t come by often.” I happily agreed. We sat in the hotel bar, ordered whiskey, and the alcohol loosened our tongues. The conversation flowed easily, and suddenly he kissed me. I was taken aback but did not push him away. In the elevator, he pulled me to him with such passion that I didn’t resist—his breath was more intoxicating than the whiskey. That night in his room became magical, unforgettable, full of fire.
Back in York, I couldn’t keep it to myself and confided in my colleague, Jane, whom I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall for him!” she sharply warned. “Why?” I was surprised. “He’s married.” Those words hit me like thunder. Tom was only 27, and I couldn’t believe he was already settled down—these days, men rarely marry so young. I asked him directly, and he was honest: “Yes, I’ve been married for a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetups at a flat he’d inherited turned into a secret ritual. Each day, I sank deeper into his charm.
One Sunday morning, lying beside him, I decided to be bold: “Tom, get a divorce. You’ll be happier with me than with her.” He looked at me with sadness: “I love you, but I can’t.” “Why?” I blurted out. “She’s seriously ill.” I froze. “What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice trembled. “She has breast cancer. We just found out. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut deep, but I understood: in such a moment, she needed him. I felt sorry for Mary. When he said she was set for surgery on Thursday, I prayed for her sincerely, to tears. After her discharge, Tom and I stopped seeing each other—I knew he belonged by his wife’s side.
Four months passed. Tom never asked to meet me. I questioned him about this. “Mary is still unwell, and she might need another operation,” he replied wearily. “I understand your pain, but think of me too,” I whispered. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s figure something out over the weekend.” We met at the same flat that Saturday. The night was hot, full of passion. But before leaving, I brought up divorce again. His face darkened: “I’ll never do that. She’s my boss’s sister.” I was stunned. “So that’s it! And the cancer?” He said nothing and left, slamming the door to avoid further argument.
A few days later, a tall brunette appeared at the office, asking for Tom. Jane escorted her to his office. “Who’s she?” I whispered to Jane later. “His wife,” she replied. I concocted a reason to enter, supposedly for paperwork, to see her. Mary didn’t just look healthy—she radiated beauty, confidence, elegance. I felt like a plain sparrow beside her. Returning, I asked Jane, “Have you heard she’s ill with cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense, everyone would know,” she cut me off. It hit me then: he’d been lying from the start.
Soon, I started feeling weak and nauseated. I complained to Jane, and she suggested, “Could you be pregnant?” I brushed it off, but the test showed two lines. The doctor confirmed: two months along. I was in shock. I remembered that night—we hadn’t used protection. I was torn: should I keep the child or not? I called Tom. “Get an abortion!” he blurted coldly. “No, I won’t,” I retorted. “Then I’ll make sure you’re fired,” he threatened. “You can’t scare me!” I responded defiantly. To spite him, I decided to have the baby. I thought he was bluffing, but no—I was dismissed. A friend got me a job as a cashier at her brother’s bookstore. He was reluctant to hire a pregnant woman but took pity on me.
My daughter was born seven months along—weak but alive. I named her Sarah, after her father, Tom, whom I never told. And perhaps I never will. He betrayed me, abandoned me at the scariest time when I was alone with a child and no job. I see his face in dreams—handsome, deceitful—and my heart aches. He chose his wife, his career, and erased me like an unwanted page. But I didn’t break. I’m raising my daughter, fighting for her, even though every day is a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies, and I’ll live for Sarah—my light in this darkness.
