Emily was applying lipstick, humming a tune brimming with hope under her breath. She had planned to surprise Christopher—preparing an elegant dinner, wearing her finest dress, and filling the evening with warmth and closeness. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Beaming with anticipation, Emily hurried to answer it, but instead of her husband, a striking woman with a cold smile stood on the doorstep.
“Who are you?” Emily frowned, eyeing the stranger.
“I’m the new owner of this house,” the woman declared with arrogant confidence, nudging Emily aside and stepping inside as if it were her rightful place.
“Excuse me, but this is *my* home!” Emily exclaimed, her voice trembling with disbelief.
“Not anymore. It’s mine now,” the woman replied with a venomous smirk.
“What nonsense is this? What claim do you have on my house?” Emily stared, half-convinced she was dreaming.
Christopher had bumped into his first love by chance. Over a decade had passed, but Bethany had only grown more beautiful. Her smile—so familiar, so alluring—wiped away the pain of their past breakup, his wife, their little daughter, and all the years he’d spent with Emily.
A brief encounter turned into a long walk through the lamplit streets of London. They talked about everything and nothing until they reached Bethany’s flat. At the door, she brushed her lips lightly against his cheek and whispered,
“Shame you’re married. I’d have invited you in.”
Only then did Christopher snap out of his daze. His phone screen flashed with missed calls from Emily and messages begging him to pick up formula for their baby girl.
When he returned home, he found Emily cradling their daughter. Without looking up, she asked, “Did you get the formula?”
Christopher studied her. She wore a faded jumper, loose leggings, her hair hastily tied back. No makeup, no trace of the woman he’d once admired.
*She used to take care of herself. Now? Comparing her to Bethany is like night and day,* he thought bitterly.
“I’ve had a long day, and you can’t even greet me?” he snapped.
“Sorry, you’re right,” Emily murmured. “But the formula ran out, and Sophie’s been poorly. I couldn’t get to the shops.”
“Maybe you should manage your time better,” he retorted, kicking off his shoes and striding past.
A week later, as Emily folded baby clothes, unease gnawed at her. Since Sophie’s birth, Christopher had changed—short-tempered, distant. He’d scoffed at her exhaustion, but lately, his jabs had sharpened. First, it was her “cold welcome,” then her appearance.
“At least try to look presentable! Men aren’t drawn to stained jumpers and greasy hair,” he’d sneered once.
“Brilliant, watch Sophie while I shower,” Emily had replied, hoping to defuse him.
“I’m not a babysitter. I’m the breadwinner,” he’d shot back.
Later, he’d prodded again: “A good wife inspires her husband. A single compliment could move mountains! When was the last time you said anything kind?”
Exhausted, Emily finally snapped: “Yesterday, I *inspired* you to fix the cot. Once it’s done, you’ll get your compliments.”
Guilt pinched her. She approached Christopher, wrapped her arms around him, and whispered, “I’m sorry. But you hurt me too. Let’s talk tonight. Put Sophie down early, and—”
He shoved her away. Emily swallowed her anger, keeping her voice low for their daughter’s sake.
“Your nitpicking is exhausting. If something’s bothering you, say it. But if you just want to provoke me or be coddled—the door’s right there. I won’t stop you.”
Christopher stared, startled. Gentle, patient Emily had never spoken so firmly.
*Where’s the tender, devoted man I fell for?* she wondered bleakly.
Silence stretched. Emily added coolly, “Shall I fetch your suitcase?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” he muttered, retreating into his phone.
“Remember—no one’s keeping you here. If you want to leave, go. Just do it properly.”
Secretly, Christopher *had* considered leaving. Bethany, inviting him over for “tea,” had made her intentions clear. Tea was forgotten—passion consumed them. Afterward, guilt plagued him, but Bethany, nuzzling close, whispered:
“I’m divorced now, free. End things with Emily, and we’ll start fresh. We were meant to be.”
