Lives unfold in different ways. Some are fortunate to find their one true love early, while others stumble upon it only after heartbreak, divorce, and the crushing weight of lost hope.
James belonged to the latter. He met his future wife, Emma, at university. Pretty and reserved, she had come from a small provincial town to study. James took to her immediately—though he himself was unremarkable, an average bloke. For a long time, Emma showed no interest.
But in their final year, as many of their classmates found partners—some even marrying and starting families—Emma suddenly relented. James was over the moon. He proposed almost at once, and to his delight, she accepted.
His mother, Margaret, understood the truth: Emma had no desire to return to her backwater hometown. Marriage to James meant settling in a bustling city near London, a spacious flat in the city center, and a comfortable life. But seeing her son so happy, she chose not to shatter his illusions.
They married right after graduation. The countryside venue was packed with fellow students, though Emma’s parents didn’t attend. She claimed her father was bedridden, her mother unable to leave him. Pressed further, she grew distant, eyes glistening with unshed tears. James’s parents, not wanting to upset her, dropped the matter.
The years rolled by. Emma got pregnant almost immediately. She didn’t bother working—there was no need, as James’s salary covered everything. Their firstborn, a boy, arrived in due time. James’s parents insisted he be named after Emma’s father, Edward.
A second child took years. By then, they’d moved into their own flat. The birth was premature, the baby girl frail. They named her Sophie, after James’s mother.
Emma’s parents never met their grandchildren. Edward’s father passed within the year; his mother followed months later.
When Sophie started school, Emma grew restless. She wanted to work. James’s parents pulled strings, landing her a job as an executive assistant—really just a glorified secretary—at a prominent firm.
She transformed. Gym sessions, designer clothes, perfect makeup. No longer a homemaker, but a sharp, polished professional. Friends ribbed James for hiding such a beauty away all those years.
The children became an afterthought. Edward was off to university soon, his own life beginning. Sophie spent most days with her grandparents, spoiled rotten in place of a mother’s affection.
Emma’s nagging grew constant. James had let himself go, she said. He needed the gym, to trim the gut, to match her boss—older, yet fit as a man half his age.
James knew what that meant.
One day, he dropped by her office under the pretense of discussing his father’s upcoming milestone birthday. The reception area was empty. He knocked on the director’s door, then entered.
The office was deserted—until he noticed a side door. From behind it came unmistakable sounds.
He flung it open.
Emma, skirt hiked up, straddled the sprawled director, trousers pooled at his ankles. Seventeen years of marriage, and he knew her silhouette instantly.
He froze. Then shut the door and left.
That evening, Emma strolled in as if nothing had happened, lips curled in smug satisfaction.
James confronted her.
She didn’t deny it.
“Better you know,” she said breezily. “I’m leaving.”
“And the children?”
“Edward’s grown. Sophie can decide.”
Sophie chose neither parent. The grandparents doted on her—why complicate things?
Just like that, James was alone.
Months later, he met Emily—left by her husband, childless after an illness in her youth. They made a quiet life together.
Edward married after university. Sophie dropped out of school. Then James’s father died. His mother followed two years later, leaving Sophie the flat.
Money vanished fast. Sophie never worked. Instead, she started visiting James—always when meals were served. Emily heaped plates for her, sending her home with leftovers.
“Spoiling her,” James grumbled.
“Poor girl, caught between you both,” Emily said. “Let me have this.”
Then came the tears. Sophie, pale and shaking, confessed: a brain tumor. Inoperable here. Only abroad. The price? A fortune.
James sold his car, borrowed from a friend. Sophie wept with gratitude, clutching the cash.
“We’ll manage,” Emily assured.
A week passed. No word.
Then, at a café for Emily’s birthday, James spotted Emma—radiant as ever—across the room. With a much younger man.
He marched over.
She knew nothing of any tumor. Sophie was fine—holidaying in the Maldives with a boyfriend.
The realization hit like a sledgehammer. The tears, the trembling—all a performance.
Emily tried soothing him, but fury coiled tight.
“She’ll regret this,” James swore.
Sophie never came back. Never apologized.
James repaid the debt, bought a second-hand car, moved on.
Then Edward arrived with news: Emma was dying.
Cancer. Weeks left, if that.
Emily insisted they visit.
The vibrant woman James once knew was gone. Shrunken, grey, barely audible. She begged forgiveness.
And he gave it.
What use holding grudges at death’s door?
Without her betrayal, he’d never have found Emily—his true companion.
