Marion learned that her husband had a second family in a nearby town.
What? her voice was quiet, but it rang like steel. Oliver, what is this?
He stood by the entrance, gleaming like a freshlypolished chrome car, hands on the hood of a sleek, midnightblack vehicle. It was brandnew, straight off the showroom floor. The smell of expensive leather and plastic drifted up to the thirdfloor flat, slipping through the open kitchen window.
Surprise! Oliver spread his arms as if embracing the whole world. A gift. For us. For our anniversary. Well, almost I thought Id get a head start. Like it?
Marion slowly walked down the stairs. She couldnt remember how shed descended, how shed opened the heavy front door. Her feet moved of their own accord while one cold, sharp thought hammered in her mind: money. The very money theyd been saving for almost five years, penny by penny, for the first mortgage payment on a home for Emily, their daughter, so she would have her own place when she went to university.
Oliver, are you mad? She stepped close, touching the icy metal of the hood. The car was beautiful, predatory, foreign. We agreed. This money is untouchable.
Marion, what are you saying? His smile faded a little. Well earn more. Im now a department head, my salarys up. And driving our old clunker feels downright embarrassing. Look at this beauty!
He opened the passenger door. The interior, swathed in lightcolored leather, beckoned with comfort and luxury. For a heartbeat Marion wanted to sit inside, breathe in the scent of a new life, but she forced herself to step back.
Embarrassing? You were ashamed to drive the car that served us faithfully for ten years? Im not ashamed to look my daughter in the eye when she asks why we cant help her buy a flat.
Emily still has two years before university! Oliver waved it off. Well get there. Dont be a killjoy, be happy. Lets take it for a spin! Well break it in.
He tried to hug her, but Marion pulled away. Irritation flickered in his eyes; he wasnt used to his grand gestures meeting such a cold wall.
Im not going anywhere, she snapped. Dinner isnt ready.
She turned back toward the entrance, feeling his bewildered, angry stare on her back. Inside, while stirring the soup, she glanced out the window. Oliver was still by the car, then kicked a tire in frustration, slipped into the drivers seat and roared away. Where he went to break in the car didnt matter to her. The bitterness in her chest was so sharp it made her want to cry, yet no tears fellonly a chilling emptiness. Twenty years of marriage, two decades of joint decisions, discussed every big purchase, every trip. Now he had just presented her with a fact, as if her opinion never existed.
He returned late, past midnight, quiet and a little guilty, placing a bag of her favourite biscuits on the kitchen table.
Marion, Im sorry. I got carried away. But understand, its for you too. So you can travel in comfort.
I cant drive, Oliver. I never planned to learn.
You will! Ill teach you myself, he sat beside her, took her hand. Dont be angry. A car is just a thing. Were a family. The important thing is were together.
Marion sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was overreacting. Money is material, but her husband was there, trying to make amends. She gave a faint smile, and Olivers spirits lifted as he began to describe the engines power, the clever navigation system, the heated seats. Marion listened halfheartedly, nodding, telling herself a wise wife should endure, forgive, support.
The next day, Saturday, Oliver insisted on a family trip out of town. Emily, their seventeenyearold, squealed with excitement, poking at every button in the new interior. Marion sat in the front seat, trying to look content. The car glided smoothly, almost silently. Past the suburbs, through woods and fields, they stopped at a picturesque lake for a picnic. Oliver was cheerful, constantly refilling her tea from a thermos, wrapping her in a blanket. Marion began to thaw, almost believing everything could be fine again.
That evening, when they returned and Oliver parked the car, Marion decided to tidy the interior, shaking out the floor mats and clearing crumbs. She opened the glove compartment to put some wet wipes away and felt a hard piece of paper tucked behind the owners manual. It was a receipt, ordinary and small, from a toy shop.
Space Station Builder 1 pcs £78
Fairy Charm Bracelet 1 pcs £31
The date was a week ago. That day Oliver had been on a business trip to the nearby regional centre, about twelve miles away, saying there was a new project he needed to oversee personally. Marion frowned. Who would buy such expensive toys? The builder seemed meant for a tenyearold boy; the bracelet for a girlor perhaps a woman. None of his colleagues or friends had children that age. Maybe a gift for a bosss son? Why spend so much, and why keep it secret?
She slipped the receipt into her coat pocket. Her heart hammered unpleasantly. Something was wrong, a façade just like the sudden car purchaseunapproved, unilateral.
That night she lay awake beside her sleeping husband, staring at the ceiling, recalling the past few years. His trips had increased; he used to call each evening, detail his day. Now he sent brief texts: All good, tired, going to bed. She blamed the new role, the pressure, thinking he was just exhausted. But what if it wasnt?
In the morning, while he showered, she did something shed never done in twenty years. She took his phone. The password was Emilys birthday. She scrolled through contactsnothing suspicious. Managers, colleagues, friends. Except one: Simon Plumber. Marion wondered why Oliver kept a plumbers number from another town. She opened the messages. They were short, businesslike, yet something cut her.
Simon, are the pipes delivered? Oliver wrote.
Yes, all set. Kyle is thrilled, working on it for two days now.
Who was Kyle? The plumbers son?
Another text: Hows the weather? Cold yet?
Sunny here. Miss you terribly.
Sunny. Oliver had called her Sunny in the early years of their romance, and Emily when she was a baby. Then he stopped, using only Marion and daughter. In this conversation the nickname sounded warm, alive. A nausea rose in Marions throat.
She kept scrolling. Will you be here Saturday? Kyles swimming competition.
Ill try to make it.
Pick up a honey cake on the way, my favourite.
