It’s Time to Fix a Mistake
Vera didn’t want to tell her mum a thing about what had happened at the lake. Sneaking into her room as quietly as possible, she nearly made it—until her mum, hearing the rustling in the hallway, stepped out of the kitchen.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Her mum pressed a hand to her chest, studying Vera’s pale face.
“It’s fine. Just swam too much.” Vera brushed past her and shut herself in her room.
The next day, Anthony dropped by to check on her.
“Why would she be unwell?” her mum asked, baffled.
“Well, she nearly drowned in the lake yesterday,” Anthony replied, blissfully unaware.
“Don’t exaggerate, I just swallowed some water,” Vera shot him a sharp look.
“I… came to ask you to the cinema,” Anthony backtracked hastily.
“Oh, Vera, go! No point moping indoors. Lovely day out,” her mum chimed in, beaming at Anthony with an edge of sycophancy.
Anthony, you see, was the son of a rather wealthy local figure. His attention had sparked visions of a comfortable, worry-free future for Vera in her mother’s mind.
From then on, Anthony became a frequent visitor—always whisking her off somewhere: swimming, motorbike rides, cafés. Not that Vera was head over heels, but the attention flattered her. Half the girls in town would’ve given an arm to be in her shoes.
That evening, her mum scolded her.
“A lad like that fancies you, and you’re acting like it’s a chore? Good family, no money troubles. And the way he looks at you—steady, dependable. I’d trust him with my only daughter. If he proposes, don’t be a daft ingrate.”
“But I don’t love him, Mum,” Vera tried.
“Don’t give me that. A handsome boy like that? I married for love—great, passionate love. And where’s that got me?”
When Anthony proposed, Vera said yes. Her mother’s relentless campaigning had worked. In the whirl of wedding prep, Vera sometimes felt like she was acting in a play—none of it real, all about to end. Her mum, meanwhile, was over the moon.
Vera knew instantly Anthony’s mother and older sister disliked her. Why they’d even allowed the marriage was a mystery. Probably because Anthony was the golden child, the precious youngest son. Easier to swallow the bitter pill than risk losing him.
They didn’t live in the sprawling family estate but in a modest flat left to Anthony by his grandfather—something Vera was quietly relieved about. His mother intimidated her.
Years passed, and Vera couldn’t conceive. Her mother-in-law blamed her, dragging her to the best specialists, who delivered the grim diagnosis. Vera was devastated, crushed by guilt.
Anthony never outright accused her, but she saw his quiet misery. He withdrew, burying himself in his father’s firm—now his and his sister’s—after his dad’s heart attack three years prior. He visited his mother alone, which suited Vera fine. She could only imagine what was said about her.
She suspected Anthony had affairs but had no proof. And Anthony was careful—too careful to let scandal touch the family name.
Once, Vera tried moving back with her mum.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mum scoffed. “You’ve no proof. Handsome men attract attention—harmless flirting isn’t cheating. Once you have a baby, it’ll all sort itself out.” And she sent Vera packing.
So they played happy families for five hollow years.
When Vera finally mustered the courage to talk divorce, Anthony’s mother died. Turned out she’d been ill for ages—not that anyone had bothered to tell Vera.
Anthony spent days arranging the funeral, only coming home to sleep.
***
Vera woke but lay still, listening to the shower running. She dozed off again.
“Why aren’t you up yet?” Anthony strode in, the scent of shower gel and aftershave trailing behind him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go. Your mother never liked me. Thought I wasn’t good enough. She was right.” Vera met his gaze.
“Right about what?” He tossed his robe on the bed, rifling through the wardrobe.
Vera was long immune to his chiselled physique.
“That I don’t belong in your world. No one will even notice if I’m not there.” She sat up.
“The whole family’s coming. You *are* family. Get dressed. We’ll be late.” He didn’t look at her.
“I’ll never be part of your family. And you know it. Late for a funeral? Really?” She sighed but stood.
The smell of fresh coffee hit her as she left the bathroom.
“Drink up and get ready.” He nudged a steaming mug toward her, tapping his expensive wristwatch pointedly.
In the car, Anthony played classical music—fittingly sombre for Vera’s mood. She pretended to doze, staring out the window. At the grand house, several luxury cars were already parked.
Just get through the day. With her mother-in-law gone, that was one less enemy.
“Go ahead, I’ll freshen up,” Vera said, rummaging for her compact.
“Don’t take long. And lock the car,” Anthony called over his shoulder.
Vera knew she’d be briefly scrutinised, then forgotten. Still, she touched up her makeup, tucking a handkerchief in her pocket—for show, not tears.
Stepping out, she spotted old Mrs. Thornton from down the street. Strange to see her still alive. Fifteen years ago, a car crash killed her husband and son. Since then, people called her “odd,” almost “mad.”
“Hello,” Vera greeted as Mrs. Thornton neared.
The old woman stopped, peering at her.
“I’m Vera, wife of—”
“I know who you are. Here for the funeral?” She nodded at the house.
“Yes.” Vera glanced at the windows. A curtain twitched—someone watching. Best not linger. She shut the car door and hurried off.
“Married the wrong one, girl. Fix your mistake, and you’ll have children.” Vera froze at the words.
“What mistake? What do you mean?” She called after the retreating figure.
Mrs. Thornton didn’t turn. Bewildered, Vera walked on.
Inside, Anthony was deep in conversation with a stranger. A few others whispered, finalising arrangements. No one glanced at Vera. She hadn’t expected otherwise. Coming here—like marrying Anthony—had been a mistake.
***
Years earlier, a friend had dragged Vera to the lake with a group. The lads drank beer, boasting. Girls sunbathed, stealing glances—mostly at Anthony.
Her friend whispered that Mary had been chasing him forever.
“Swim?” Her friend sprinted to the water. Vera and Mary followed.
“Bet you can’t swim across,” Mary taunted.
Her smirk said, *You’ll never match me*. Without waiting, she plunged in. Vera and her friend swam after, but soon Vera was alone, struggling to keep up.
Mid-lake, she slowed, realising she’d never catch Mary. Then something brushed her leg. Too deep for weeds. Again, something pressed against her.
Local legend said a heartbroken girl drowned here, dragging swimmers under. No one believed it—just a tale to keep kids away. Now, terrified, Vera thrashed, choking on water. For a second, she went under.
She woke onshore, Anthony hovering over her, all concern. Everyone fussed—except Mary, smirking from afar.
Anthony drove her home on his motorbike…
***
At the graveside, Vera remained invisible. She lingered back, studying relatives she’d never met. An open space—no slipping away unnoticed. Anthony would have words.
Finally, eulogies ended, traditions observed, flowers piled high. The family filed out.
Vera trailed behind. Anthony walked his grieving sister ahead. At the gates, cars queued. He bundled his sister into his and scanned for Vera. Sharing a car with them was the last thing she wanted. She waved him off.
His car led the procession. Vera climbed in with distant relatives. Passing a chemist, she asked to stop.
“Don’t wait—I’ll walk. Headache.” She feigned a wince and hopped out before they could argue.
Alone, she glanced around. The bus stop was close. If caught, she’d say she felt ill. But then—her handbag was in Anthony’s car. No money. No escape.
She’d have to endure the dreary wake.
“Vera?!”
She jumped. Lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed the car pulling up. A man leaned out the window. He stepped out, approaching.
“Dima… Dmitri Boyko. Don’t recognise me?” He smiled.
Vera shook her head. Back then, Dima had been their group’s quiet, unnoticed one. Now, a handsome, polished man stood before her.
“Need a lift?She took a deep breath, slid into his car, and said, “Drive—anywhere but here.”
