The wedding hall was packed. My husband of decades, Oliver, now 70, stood beside his youthful passion, Betty, their wedding photos spread across the internet like a testament to “eternal love.” And there I was, in the doorway, the discarded first draft of his life.
He limped toward me, his new wife’s hand clutched in his. “Catherine, don’t make a scene,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “Let’s part on good terms.”
I smiled. “I didn’t come here to cause a scandal, Oliver. I have a grand gift for you.”
My daughter, Ashley, pushed through the crowd, her face a mask of irritation. “Mom, what the hell are you doing here? Dad’s having a celebration. If you came to cause a scene, you have only yourself to blame.”
“Blame myself?” I asked.
Betty gently touched Ashley’s arm. “You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that. She’s had a difficult life.”
Ashley’s face softened, but only slightly. “Mom, this isn’t your place,” she said, ushering me toward the door. “You need to pick up Kyle from kindergarten. Go on now.”
My grandson. My sweet Kyle. She was using him to get rid of me. I swallowed the anger, turned, and walked away. On the big screen in the hall, a photo of Oliver and Betty shone, captioned, Love Knows No Bounds. I smiled bitterly. In their world, I was never Oliver’s equal, never good enough. But once, it was my name on the university acceptance letter.
I was supposed to be the one to go to college. But my father, a simple farmer, took every penny of our savings and paid for the education of Oliver, the orphaned son of his best friend. “We should have let Catherine study,” I heard my mother weep one night. But I wasn’t angry. I loved Oliver. I believed in him.
“When you come back,” I’d told him, my eyes shining, “you’ll teach me everything you learn.”
He promised me the world. As soon as he found a good job, he’d take me with him. We’d be happy. We married after he graduated. I believed his sincere confession that we were made for each other. I thought love was companionship, trust, a life built together.
I couldn’t imagine that decades later, he would throw me away like a finished book, ashamed to be seen with his “uneducated, clueless” wife. The man who once promised to build a future with me had rewritten our history, erasing me from its pages as if I had never existed.
He left me two weeks after Betty’s husband, Steven, died. “Betty needs support,” he’d said, not even looking at me. “I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”
My daughter, Ashley, had fully supported him. “Mom, don’t take it to heart,” she’d said, her voice devoid of sympathy. “Dad and Aunt Betty are the perfect couple. Let’s be honest, you’re just a housewife. Be grateful you lived in comfort for so many years.”
Now, as I drove to the kindergarten, her words echoed in my head. My grandson, Kyle, was the only one left at the empty playground. “Grandma, where are we going?” he asked.
“To Gorki Park.”
“I don’t want to,” he pouted. “I want to go to Grandpa’s wedding. I heard my new grandma is Aunt Betty, the famous writer. The kids at school won’t laugh at me anymore.”
My heart clenched. They wanted me to disappear, and even a child could see it. I crouched down and smiled, a decision forming like ice in my veins. “Okay, Kyle,” I said. “Let’s go to Grandpa’s wedding.”
When we arrived, the banquet was in full swing. Oliver and Betty were in the center of the hall, basking in the congratulations. Kyle ran to his grandpa, his small voice echoing through the room. Betty turned to me with a gentle, triumphant smile. “Catherine, please, have a seat. What are your plans for the future?”
Whispers erupted around us. “Why is she here? Such an ordinary woman… She was never his equal… Clinging to him even after he left…”
The words were a thousand tiny blades. For years, Oliver had forbidden me from visiting his work, telling me to leave documents with the security guard, claiming I was just the housekeeper. To him, I was never worthy of knowledge. If I had started reading, he would have had no excuse to humiliate me, no justification for returning to his precious first love.
“Mom, what are you staring at?” Ashley’s voice snapped me back. “Just leave already. Here.” She pulled out a few bills. “Take this for a taxi. Don’t make a scene.”
For years, I had been a housewife with no income. They controlled every penny. And now, she was throwing cash at me to make me disappear. Something inside me, long dormant, finally broke.