The plumber turned out to be a woman, and Kyle a boy. Oliver was buying cakes, attending competitions, sending gifts.
Marion placed the phone back just before Oliver stepped out of the bathroom. His hand brushed her hair as he dried it.
You look pale, he said, noticing her pallor.
My head hurts, she replied, lying. Probably the pressure.
The whole day she moved through a fog, mechanically preparing lunch, chatting with Emily, answering Olivers questions. One thought kept looping: who was this other woman, calling herself Simon, asking for honey cake? How long had this been going on?
She needed answers, not a showdown. She wanted clarity, to see the worlds edges again, because they were now as blurred as watercolour in rain.
On Monday she called her workplace and said she was ill. Then she called her sister, who lived in that regional centre.
Claire, hi. Im coming over today, just for a few hours. Somethings come up. she said.
Of course, come! Everything alright? her sister asked, concerned.
No, no, just business. Marion replied.
She got into the new, hated car. The steering felt foreign, though Oliver had taught her a few years ago, even though she never liked driving. The GPS still held a history of trips: Home, Work, and several addresses in the nearby town. One address repeated most: Green Street, 15. A typical suburb, according to the map.
The drive took an hour and a half. Marion stared at nothing, unsure what she would do when she arrived. Knock on the door? A confrontation? It wasnt her style. She just needed to see.
She turned onto Green Street. A quiet, leafy courtyard, a plain ninestorey block. She parked the car out of sight, at the corner. House 15, entrance 2. She sat on a bench opposite, put on dark sunglasses, and waited.
Hours passed. Mothers with prams, retirees, teenagers hurrying about emerged from the building. Marion felt foolish. What was she doing here? Why waste time on this humiliating stakeout? Maybe she was wrong; maybe there truly lived someone important to Olivers work?
Then the entrance opened. Oliver walked out, in jeans and a simple Tshirt, not a suit. He laughed, talking with a woman beside him, a pretty blonde about Marions age. The woman held a lighthaired boy, about ten, smiling at Oliver.
They strolled to a playground. Oliver lifted the boy onto his shoulders, spun him round. The boy laughed loudly. The three of them swung together. The woman adjusted her hair, looking at Oliver with a tenderness Marion hadnt seen in years. They looked like a normal, happy family on an ordinary weekday.
Marion could hardly breathe. Her chest felt tight. She pulled out her phone, and without fully understanding why, snapped a picture. The three on the swings, blurry from her shaking hand, yet unmistakable proof.
She could not recall how she got back to the car. The world through the windshield turned into a smeared spot. At home she collapsed onto the sofa, staring at a single point. The house shed built over twenty years now felt like cardboard scenery. Her love, loyalty, lifeeverything turned out to be a lie.
Oliver returned from work at his usual hour, cheerful, handing Emily a chocolate bar, kissing Marion on the cheek.
How are you, love? Your head feeling better? he asked, entering the kitchen.
Marion silently handed him the phone, the photo still open.
He glanced at it, his smile fading. He turned pale, stared at her for a long moment.
Its not what you think, he finally managed.
And what do I think, Oliver? her voice was calm, almost unnaturally so. I think you have a second family. I think you have a son. I think youve been lying to me for years. Am I wrong?
Marion, its complicated.
Complicated? she smirked. Complicated is raising a child in the nineties on one salary. Complicated is caring for a sick mother and juggling home and hospital. This isnt complicated. Its cruel.
Emily peeked into the room.
Mum, Dad, whats happening? You look so serious
Go to your room, dear, Marion said, keeping her voice level. Were talking.
Oliver sat down, looking older, defeated.
I never wanted to hurt you.
Want to? she repeated. You bought a car with the money wed saved for Emilys future, just to ferry another woman and another child! You didnt just hurt me, Oliver. You killed me. Now I need only one answer. How long?
He stayed silent, head bowed.
Oliver!
Twelve, he whispered.
Twelve years. Emily was five then. Hed started another family while their daughter was still a baby. Marion shut her eyes. Their whole life flashed before her: playing in the park, him pushing Emily on the swings, a beach holiday where he taught her to swim. All the while, somewhere else, another boy, another woman, sharing the same moments.
I met Sophie on a project site. Shes an engineer. Things spiralled. I didnt plan it. She told me she was pregnant. I couldnt abandon her.
Could you have left me? My daughter?
I never left you! I love you! I love them too his eyes filled with tears. Marion, I dont know how this happened. Im tangled.
Go, she said softly.
Where?
Anywhere, she nodded toward the unknown. Where it isnt hard. Where theyre waiting and love you. Pack your things.
Marion, lets talk. Not in a rush. We can
Weve said everything, Oliver. Leave.
He left an hour later, gathering a small bag of essentials. As he closed the door, Marion walked to the window. He slid into his shiny new car and drove away, likely toward Green Street.
Emily entered, eyes red from crying.
Mum, did Dad leave? Forever?
Marion pulled her daughter close, holding her so tightly her bones ached.
I dont know, love. I dont know anything.
They sat together in the quiet, empty flat. Outside, night fell. Marion stared at the dark courtyard where the black car once stooda symbol of his lies. Its absence felt even more terrifying than its presence. She was alone, fortyfive, with a universityage daughter and a shattered life. What to do next she couldnt see. Yet, for the first time in years, she felt not pain or anger but a strange, cold calm. One chapter of her life had ended. Now she faced the blank page ahead, ready to write her own story.
Sometimes the hardest truths break us, but they also free us to rebuild a life founded on honesty, selfrespect, and the courage to start anew.
