By the time he turned fifty, Simon Whitmore had scarcely a silver hair upon his head—yet a devil had taken up residence between his ribs, and its name was Lillian. He met her by chance when he stopped by the university to visit an old colleague, a trivial errand with fateful consequences.
She stood by the window, sunlight dancing like liquid gold in her hair. Emerald eyes, a slender frame thrumming with life and defiance… Simon, a man long past boyhood, suddenly felt young again. To him, Lillian was every dream made flesh—a fairy, a siren, a nymph. In truth, she was just a bright-eyed student, but that realisation came much later. In that moment, he was enchanted.
He had never felt such passion, not even for his wife, Margaret, in their earliest days. Behind them lay thirty years of marriage, two grown children, a shared history, a home, and rare arguments. All of it dissolved in an instant the moment he saw Lillian.
She didn’t resist the attentions of her older admirer. On the contrary—she encouraged them. To her, Simon was an opportunity. Born into modest means, barely scraping into university, she longed to stay in the city. And Simon was her ticket in.
“He’s ancient!” hissed her flatmate, Charlotte. “Have you lost your mind? Could you even live with him?”
“Hardly ancient,” Lillian scoffed. “Energetic, well-off, head over heels. Just watch—he’ll propose soon enough.”
Simon fell deeply in love. He was tender, generous, devoted. But not once—not a single time—did he mention divorce. Lillian waited, hoped. Her plan was simple: Simon’s children were grown, his wife was settled—why shouldn’t they marry? But then, Simon began to tire. A younger lover’s pace was not for a man of his years. He wanted discreet meetings, perhaps once a week, and the rest of the time—home, where comfort, shepherd’s pie, and dear Margaret awaited.
Lillian grew impatient.
“Why can’t we move in together? You’ve got that other flat!”
“Tenants,” he lied. In truth, it was empty—he and Margaret had planned renovations. But turning it into a love nest was never his intention.
“Then rent another one! You’re a grown man!”
Their fights grew louder. Then came the blow.
“I’m pregnant, Alex,” she said (yes, that’s what she called him). “Aren’t you happy?”
Simon froze. He had returned early from a business trip, ready to end things—and now, a child.
“But you said you were on the pill—”
“Nothing’s foolproof! I thought you’d be thrilled!”
He wasn’t thrilled. He was terrified. But he stayed. The child was born—a boy, Oliver. Simon helped: money, attention, visits. But Lillian wanted more.
“I’m sick of being hidden! Either you tell your wife, or I will!”
Before he could decide, Lillian took charge. Days later, Margaret confronted him:
“So, you’ve got a child and plans to remarry? Is it true?”
“Maggie, it’s not like that—I can explain—”
“Let me be clear: I won’t grant a divorce,” she said calmly. “I didn’t spend thirty years building a family just to hand it over to some student.”
Simon felt relief—not because he’d avoided separation, but because she still wanted them.
“I love you, Maggie. Forgive me. It was madness—I don’t know what came over me—”
“But the child isn’t to blame,” she added. “We’ll take him in. And you’ll cut ties with her—for good. Then I’ll forgive you. Truly.”
Simon couldn’t believe his ears. But Margaret, ever the strategist, had it all arranged. Exhausted, alone, Lillian gladly handed Oliver over when Simon offered:
“I want him with us. You can return to your studies, your life. We’ll manage.”
“Fine,” she said flatly. “Just don’t come crying later.”
Custody was settled quickly—the father acknowledged, the mother compliant. Oliver moved in. Margaret cared for him, though coolly. Simon hoped time would soften her. A year passed.
Then—thunder from a clear sky.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Margaret announced, fresh off a business trip. “I’ve met someone else. He makes me happy.”
“Who the hell is *someone else*?”
“Edward. He lives out of town, but he’s moving here. You keep the flat. It’s only fair.”
“But you said—”
“That was before I knew what love really was. I’m sorry.”
She left. Leaving him with Oliver and the past. He tried to win Lillian back, but she only laughed:
“You got what you wanted, Alex. And I got my freedom. Enjoy it. I’m getting married soon.”
So he was alone. With a son he’d grown to love. Without a wife, without a mistress, but with the quiet certainty that perhaps—just perhaps—this was justice.
