Tell me whats going on, Margaret says, her voice low but edged with steel. Oliver, explain this.
Oliver leans against the glossy black hatchback parked by the entrance, its paint shining like a freshly polished teapot. The scent of expensive leather and plastic drifts up to the thirdfloor kitchen window.
Surprise! he spreads his arms as if embracing the whole world. A gift for us. For our anniversarywell, almost I wanted to get it early. Like it?
Margaret descends the stairs slowly, her feet moving of their own accord, the heavy front door closing behind her. One thought hammers in her mind, cold and sharp as a needle: money. The very money they have been scrimping away for almost five years, penny by penny, for the first mortgage payment on a flat for Emily, their daughter, so shell have a place of her own when she goes to university.
Oliver, are you out of your mind? she steps close, her hand touching the icy metal of the bonnet. The car is sleek, beautiful, alien. We agreed. This cash is untouchable.
Come on, Margaret, what are you starting? Olivers smile falters a little. Well earn more. Im now head of department, the salarys bigger. And its shameful to keep driving our old clunker after ten years of faithful service. Look at this beauty!
He opens the door for her. The interior, upholstered in lightcoloured leather, beckons with comfort and luxury. For a heartbeat Margaret wants to sit inside, inhale the scent of a new life, but she forces herself back.
Shameful? You felt ashamed driving the car that got us through a decade? Im not ashamed of looking my daughter in the eye when she asks why we cant help her with a flat.
Emilys still two years from university, Oliver waves off. Well save up. Dont be a sourpuss, enjoy it. Lets take it for a spin and wash the purchase.
He tries to hug her, but she steps away. Irritation flashes across his face; he isnt used to his broad gestures meeting a cold wall.
Im not going anywhere, she cuts. Dinner isnt ready.
She turns back toward the entrance, feeling his bewildered, angry stare on her back. Inside the flat, as she stirs the soup, she watches through the window. Oliver is still by the car, then kicks a tire in frustration, slides into the drivers seat, and roars away. Where hes off washing the new purchase alone doesnt matter to her. The bitterness that settles in her chest is so sharp it makes her want to cry, yet no tears comejust a frozen emptiness. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of joint decisions, every big expense, every trip discussed together. Now he simply drops this fact on her as if her opinion never existed.
He returns late, after midnight, quiet, a little guilty, and places a bag of her favourite biscuits on the kitchen table.
Margaret, Im sorry. I got carried away. But you have to understand its for you too, so you can travel in comfort.
I dont drive, Oliver. I never planned to learn.
You will! Ill teach you myself, he sits beside her, takes her hand. Dont be angry. A car is just an object. Were a family. The important thing is were together.
Margaret sighs. Perhaps hes right? Perhaps shes overreacting? Money is material, and her husband is trying to make amends. She forces a weak smile, and Olivers spirits lift as he launches into an excited description of the engines power, the clever navigation system, the heated seatseverything he can brag about. Margaret nods halfheartedly, thinking a wise wife should endure, forgive, support.
The next day, Saturday, Oliver insists on a family trip out of town. Emily, seventeen, squeals with delight, poking at buttons and levers in the new cabin. Margaret sits in the front seat, trying to look pleased. The car glides smoothly, almost silently. Outside, the countryside rolls past: village streets, woods, fields. They stop at a scenic lake for a picnic. Oliver is jovial and attentive, constantly refilling Margarets thermos with tea, wrapping her in a blanket. She begins to thaw, almost believing things could be fine again.
That evening, after they return, Oliver parks the car and Margaret decides to tidy the interiorshake out the mats, clear crumbstained seats. She opens the glove compartment to put in some wet wipes, and her fingers brush against a folded piece of paper tucked behind the user manual. Its a receipt. She unfolds it, eyes scanning the lines, and freezes.
Space Station Buildit, 1 unit £78.00
Fairy Charm Bracelet, 1 piece £35.00
The date is a week old. That day Oliver was on a business trip to a nearby regional hub, about 75 miles away, claiming a new major project needed his personal oversight. Margaret frowns. Who would he be buying such pricey toys for? The set looks like its for a tentotwelveyearold boy; the bracelet for a girlor perhaps a woman. None of his colleagues have children that age, she thinks. Maybe a gift for a superiors son? But why spend so much, and why keep it secret?
She slips the receipt into her robe pocket. Her heart pounds, a nasty throb. Something about this feels false, like the whole car episodea sudden, unilateral decision.
She cant sleep that night. Lying beside her peacefully snoring husband, she stares at the ceiling, replaying recent years. His trips have become more frequent. He used to call each evening, detailing his day. Now he sends brief texts: All good, tired, heading to bed. She chalks it up to his new role, the pressure. She wonders if shes just being paranoid.
In the morning, while he showers, she does something shes never done in twenty years. She takes his phoneshe knows the password, Emilys birthdayand scrolls through contacts. Nothing suspicious: bosses, friends, family. Except one: Simon Parker, plumber. Margaret is curious. Why would Oliver keep a plumbers number from another town? She opens the thread. The messages are short, businesslike, yet something in them pricks her.
Simon, have the pipes arrived? Oliver writes.
Yes, all set. Kirills thrilled, has been assembling all day, comes the reply.
Kirill? A son of the plumber?
Another text: Hows the weather? Cold enough?
Weve got sunshine here. I miss you badly, reads Simon.
Sunshine. Oliver used that nickname for Margaret in the early years of their romance, and for Emily when she was a baby. Then he stopped, switching to Margaret or daughter. In this conversation, the word feels warm and alive. Margaret feels nausea rise.