“You left for a ‘better life,’ and I wasn’t enough,” he reminded her, the old ache resurfacing.
“How foolish I was,” she sighed. “The better life was *you*. Divorce her, please.”
She kissed him again, and Christopher responded just to avoid talking.
Walking home, he wrestled with doubt. *I can’t abandon Emily. She cared for my sick mother, wrote to me during my military service, stood by me through unemployment. And Sophie… Our daughter binds us tighter than glue. But Bethany—she’s my true love. Always has been.*
To silence his conscience, he nitpicked at Emily, then hated himself, lashing out harder.
Her ultimatum jolted him. In her eyes, he saw resolve—and realized *he* wasn’t ready.
Vowing it was his last visit, he went to Bethany.
Her beauty, her attentiveness—she cooked lavish meals, praised his work: “Your company leans on you! Why don’t they see it?”
Only her push for divorce annoyed him. Finally, she snapped:
“What’s keeping you? If it’s the baby, you barely mention her. Too cowardly? I’ll talk to Emily myself!”
“Don’t!” he panicked. “I can’t leave her with nothing. She’s on maternity leave, worked as a cleaner—how would she manage?”
Bethany softened. “How noble of you. Pay child support, help her rent a flat—that’s generous. Now, file for divorce!”
“Seems you care more about the ring than *us*,” he joked weakly.
She stiffened. “Yes, I want marriage. Should I settle for being your dirty secret? I endure it only to become your *wife*. I want our child born legitimate.”
“*What* child?” he nearly blurted, but she rested a hand on her stomach.
Panic gave way to joy. *A baby—my dream come true.*
“I’m so happy,” he smiled, squeezing her hand. “Soon, we’ll start anew. Just give me time.”
“Of course,” she purred—her lie undetected.
Days later, Emily glowed as she redid her lipstick. After weeks of tension, Christopher had softened, even apologised:
“I took work stress out on you. But things are settling. Soon, everything will be perfect.”
“Celebrate with dinner out?” Emily suggested, heart lifting at his familiar smile.
He hesitated. “Can’t—too much to do. Another time?”
*Oh no, you’re not wriggling free,* she thought, giddy with hope.
She arranged a surprise: Sophie would stay with a friend; she’d cook, wear her favourite dress. For flair, she bolted the door, imagining Christopher’s knock, her grand reveal.
The bell rang too soon. Emily dashed over, rehearsing a playful line: “You’re early—more time for us!”
But it wasn’t Christopher. The woman on the step seemed faintly familiar. She smirked, scanning Emily.
“I’d hide legs like those, not flaunt them.”
“Who *are* you?” Emily tightened her robe.
“The rightful owner,” the woman said, shoving past.
Emily grabbed her wrist. “You’re mistaken. Leave.”
“*I* pity *you*,” the woman countered. “I’m carrying Christopher’s child.”
Emily’s grip slackened. The odd behaviour, the sudden kindness—it all made sense. Betrayal struck like a knife.
Unfazed, the woman pressed on: “Christopher wanted to spare you. I’m less patient. As a mother, you’ll understand. You’ll divorce him—no house, no money. Just child support and a rented flat.”
Emily almost laughed. “*No house or money?*”
“Christopher said you were a *cleaner* with nothing. Be grateful—it’s generous!”
Emily scoffed, stifling hysterical giggles.
Misreading her, the woman snarled, “Refuse, and I’ll ruin you. He’ll listen—I’m his first love.”
Recognition dawned. *Bethany—from his old photos. All this time, Sophie and I were placeholders.*
“Well? Agreed?” Bethany demanded.
“Let Christopher go, claim nothing but child support? How could I resist?”
When Christopher returned, suitcases greeted him. He knew Bethany was involved. Relief, shame, and sorrow warred within.
“Your *first love* visited,” Emily said. “SaidHe stared at the packed bags, then at Emily—still radiant, still strong—and realized, too late, that the love he’d taken for granted was the only one that ever truly mattered.