30April
I never imagined the day would start with a gift that felt more like a trap. I parked the brandnew black Jaguar outside our council flat in Camden, its polished body gleaming like a freshly polished tin kettle. The scent of leather and newcar plastic drifted up through the open kitchen window on the third floor, where Margaret was still at the sink.
Surprise! I called, spreading my arms as if I could embrace the whole world. A present for us for our anniversary. I thought Id get a head start.
She descended the stairs slowly, as if each step were weighted with an unseen burden. I could see the shock in her eyes, but more than thata cold, sharp thought about the money wed been tucking away for almost five years, penny by penny, for the first deposit on a house for our daughter, Poppy. Wed been planning that mortgage so she could have a place of her own when she went to university.
Oliver, are you sane? she said, her hand grazing the icy metal of the bonnet. We agreed that money was sacrosanct. It was meant for the deposit.
I tried to soften the blow. Im now department head, the salarys larger. Its embarrassing to keep driving that old clunker after ten years of faithful service. Look at this beauty! I opened the drivers side door, the interior upholstered in light leather, inviting and luxurious. For a heartbeat I wanted to sit, inhale the promise of a fresh start, but I forced myself back.
Its shameful, you say? You spent ten years on that car without a hint of embarrassment, yet youre ashamed of a present that could help us? I retorted. Poppy still has two years before university. Well still save. Come on, lets take it for a spin and wash the purchase.
I tried to pull her into an embrace; she stepped away, her expression hardening. His wide gestures met a wall of cold.
Im not going anywhere, she snapped. Dinner isnt ready.
She turned and disappeared back up the stairwell, the weight of my stare following her. Inside, I watched her stir soup, the kitchen window framing me still standing by the car. I kicked the tyre in annoyance, got in, and revved away. Where I went to wash the car mattered little to her; the bitterness in her eyes was enough.
The night stretched on. I returned after midnight, feeling guilty, and placed a bag of her favourite shortbread on the kitchen table.
Sorry, I got carried away. Its for you, so you can travel comfortably.
She replied, I dont drive, Oliver. I never planned to learn.
I insisted, Youll learn! Ill teach you myself. A car is just a thing; were a family. The important thing is were together.
She sighed, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Perhaps I was right, I thought. Maybe she was overreacting. Money is just paper; I was there, trying to make amends. She listened halfheartedly as I bragged about the engines power and the sophisticated navigation system. I told myself a wise wife would endure, forgive, and support.
The next day, Saturday, I insisted on a family trip out of town. Poppy, now seventeen, squealed with delight as she fidgeted with the new cars buttons. I sat in the front, trying to look content. The drive was smooth, almost silent. We passed village greens, woods and fields, eventually stopping at a picturesque lake for a picnic. I kept the tea thermos full for Margaret, covering her with a blanket, and she seemed to thaw a little.
That evening, after we returned, I left the car in the driveway and Margaret began tidying the interior. When she opened the glove compartment, her fingers brushed against something stiff tucked behind the owners manuala receipt.
Space Station Playset £80
Fairy Charm Bracelet £35
The date was a week old. I had been on a work trip to a nearby city, claiming a new project required my presence. Who had bought such expensive toys? A boys set, a girls braceletperhaps for a colleagues child? Nothing she could explain. The receipt felt like a lie, like the car purchase itselfsudden, unapproved, unsettling.
She didnt sleep that night. Lying beside me, she stared at the ceiling, replaying the past few years: my trips becoming more frequent, my evening calls turning into brief messages: All good, tired, going to bed. She blamed my new role, my responsibilities. What if there was more?
In the morning, while I was showering, she took my phoneshe knew the password, Poppys birthday. She scrolled through contacts. Most were workrelated, except one: Serena Peterson Plumber. She opened the thread and her face went pale.
Serena, did the pipes arrive? Oliver typed.
Yes, all set. Kyle is thrilled, has been assembling for two days.
Who was Kyle? Another plumbers son?
Another message: Hows the weather? Cold yet?
Its sunny here. I miss you terribly.
He had called her sunny once, early in our relationship, and used the same pet name for Poppy when she was a baby. The tone was warm, intimate. The conversation continued with plans for a Saturday swim competition and a request for a honey cakemy favourite. It wasnt a plumber at all; it was a woman, and she had a son. He was buying them treats, attending events, driving his new car to meet them.
