**Waiting**
During my final year at university, Michael proposed to me after we’d been together for nearly a year. Like many soon-to-be newlyweds, we dreamed of married life. I thought I was the happiest woman alive—marrying for love. I always remembered my grandmother’s words:
*”Darling, marry for love—believe me, I’ve lived a long life and know what I’m saying. And don’t listen to those old sayings like ‘love grows with patience.’ It doesn’t.”*
I loved Michael, and I was certain he loved me too. So I said yes without hesitation.
*”Claire, you’ll be my bridesmaid,”* I said to my best friend, who shared my dorm room.
*”Obviously—who else?”* she replied.
Three days later, my world shattered. I walked in on Michael and Claire in the study room of our dorm—in a state that left no room for misunderstanding.
*”Couldn’t even pick a better spot?”* I spat out before storming off in tears.
Michael begged for forgiveness, stammering excuses. *”Emma, it’s not what you think—”*
*”I understand perfectly, Michael. I want nothing to do with you, let alone marriage. You’re a traitor, and that says it all. And my ex-best friend is no better. You two deserve each other. Go ahead and marry her.”*
After that betrayal, I lost all faith in men. I convinced myself I’d never trust them again. If they could play games, so could I—use them before they used me.
*”Maybe it’s cynical,”* I thought, *”but I won’t let myself be fooled or hurt like that again.”*
Michael and Claire married, and she got pregnant straight away. After graduation, I stayed in the city, found a job, and—ironically—ended up working in the same office as Michael, just a different department. We crossed paths occasionally.
He spoke first when he saw me: *”Fancy seeing you here! How are things?”*
*”Brilliant,”* I chirped, refusing to let him see my pain. *”You?”*
*”Well, I’m a dad now. Claire had a little girl.”*
*”Congratulations,”* I said before excusing myself.
At the office Christmas party, after a few drinks, Michael wouldn’t leave me alone. I let him flirt, soaking up his confessions about missing me and remembering *our love*—before shutting him down. Then I made sure his wife heard every detail.
It was revenge, pure and simple. And I felt no remorse.
I dated, but the moment any man mentioned commitment, I ended it. Then came Daniel—the new department head. From day one, he showered me with attention.
*”Emma, he’s smitten,”* my colleagues teased.
*”We’ll see,”* I shrugged.
Soon, he was head over heels, inviting me to cafés. I went a few times but kept my distance—polite, uninterested.
*”Emma,”* my coworker Sophie warned me one day, *”do you know Daniel’s married with four kids?”*
*”Four? Really?”*
*”Yes. HR told me. I thought you should know before things go too far. The whole office sees how he looks at you. Do you really want that drama?”*
*”Thanks, Sophie. Not that I planned to steal him—just stringing him along like men do to women.”*
The next time Daniel asked me out, I smiled sweetly. *”No, thank you. Your children don’t deserve a father who strays.”* He paled, realizing his secret was out, and never approached me again.
Years passed. I remained guarded, convinced every man would deceive me. Love? A fantasy. I’d been burned once, and I refused to be prey. I’d be the hunter instead—it was easier that way.
At thirty-two, I was attractive, successful, and perpetually single. Married men? I toyed with them, keeping them at arm’s length while silently judging their deceit.
Then I met Oliver. Quiet, kind, thoughtful—nothing like the others. We often had lunch together, sometimes walked to the bus stop after work. I sensed a connection but also an invisible wall.
After the office summer party, he offered me a lift home. When I invited him in for tea, he politely declined. His gaze told me he was interested, but something held him back.
*”Emma,”* a colleague asked later, *”you know Oliver’s married, right?”*
*”Yes.”*
*”Then you know he’ll only ever be a friend.”*
I laughed. *”I don’t do friendships with men.”*
*”Don’t tell me anything happened. No one would believe you. Oliver adores his wife—he lives for her.”*
*”Men like that still exist?”*
At a coworker’s birthday drinks, Oliver and I danced, then talked privately. He’d been married seven years, had a six-year-old son.
*”Oliver,”* I asked bluntly, *”do you love your wife?”*
He hesitated. *”We fell in love instantly. But then she got sick. Bedridden. I—I believe her illness is my punishment. I cheated before, and now she’ll never walk again. She’s begged me to divorce her, but I can’t. This is my burden to carry.”*
Shocked, I whispered, *”You’ll spend your whole life like this?”*
*”Probably. The doctors give no hope.”*
*”I see.”*
*”Emma, I care for you. Deeply. But I can’t betray her now—it’d be like deceiving a child. All I want is for my Sarah to be well.”*
His eyes glistened. He meant every word.
*”I’ll wait for you, Oliver,”* I said softly.
*”Wait for what?”*
*”For you.”*
A year has passed. I’ve turned away every man who’s shown interest. There’s only Oliver. I’m not waiting for his wife to die—I’m waiting for *him*. Because somehow, against all logic, I believe we’ll find our way to each other. And when we do, it’ll be worth the wait.
