“Spare the Son, Not the Mistress”
“Have you lost your mind? You spent the money we saved for five years on a flat for your pregnant mistress? My money toojust thrown away on some I cant even find the words! How could you?”
Thirteen years Anna had spent with her husband. She adored Ivor blindly, simply for being himselfhis perpetually tousled chestnut hair, that tired, tender smile he reserved for their eight-year-old son, Alfie. Life in their quiet market town moved at a gentle pace, unchanged for years.
…Ivor walked in at exactly 9:30 PM. Lately, hed been working late, but Anna hadnt thought much of ituntil now. He slammed the door, shrugged off his jacket, which smelled faintly of something sweet and floral, not his usual cologne. Anna noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he muttered, kissing the top of her head. “Im shattered. Brutal day.”
“Hello. Fancy some dinner? Come on, Ill fix you a plate.”
“Nah, Im good. Just need a shower.”
As he passed, a knot of unease tightened in Annas chest. Again, no dinner. Was there someone else? Ivor had been coming home later, his phone always on him. Once left carelessly on the side table, now it was either in his pocket or face-down, locked. And touching it made him jumpy.
“Youre late,” she said, clearing a mug. “Busy at work?”
Ivor paused by the bathroom door.
“Yeah, Annie. You know how it isend of the quarter. Reports. Paperwork nightmare.”
“Why do you smell like that?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Ivor froze. Hed been caught off guard.
“Smell like what?” He feigned indifference, but his shoulders tensed.
“Flowers. Some kind of sweet, floral scent. Not your aftershave.”
“Oh, mustve been someone at the office. Lucy from Accounting was showing off new perfume. Reeked of the stuff.” He waved a hand. “Dont hold me up, Annie. Dead on my feet.”
*Lucy from Accounting. Right.*
That smell had clung to him for weeks. At first, shed told herself it was nothingjust a colleagues overpowering perfume.
…Their familys dream had lived in a savings account at Barclays, opened five years earlier. A flat for Alfie, saved for his future. Theyd scrimped every spare pennyIvor from his engineers salary at the local factory, Anna from her modest sewing commissions. No holidays for five years, no new car, no luxuries except for Alfies education. By now, there shouldve been nearly £25,000a fortune in their town, enough to secure their sons future at university.
The blow came out of nowhere. A client paid Anna extra for her speed, tipping generously. She went straight to the bank to deposit itshe couldve done it online, but the sunny afternoon called for a walk.
The teller, a young woman named Sophie whod known her for years, gave a polite smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Dawson. How can I help?”
“Hi, Sophie. Could you check the balance on our savings account? And Id like to top it up, if possible.”
“Of course. Your ID, please.”
Anna handed it over. Sophies fingers tapped briskly at the keyboard.
“Hmm.” She frowned. “Mrs. Dawson its empty.”
“Empty?” Anna blinked. “That cant be.”
Sophies voice softened. “The accounts been cleared out. Zero balance.”
The floor lurched beneath Anna. She gripped the counter.
“Sophie, thats impossible. Are you sure? We opened it five years agoits under Ivor Dawson, my husband. I deposit into it every month!”
“Im afraid so,” Sophie murmured. “The last large withdrawal was two weeks ago. Cash. A very significant amount.”
“How much?” Anna barely choked out the words.
“£24,900. Taken out the Tuesday before last. The accounts been closed.”
*Two weeks ago.* Ivor had come home late that night, muttering about a meeting.
“Thank you, Sophie. I need a full statement. Now.”
…Anna stumbled out of the bank. She didnt remember driving home. £25,000. Gone.
***
When Ivor returned, Anna sat at the kitchen table, the printed statement folded neatly in front of her. Her face was dry, eerily calmthe quiet before the storm.
He tossed his keys onto the hook, rubbing his temples.
“Hey. Hows things?”
“Sit down, Ivor,” Anna said, her voice flat.
He eyed the papers. Understanding flickered across his face.
“Whats this?”
“Sit. We need to talk.”
He lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite.
“Annie, I dont follow.”
“Stop lying.” Her tone was icy. “I went to the bank today. The accounts empty. £24,900. Vanished two Tuesdays ago.”
Ivor stared at his hands. He didnt deny it.
“Howd you find out?”
“Does it matter? Wheres the money, Ivor?”
“I bought a flat.”
“A flat? Where? For *who*?”
He exhaled sharply. When he looked up, there was no guiltjust irritation and a bitter resolve.
“For her.”
“Whos *her*?” Anna might as well have been discussing the weather.
“Sophie. Sophia.”
Anna stared. Ivor wilted under her gaze but kept talking.
“Annie, I dont know how it happened Remember that team-building weekend last year? The one the boss forced us all on? Thats where I met her.”
“Go on.”
“She was different. I felt alive with her. Youre steady, safeshe was a whirlwind. Nineteen when we met. Rides a motorbike, tattoos everywhere. I lost myself, Annie. With you, its like being with a mate. Weve just grown apart.”
Annas hands trembled, but she kept her voice steady.
“Keep talking.”
“We split for a bit. She dumped me, said I bored her. I was gutted. Called, begged for another chance. Then she hooked up with some bloke, so I tried to move on. Remember that weekend in Cornwall seven months ago? I was getting over her. Then she called me. We met up, and well. Then she dropped the bombpregnant. Annie, I couldnt abandon my own kid. Sophies mum kicked her out. I couldnt let my daughter be homeless!”
Anna stood and walked to the window.
“So youll save your mistresss child, but not your own son? Brilliant. Heres whats happening: tomorrow, youll sign your half of our house over to Alfie. When hes older, Ill sell it, and my boy will have his own place. As for you? I dont care. Ill file for divorce in the morning, and if you try to fight me, Ill drag your name through the mud. Youll regret crossing me.”
Ivor spent weeks begging her to reconsiderlurking outside the house, calling daily, sending pleading texts. Anna ignored them all. The divorce went through. And the mistress? She didnt want him either. The baby, born right on time, wasnt histhe almond-shaped eyes made that painfully clear.
Some stories just write their own endings.