When I returned from the shower, Margaret asked, Headache? I lied, Probably the blood pressure. The day passed in a fog; she cooked, talked to Poppy, answered my questions, but her mind raced: who was this other woman? How long had this been going on?
On Monday I called work, said I was ill, then phoned my sister in the neighbouring city, pretending I needed a quick visit. I got into the Jaguar, hands unfamiliar on the wheel. The navigation still held a few recent destinations: Home, Work, and a frequently visited addressGreen Street, number 15, a modest council block. The drive took an hour and a half; I saw nothing, only the blur of the road, my purpose a knot of dread.
I parked in a quiet side lane, hidden from view, and sat on a bench, sunglasses shielding my eyes. Time slipped by. Residents came and wentmothers with prams, retirees, teenagers. I felt foolish, spying, but something compelled me onward.
Then the door of flat 15 opened. There stood a manme, in jeans and a plain tee, laughing with a woman in a simple dress, her blond hair catching the light. She cradled a tenyearold boy with a bright smile, his hair the same shade as mine. They walked to the nearby playground, I lifted the boy onto my shoulders, spun him around. The woman chatted, fixing her hair, while I looked at her with a tenderness I hadnt shown Margaret for years. They seemed a normal, happy family on a weekday.
My heart stopped. I fumbled for my phone and snapped a blurry picture of the three of us on the swingproof, a fragment of my shattered life. I cant remember how I got back to the car; the world outside the windscreen dissolved into a smear. I collapsed onto the sofa at home, staring at the wall. Twentyplus years of building a life felt like a paper cutout.
Later, Oliver (me) came home as usual, cheerful, handing Poppy a chocolate bar and planting a kiss on my cheek.
How are you feeling, love? he asked, moving toward the kitchen.
I handed him the phone, the photo open on the screen.
His smile faded, his face went pallid. He stared, then looked back at me, voice trembling.
This isnt what you think.
What do you think, Oliver? My voice was unnervingly calm. I think you have a second family. I think you have a son. I think youve lied to me for years. Am I wrong?
Its complicated, he whispered.
Complicated? I smiled bitterly. Complicated is raising a child in the nineties on a single salary. Complicated is caring for a sick mother and splitting time between home and hospital. What you call complicated is simply deceit.
Poppy walked in, eyes wide.
Mom, Dad, whats happening? You look strange.
Go to your room, sweetheart, I said gently. Were talking.
Oliver slumped into a chair, looking older, worn.
I didnt mean to hurt you.
Didnt mean? I repeated. You bought a car with the money we saved for Poppys future, to ferry another woman and another child! You didnt just hurt meyou killed me. I only want to know one thing: how long?
He lowered his head, silence filling the room.
Oliver!
Twelve years, he whispered.
Twelve. Poppy was five then. He started another family while our daughter was still a toddler. I closed my eyes; memories rushedPoppy on the swings, us at the seaside, him teaching her to swim. Meanwhile, in another town, another girl, another boy, shared the same rides, the same lessons.
I met Sarah an engineer on a site. It just spiralled. She got pregnant, I couldnt walk away.
Could you walk away from me? From Poppy?
I never left you! I love you! I love them too! He tried to meet my gaze, tears spilling.
Leave, I said softly.
Where to? he asked.
Back to them. Where it isnt hard. Where theyre waiting and love you. I gestured loosely. Pack your things.
Marion, lets talk. Dont be rash.
Weve said everything, Oliver. Go.
He gathered a small bag of essentials, tried to say something as he left, but I turned away. The door closed behind him, the Jaguars engine roaring as it disappeared down Green Street, disappearing into the night.
Poppy entered, eyes red from crying.
Mom, did Dad go? Forever?
I pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling the ache in my bones.
I dont know, love. I dont know.
We sat together in the silence of the empty flat, the darkness creeping outside. The parking space where his sleek black Jaguar once stood was now empty, the void feeling even larger. At fortyfive, with a daughter in university and a life in ruins, I felt a strange, cold calm replace the pain. One chapter had ended; another must now be written, and I am the one who will hold the pen.
Lesson: trust is a fragile thingonce broken, it cannot be mended with gifts or apologies. It must be guarded, cherished, and never taken for granted.