She scrolls further. Coming Saturday? Kirills swim meet. Ill try to make it. Pick up a honey cake on the way, my favourite. This isnt a plumber. Its a woman with a son named Kirill, and Oliver is buying her cakes, attending his competitions, gifting expensive toys.
Margaret places the phone back just as Oliver steps out of the bathroom. His eyes, still damp, land on her.
You look pale, he says, towel wrapped around his hair.
My head hurts, she lies. Probably the pressure.
The rest of the day passes in a fog. She mechanically prepares lunch, chats with Emily, answers Olivers questions. All the while a single thought repeats: who is this other woman? How long has this been happening?
She decides she must find out, not to cause a scene but to understand, to redraw the blurred lines of her world.
On Monday she calls her sister, who lives in the same regional hub Oliver mentioned.
Hey, Lena, Im popping over today for a quick visit. Nothing urgent.
Sure, come over! Everything okay? Lena asks, concerned.
All fine, just business, Margaret replies.
She gets into the new, repellent car. The steering feels foreign, but Oliver taught her to drive a few years ago, even though she never liked it. The GPS, which he bragged about, still stores recent destinations: Home, Work, and several addresses in the neighboring town. One repeats most often: Green Street, 15.
The drive takes an hour and a half. She watches the countryside blur, unsure what shell do when she arrives. Knock on the door? Confront? She decides only to see.
Green Street is a quiet, leafy lane with a typical fivestorey block. She parks the car around the corner, out of sight. House 15, entrance 2. She sits on a bench opposite, puts on dark sunglasses, and waits.
An hour passes, then another. Residents with prams, elderly couples, teenagers hustle past. Margaret feels foolish. What is she doing, spying? Maybe its a mistake. Maybe this person truly matters to Olivers work.
Finally, the entrance opens. Oliver steps out in jeans and a plain Tshirt, not his usual suit. He laughs, chatting with a woman standing nearbya pretty blonde, about his age. She holds the hand of a lighthaired boy, roughly ten, smiling broadly at Oliver.
They stroll to a playground. Oliver scoops the boy onto his shoulders, twirling him as the child bursts into laughter. The three of them swing together. The woman adjusts her hair, looking at Oliver with a tenderness Margaret hasnt seen from him in years. They appear as an ordinary, happy family on a weekday outing.
Margaret cant breathe. She pulls out her phone, and without knowing why, snaps a photo. The picture is blurry from her trembling hand, but the trio on the swing is unmistakablea proof, a fragment of her shattered life.
She cant recall how she gets back to the car. The world beyond the windshield blurs into a smudge. She collapses onto the sofa at home, staring at a single point. The house she has built over twenty years now feels like a cardboard set. Her love, her loyalty, her whole lifeeverything was a lie.
Oliver comes home at his usual hour, cheerful, handing Emily a chocolate bar, planting a kiss on Margarets cheek.
How are you feeling, love? he asks, moving toward the kitchen.
Margaret silently hands him the phone, the photo open on the screen.
He looks, his smile fading, his face turning pale. He is silent for a few seconds, eyes flicking between the image and her.
This isnt what you think, he finally says.
And what do I think, Oliver? her voice is calm to an unnerving degree. 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?
Its complicated, Oliver stammers.
Complicated? she scoffs. Complicated is raising a child in the nineties on one salary. Complicated is caring for a sick mother while shuttling between home and hospital. This isnt complicated, Oliver. Its cruel.
Emily wanders in.
Mom, dad, whats happening? You look strange, she says.
Go to your room, love, Margaret replies softly. Were talking.
Oliver sits, looking older, slumped.
I didnt mean to hurt you.
Didnt mean to? she repeats. You bought a car with the money we saved for Emilys future, just to ferry another woman and another child. You didnt just hurt me, Oliver. You killed me. I want to know one thing. How long?
He lowers his head, silent.
Oliver!
Twelve years, he whispers.
Twelve. Emily was five then. He started another family while their daughter was still a toddler. Margaret closes her eyes. Memories flash: her with little Emily at the park, him pushing her on the swings; them at the seaside, him teaching her to swim. Somewhere, in another town, a boy on a swing, a womans hand in his, the same smiles.
I met Svetlana at a project site. Shes an engineer. It just happened. I didnt plan it. Then she said she was pregnant. I couldnt abandon her, he explains, eyes brimming. I love you, I love them both
Could you love me? Could you love Emily? Margaret asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I never left you, he says, tears spilling. I love you all.
Leave, she says, standing. Go.
Where?
Back to them. Where its not so hard. Where theyre waiting and love you. Pack your things.
What? Youre leaving?
Yes, she nods toward the door. Weve already said everything, Oliver. Leave.
He hesitates, then gathers a small bag of essentials. At the door he tries to say something, but Margaret turns away. When the door shuts, she walks to the window. He slides into his shiny new car and drives off, likely toward Green Street.
Emily enters, eyes red from crying.
Did dad go? Forever? she asks.
Margaret pulls her daughter into a tight embrace, feeling the ache in her bones.
I dont know, love. I dont know anything, she whispers.
They sit together in the quiet of the empty flat. Outside, night falls over the courtyard. The black car is gone, leaving a deeper void. Margaret, fortyfive, with a universityage daughter and a broken life, looks out at the dark yard. For the first time in years she feels not pain or anger, but a cold, strange calm. One chapter ends. Now she must begin writing a new one, alone.
