“Mum, I’m off to the cinema with Emily today! Keep your phone on, yeah?” called out Oliver, kissing Marina on the cheek before disappearing into the bathroom. She could hear him humming softly under his breath, the sound of running water filling the air. He was happy… free. The way she’d never really been. “Mum, I’m leaving!” Oliver popped his head back out, grinning in his favourite blue shirt. “Good luck, love!” Marina waved him off and slumped into the armchair. Her phone pinged—another message. She absentmindedly opened it… and froze.
A quiet sob broke the evening stillness. Marina lay curled up, hugging her knees, tears silently soaking into the pillow.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Oliver had come back early, his face creased with concern. She hastily wiped her eyes and forced a smile.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just a bit tired.”
He sat beside her, studying her face. A proper grown man now—tall, steady, with the same cheeky grin he’d had as a boy. Only now, more often than not, it was for Emily, not her…
The memories rushed in without warning. Eighteen. James. Marriage. Love so dizzying she could hardly breathe. The naïve belief that passion could conquer anything. But… it hadn’t.
“Mum! Where’s my blue shirt?” Oliver’s voice snapped her back to the present.
“Closet, left side!” she called back, shaking her head with a chuckle.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Forty-two. Eyes heavy with a sadness no one noticed anymore. Like life had stalled somewhere in the past…
She remembered that day too clearly. A Tuesday. The corner shop. Bread, milk. And… James. Holding a bag—baby formula. Nappies. A smile plastered on his face. But his eyes gave him away.
“It’s… not what you think,” he muttered.
“What am I supposed to think?! That you’re ‘treating’ that—what’s her name?—Jane?! You’ve got a kid together?!”
Then came the shouting. The divorce. The loneliness. But also… freedom.
She’d learned to live alone. Without James. Without the drama. Her mother-in-law had stuck by her, supporting her. She raised Oliver, learning to smile again… to forget the betrayal.
Sometimes, though, it still hit her. Like today, watching Oliver hug Emily. Seeing them build something real—thoughtful, respectful. No empty promises of “forever.”
Her phone pinged again. A friend request. Paul… The same Paul from secondary school?!
The playground. Her—the prettiest girl in year. Him—waiting by the gates with a bunch of daisies. Then James waltzed in. And Paul faded into the past.
“Liz, you won’t believe it… Paul from school messaged me!”
“That one who fancied you till graduation?” her friend laughed. “James was green with jealousy over him!”
“He just sent a friend request.”
“Well, accept it! He’s doing well now, heard he got divorced…”
The next few weeks were like a dream. Messages. Flirting. Laughing over texts till dawn. Paul was sweet, easygoing, with the kind of humour that made her stomach flip. Only now, there was a quiet confidence—a man who’d lived a little.
“Oliver,” she said one evening, “I want you to meet someone…”
“Paul?” Oliver grinned. “Mum, it’s obvious. You’re glowing. I’m happy for you.”
She nearly cried. But then Paul’s replies grew slower. Shorter. Until finally…
*”Marina, I’m sorry. There’s someone else. You picked James back then—it hurt. Now you know how it feels.”*
She stared at the screen. Stunned. A grown man… holding a grudge for twenty years?
“Right, enough moping!” Liz barged in. “Time to put this wannabe Casanova in his place.”
They crafted the reply together—equal parts sarcasm, bite, and relief:
*”Dear Paul, thank you. Seriously. I haven’t laughed, flirted, or felt this alive in years. You rolled back the clock like a pro. Hope your new lady appreciates the performance. Kisses (the platonic kind). Marina.”*
The reply came instantly—a flood of angry gibberish. But Marina was already laughing. Properly, for the first time in ages.
Then, a week later, a blonde woman cornered her in Tesco.
“You! Homewrecker! You ruined everything with Paul!”
Marina blinked. Then—surprising even herself—smiled.
“Oh, love, you’ve got the wrong person. The real expert is Jane. 15 Forest Road. Took my husband, now Paul? She’s got a type.”
The blonde gaped as Marina, nearly giggling, walked away. Imagining Jane’s face…
The evening sun brushed her skin, warm and gentle. And suddenly, she realised—she was happy. Just like this. No men. No drama. No need to prove a thing.
Oliver’s text pinged:
*”Mum, me and Emily are moving in together. See how it goes. Then… wedding, maybe.”*
Marina smiled. This—this was real happiness. Watching her boy choose wisely.
And her? She’d just keep living. No fear. No past. Just… hope.
Because life doesn’t end with betrayal. It begins with love. For yourself.
