Mary-Anne was a lovely girl of twenty-seven. Her life felt like one of those old songs—”You choose, you lose, sometimes love just isn’t true.” Plenty of lads fancied her, but most only wanted one thing—getting her into bed quicker than you could say “cheers.” Why wait? Times had changed, and opportunities slipped away if you didn’t grab them. Someone else would.
She’d grown up in a household of women—raised by her grandmother and mother, both proper and well-mannered ladies. She’d been named after her great-great-grandmother, who’d been educated in a finishing school back in the old days, in that long-gone, proper England.
Her grandfather had passed early, and her mother split from her father when Mary-Anne was just twelve. Growing up, she adored books where noble heroes defended their sweethearts’ honour, braving hunger, cold, and hardship for love. Mary-Anne dreamed of that kind of devotion—pure, selfless, with stolen kisses under the moonlight. She was modern enough to know how the world worked, but that didn’t stop her wanting the fairy tale.
Most lads these days had no patience for courting. They rushed straight for pleasure—maybe a single rose on the first date, but any kisses quickly led to something far less romantic. No moonlit walks, no poetry. Flowers only came on birthdays or anniversaries, assuming the relationship lasted that long. And forget about love letters.
Plenty of girls didn’t mind—why waste time with empty chatter when you could skip straight to fun? But Mary-Anne wasn’t built for quick flings. She fell hard—heart racing, stomach fluttering—only to suffer when the lad she fancied dragged some other girl to bed. Men wanted their fun while they were young, before the weight of wives and kids tied them down.
All her mates had married, had kids, then divorced, remarried, and had more kids. They’d ask her, exhausted, when she’d finally meet her prince. But where was he? Lost somewhere, like in the stories. What if he never turned up at all?
Dreams were fine, but time didn’t wait. Fewer single lads remained—mostly divorced ones. She grew tired of waiting. Her heart ached for love. So when she met a decent-looking bloke with a flat and a car, she thought—why not? This could be it. She threw herself in headfirst.
Weeks passed. Months. No proposal from Tom. Then she found out—he was married. Not that he’d hidden it. He’d just… forgotten to mention it. Lost his head, he said. But Mary-Anne hadn’t asked. He and his wife weren’t living together anyway. No reason to divorce—until now. Now he’d met Mary-Anne, and he’d sort it, proper-like. Tomorrow, for sure.
She was over the moon—never thought to ask if he had kids. But he did. One.
Love-struck, Mary-Anne waited patiently for him to divorce his wife, to finally be hers alone. And she got her wish. Except—he’d handed the car to his ex to sweeten the deal. The flat too. A one-bedder wasn’t worth splitting, and he wasn’t petty enough to haggle. So now he had nothing—just a mortgage in arrears and child support to pay.
Was this what she’d dreamed of? Any sensible girl would’ve walked then and there. But Mary-Anne wasn’t raised that way. Her grandmother and mother had taught her—if you love someone, you stand by them, through thick and thin. So like a soldier’s wife, she weathered the storm.
Her family suspected something was wrong, but it was too late. Tom proposed, took on more debt, and they had a loud, flashy wedding.
They moved into a rented flat—something Mary-Anne kept quiet. She told herself she was happy. Whatever came, they’d face it together. If doubts crept in, she ignored them. No point worrying now—she was pregnant. She hadn’t planned it, but she was glad. Still, how would they manage?
Tom picked up extra work—coming home late, collapsing into bed. Mornings, he left without a word, scowling at his sleeping wife.
So Mary-Anne got exactly what she’d wanted. She pretended to her family she was happy. They knew better. As her due date neared, fear gnawed at her—how would they live? She wasn’t working, and Tom’s wages vanished like sand through fingers—debts, rent, never enough. Her coat wouldn’t button over her belly. Winter loomed. The baby needed clothes, nappies, a crib.
Sleepless nights piled up. How had she landed in this mess? The rose-tinted glasses were long gone. Where was the love she’d dreamed of?
“I’ll sort it,” Tom promised, arriving later each night. Money never appeared.
“Rent’s due. Leave me some cash,” she asked one morning.
“Sorry, paid a debt. Ask your mum.”
So she did. Her family scraped together what they could—they’d never been rich.
“Pay this month, then leave him. We’ll manage,” her gran urged.
Mary-Anne snapped at Tom, then hated herself for it.
“You’re on maternity. Find work from home,” he suggested.
Easy to say. Money made money—she had none. Then it hit her—tutoring. She had the education, spoke fluent French. Schools taught it poorly—too much cramming, not enough learning. She started with friends’ kids, then word spread. Soon, she wasn’t begging Tom for money—he asked her.
After the birth, she barely rested before resuming lessons. Cradling her son, fears melted away.
Friends brought a pram, a cot, more clothes than he’d ever need. Then one pal dropped a bombshell—Tom wasn’t working late. He was with the neighbour upstairs.
Mary-Anne confronted him. He denied it, furious. “Who’d envy us? Living in a rented hellhole?”
Tears welled, but what good were they?
She endured a while longer, then left. Tom begged—he’d change, he loved her, he’d clear the mortgage.
“You’re unreliable. A liar. Good at making babies, rubbish at everything else,” she said, taking their son to her mum’s.
They welcomed her with open arms.
Once her boy was older, Mary-Anne returned to work. Life improved. She vowed never to marry again. Who’d want her, with a child? She’d raise her son alone.
Then Tom’s mother came pleading—a boy needed his dad. He’d changed, grown up.
Tom arrived with roses, knelt, wept, even offered a ring.
“Did your mistress dump you? No one wants a twice-divorced dad with child support?” Mary-Anne scoffed. “I’m done.”
At work, she ignored men’s advances—until one persisted. Kind, patient, he bonded with her son. Her family hoped this time, love would last.
Tom barged in, screaming—”You left me for him!”
“You left us first,” she shot back.
His mother brought gifts, insisting a boy needed his real dad.
“I *am* thinking of him. Where were you when we were broke?”
Tom visited sometimes, but never knew what to say. Then he’d complain about his life and leave.
Mary-Anne’s new love proposed. No big wedding—just signing papers and a quiet meal. She’d had the big day once. It brought no joy.
Then Tom called—wanted to see his son. She agreed, suspecting he’d snoop. He noticed her ring.
“You remarried? What about me?”
“You had your chance.”
“He’ll raise my boy?”
“You didn’t want to. You helped make him—that’s all.”
“Then drop the child support,” Tom snapped.
“Why? Afraid your new girl doesn’t know about us?”
“The law says you pay. Or never see him again.”
He left, defeated. Later, he threatened to hide his income.
They never agreed. Mary-Anne wouldn’t budge. After all she’d suffered, she’d take every penny—not that it helped. The payments shrank, though Tom still dressed well. He visited rarely—likely his mother’s doing.
Finally happy, Mary-Anne watched Tom flounder.
Sometimes the first marriage fails—like the first pancake, always messy. But in the end, life settles. Everyone ends up where they belong.
