**”Sorry It Turned Out This Way”**
I paused by the bathroom door, my voice tense. “Oliver, are you sure you have everything? Should I double-check?”
“Ellie, stop! I packed everything—suitcase and all. You saw it,” he called over the shower’s noise. But his voice… it wavered. Or was I imagining it?
“I saw the suitcase. Not what you stuffed inside,” I muttered, stepping back.
“Ellie, make me a coffee, would you? Strong. No milk,” he added smoothly, turning off the water.
I went to the kitchen, silently pulling out the French press, measuring the grounds, adding a pinch of salt—just how he liked it. We have a coffee machine, but Oliver adores the coffee I make. “You take such good care of me,” he’d said just last night, coming home late and finding dinner wrapped in a towel to keep warm, an old habit from my nan.
Lately, he’d been staying later—supposedly at work. Building his career. Prepping for a promotion. And I? I played the supportive wife. Cooking, ironing, biting my tongue.
“Divine scent of a divine brew!” Oliver strode in, shaking damp hair from his forehead. He reached for the mug, settling at the table.
“Ellie, there’s a delivery coming today—car seat covers. Can you handle it? Cash on delivery,” he said, stirring in sugar.
“Of course. Business as usual,” I sat across from him.
“Terrible timing for this trip,” he sighed. “But I can’t say no. Big opportunity—Senior Manager isn’t just a title.”
“Right… Didn’t think regional travel came with the role.”
“Boss’s whims. Anyway, I’ve got half an hour. Need to check emails.”
He left, mug abandoned. Fine. He’s wound tight—what can you expect?
I reached for his cup, and my phone buzzed—a message. I opened it.
*”Ellie, Oliver’s lying. It’s not a work trip. He’s flying to Italy with Jessica Whitmore. Stop him before he ruins his life.”*
Sophie. His little sister.
Something snapped in my head. *Jessica?* No. A joke? But Sophie doesn’t joke like this. And she’d never lie.
The room spun. The air turned thick as cement. I gulped water, sinking back into the chair.
I wanted to scream. Shatter everything. But one thought looped: *Why?*
I clenched my fists. I could storm in, unleash hell, tear off the mask. But… no. He didn’t deserve the drama.
Let him go. I’ll give him a surprise—not with words, but action.
Opened the banking app. Joint account: £87,000. Three grand already gone. *My* money. My freelance earnings, my late nights. And he… used my savings to whisk his ex away.
I knew about Jessica. Oliver had mentioned her, Sophie too. Secondary-school sweetheart, flighty thing. Left him twice—first for some rich bloke, then another “promising” type. Now she’s back. And Oliver fell for it. Again.
He could’ve been honest: *”Ellie, I’m in love with someone else. Sorry.”* It’d hurt, sure. But not like this. Instead? A rat, sneaking away with lies and stolen cash.
Fine. I’ll take the rest. Today. Every penny. Then, divorce papers. His things? Courier to his parents’.
Checked my calendar—noon tomorrow, a big client pitch. If it goes well? Holiday. Not Italy. Portugal, maybe. Somewhere his feet have never touched.
“Ellie, I’m off. Traffic’s bad, so leaving early,” he reappeared, tie straightened, hair gelled.
“Bye. Safe trip,” I rasped, gripping the mug.
“Why the tone?”
“Must be your imagination.”
“I’ll miss you…”
“Doubt you’ll have time.”
“Not seeing me out?”
“I’ll wash up instead.”
“Right. Later.”
*”Later.”*
The door slammed. Oliver had no idea he’d just walked out for good. Tomorrow, new locks.
I crumpled onto the chair, sobbing—ugly, gasping tears. Betrayal. Humiliation.
Another message from Sophie: *”Ellie, you okay?”*
I wiped my face, dialed her.
“Soph, how’d you know?”
“Jessica’s mate let it slip. She sniffed around Oliver again. Ellie, I’m sorry—”
“Thanks for telling me. I didn’t stop him. Let him crash and burn.”
“He’s a fool. She’ll wreck him a third time.”
“His choice. Soph, don’t tell him I know.”
“Wouldn’t bother. He’s dead to me.”
“Cheers. Let’s stay in touch. Even after the divorce.”
“Course, Ellie. Stay strong.”
Back to the app. Another £7,000 gone. *Hurry!* No. Calm. Transfer the lot to Mum. *My* mum. He’s lost all rights.
“Mum, sending you £80,000. He took the rest.”
“Love, what’s happened?”
“Splitting up. He’s off to Italy with her.”
“Christ… Ellie, breathe. We’ve got you. You’ll heal.”
“No, Mum. Not hunting for ‘the one.’ Maybe just… a baby. On my own.”
“Well… that’s an option. Aunt Carol’s nephew’s single, by the way—”
“Mum. Not now.”
“Alright, darling. Just don’t despair.”
I hung up. Pulled myself together. Tomorrow’s a new day. Oliver’s gone, but I’m still here. Whole. Real. And my future’s mine—no lies, no betrayal. Just me.