The sharp sound of my hand connecting with her cheek echoed through the hall. The room went silent.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” my voice was ice. “You’re bribing your own mother to leave so your father can marry his mistress? You’re just as ungrateful as he is.”
Oliver and Betty rushed over. “Catherine, calm down,” Oliver said, his expression tired. “I admit your father helped me. I paid back that debt over the years. I never treated you badly.”
I let out a short, cold laugh. “You didn’t treat me badly? While you were chasing grants, most of the money went to Betty and her family. After Ashley was born, you stopped sharing a bed with me, claiming you needed a quiet place for your research. You weren’t protecting academic focus. You were protecting yourself for Betty.”
A stunned silence hung in the hall. Then, the whispers exploded. Oliver’s face darkened. “How dare you say such things in front of everyone?”
“Oh, now you care about dignity?” I stepped closer. “You had decades of it, Oliver. Where was it when you were meeting Betty behind her husband’s back?”
The room gasped.
“Foolish woman!” he roared, his body trembling with rage.
“Yes, I am foolish,” I said with a slow smile. “But at least I know the difference between good and evil.”
Betty let out a scornful laugh. “Catherine, I’m not asking you to leave with nothing. When you move back to the village, Oliver will send you support.”
The crowd’s murmurs turned to open contempt. “Ah, she just wants money… What a schemer…”
I laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “I thought I was standing in a hall of intellectuals,” I said, my voice dripping with irony. “But it turns out you’re just as ignorant as these two ungrateful hypocrites.” I lifted my chin. “Want to play? Fine. I’ll see you in court.”
That night, they were all celebrating Betty’s new book. I, however, had a different plan. My lawyer had found someone willing to testify in my favor: Steven’s nephew, Richard. Steven had adored his nephew, and Richard had been by his side until the very end, while Betty was “away.”
Richard recorded a video for me.
“Hello, everyone,” his handsome face appeared on the screen I had arranged to be projected in the hall. “My name is Richard Smith. I am Steven Smith’s nephew. For years, I struggled with a terrible secret. I saw my Aunt Betty with other men, but I couldn’t break my uncle’s heart by telling him. He was emotionally distant, and he became increasingly depressed. These photos may be ten years old, but they clearly show the truth. And among those men… was Oliver.”
The video ended. The hall was in an uproar. Public opinion, which had been so firmly against me, flipped in an instant. Betty’s books were pulled from shelves. Oliver was fired from the university. Their carefully constructed world of intellectual nobility and tragic love crumbled into dust.
One evening, they knocked on my door. Betty fell to her knees as soon as she saw me. “Catherine, please,” she sobbed. “I can’t do this anymore. Let this go.”
Oliver stood by, his face red with humiliation. “If you leave Betty alone,” he muttered, “I’ll come back. We can go back to how things were.”
I looked at him, and for the first time in many years, I laughed a real, genuine laugh. “Do you really think so highly of yourself, Oliver? Do you believe I did all this to get you back? I’m not trying to get you back. I’m just taking what I deserve, for myself, and in memory of my parents, who sacrificed everything for you.”
My lawyer secured the final agreement. The house remained his, but he compensated me an additional sum—not a fortune, but enough. With that money, I bought a plot of land and built a small shop, selling produce from my garden.
One day, a young woman approached me hesitantly. “Excuse me,” she whispered. “Are you the brave grandmother?” She was a former student of Oliver’s, a fan of Betty’s. She told me how inspired she was by my story, how I had proved that even at 70, you can start a new life.
Ashley’s life, however, had crumbled. Her plans to use Betty’s reputation to climb the social ladder were in ruins. One evening, she called, her voice broken. “Mom, I’ve ruined everything.”
There was no satisfaction in her confession, only a quiet understanding. “You can’t climb on the backs of others to succeed,” I told her softly. “What you wanted was to take from others, but in the end, it left you with nothing.”
I spent my days working in my shop, a quiet, peaceful life of my own making. I realized that happiness isn’t about proving others wrong or seeking revenge. It’s about creating a space where you can truly be yourself. I had paid a high price for the lessons I learned, but I had never felt more at peace. This was the beginning of something better, something of my own. And that was enough.