— Why on earth did you tell me all this? — Irene asked quietly, her voice unfamiliar even to herself.
— I don’t know, — Joan replied just as hollowly.
She seemed about to say more but faltered under Irene’s gaze—sharp, guarded, piercing. The kind of look reserved for someone you no longer trust.
That Friday, like every other after work, Irene and Joan had gone to their usual café. It was a ritual years in the making: a glass of wine, warm chatter, laughter, the occasional tear. Just two women, weary of life, family, the daily grind. Here, at their usual table by the window, they could be themselves.
But that evening, everything went wrong.
Without warning, Irene sprang up, glowing with excitement, and blurted, “Sorry, just a minute!” before darting outside. Joan, bemused, raised an eyebrow and watched her go.
Through the glass, she saw Irene hugging another woman—slim, polished, with a gentle smile. Joan froze.
A second passed. Then another. The woman’s face clicked in her memory, and a chill gripped Joan’s chest.
She knew her.
When Irene returned, the air had shifted. Joan forced a smile. “Who was that?”
“Oh, just Veronica. My cousin. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just… thought I recognised her.”
“You know her? I could introduce you properly, if you like. She’s wonderful!”
“No!” Joan’s voice cracked, too loud, too sharp. A few heads turned. “Sorry… it’s fine. Don’t bother.”
Irene frowned. “What’s going on?”
Joan dropped her gaze, hands clenched under the table. “Irene… Veronica was married. His name was David, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. So?”
“He was with me. I’m the one who wrecked their marriage.”
Everything Irene knew about Veronica’s divorce had come from her cousin’s lips. Infidelity. Heartbreak. A quiet, miserable split. Pain, unbearable and unspoken.
Now came the confession—from Joan. Her friend. The woman she’d trusted.
Joan spoke as if unravelling a knot that had festered for years. “Veronica and I were childhood friends. Grew up together—the same street, same school, same uni. Then she met David. At first, I was happy for her. But then… I lost my head. His smile, his voice… he held me at their wedding, just dancing. And I felt it—like falling. I didn’t even realise what was happening. I just knew: I wanted him. Being Veronica’s friend wasn’t enough. I wanted to be her rival.”
First, it was glances. Then touches. Then late-night walks. Then—when Veronica was in hospital—I went to help. Left as her husband’s mistress.
He came to me. I thought it was the start of something new. Instead, it was hell.
David compared us. Judged me. Blamed me. Said how perfect Veronica was, how I’d never measure up. On their anniversary, he’d drink and cry. Always cry.
I lived in illusions until I understood: he never loved me. I was just a place to hide. Never a home.
Irene listened, lips pressed tight, hands trembling. All those years of friendship—late-night talks, advice, comfort—with someone who’d betrayed her family. Shattered her cousin’s heart.
“Did you know Veronica was my cousin?” she asked, voice low.
Joan shook her head. “No. Not until now. And whatever you say next… I’ll take it. I deserved this. I knew it years ago.”
Irene stood. “Then we’re done. Goodbye, Joan. Good luck.”
Joan went home to chaos—scattered clothes, wine on the table, dirty plates. David had been there. And not alone.
In the bedroom, a girl—young, asleep.
Joan turned and walked silently to the kitchen. David appeared soon after, drunk, wearing her dressing gown.
“Go on. Scream. Cry. I don’t care. I’m leaving. For good.”
“Then pack your things. And get out.”
He hadn’t expected that. He’d braced for a scene—tears, begging. That was her role.
But she didn’t cry. The tears had dried long ago. Only emptiness pulsed inside her.
Irene told Veronica everything. Her cousin listened in silence. Then, finally:
“Joan died to me years ago. So did David. I forgave them. But they’ll never be part of my life again. Forgiveness is easy. Trusting them? Impossible.”
