“Mum, I’ll be late tonight—Emma’s birthday. We’re all going to the cinema,” Tom said, brushing a kiss on Marina’s cheek before disappearing into the bathroom. His carefree laughter carried through the door as he hummed under the sound of running water.
Marina stood by the window, listening to life humming around her again. Tom was happy. Light. Free. Everything she’d never been.
At eighteen, she’d believed in simple happiness too. James had seemed like the man of her dreams—bold, handsome, confident. They’d fallen in love, married, started fresh. Yet within years, Marina realised her life had shrunk to chores, silence, and solitude.
James stayed late at “work” more often, returning sullen and distant. Then came the jar of baby food in his bag. The nappies. They seared into her memory like proof.
“It’s… not what you think,” he’d muttered.
“Then what is it, James? What?” she’d screamed, clutching the jar like the last thread of reality.
Everything shattered after that. It was hard—but she endured. She raised Tom alone. No support, except for her mother-in-law, who never left her side.
Tom grew up—clever, kind, strong. She was proud. But sometimes… the emptiness crept back. Like now.
Sinking into the armchair, she picked up her phone—and saw the notification: “Paul has sent you a friend request.” Paul… Her school crush. The boy who’d waited by the gates with daisies. She hadn’t realised she still remembered his smile. Yet her chest tightened.
“Liz, you won’t believe this,” she called her best friend. “Paul—yes, that Paul from Year 11—found me on Facebook!”
“Seriously? The one who was mad about you? James used to grind his teeth when he saw him. Accept it! Word is he’s doing well now, and recently divorced.”
She did. And suddenly—messages. Jokes. Shared memories. A sweet flirtation that made her cheeks burn. Paul was attentive, polite, genuine. For the first time in years, she felt alive.
“Tom, there’s someone I want you to meet,” she told her son.
“Paul?” He grinned. “Mum, I’ve noticed. And I’m happy for you.”
She glowed. But it didn’t last. Paul’s replies grew sparse, then cold. Then came the message that choked her:
“Marina, I’m sorry. There’s someone else. You chose James—it hurt. Now you know how it feels.”
She stared at the screen, stunned. A man in his fifties… still nursing a grudge? Had it all been a game? Payback for a teenage slight?
“What a wanker,” Liz sighed when she heard. “Reply. With dignity.”
They crafted the message together—dry, sharp, flawless:
*Dear Paul, Thank you. Truly. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much, flirted so freely, felt so alive. You made me twenty again. Hope your new love appreciates your theatrics. Best (platonically), Marina.*
His reply came instantly—a storm of wounded pride and outrage. But Marina was already laughing. Properly, for the first time in years.
A week later, a blonde woman cornered her outside Tesco.
“You! Homewrecker! You ruined my relationship with Paul!”
Marina froze—then, unexpectedly, smirked.
“Oh, you’ve got the wrong woman. The real homewrecker is Jane. 15 Forest Road. Took my husband, now Paul. A real professional.”
The woman gaped. Marina, biting back laughter, walked away.
Sunlight warmed her face. And suddenly, she knew—she was happy. Without men. Without drama. Without proof.
Her phone buzzed—Tom’s message:
“Mum, Emma and I are moving in together. We’ll see how it goes.”
Marina smiled. This was real happiness. Watching her son choose wisely.
And her? She’d finally chosen herself.
