Laura flipped through the pages of her favourite newspaper, letting her eyes skim the headlines without lingering. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere, circling a sore spot that would not let go.
In the Missing Persons column she never stopped to read; she turned the page immediately. The question there was always straightforward and tidy. Now, however, she stared at the listings, each one a string of phone numbers belonging to people eager to meet some looking for a lifelong partner, others for a night, still others for an hour.
Laura didnt crave new thrills; she simply wanted someone on the other end of the line to hear her out. That evening she had no one to confide in, and the ache was palpable. She dialled the first number she found.
Good evening, Dating Services, how may I help you? a warm female voice answered confidently.
Hello, Laura whispered, her voice trembling. She didnt know what to say next.
Ill assist you, dont worry. Lets note down your details and preferences, the velvety voice replied, growing impatient with Lauras hesitation.
Excuse me, may I speak frankly? Laura steadied herself.
If youre not looking for a man, Im not the right person. I dont have time for confessions. Call the helpline they have counsellors, the girl said, rattling off a number before hanging up.
Laura scribbled the number down; the helpline would now be her lifeline. She dialled carefully, not wanting to slip up.
Hello, good evening! May I speak with someone? I really need to talk, she urged.
Of course, Ill listen to your story, a calm voice replied.
Thus began Lauras tale. At first she stumbled, nervous, then steadied into a clear, confident narration. It is often easier to unburden oneself to a stranger, a random fellow traveller, and Laura laid it all out plainly, without sugarcoating. She wasnt after advice; she simply needed to be heard.
She started:
My husband left me. A year ago we celebrated our silver wedding anniversary I thought I was the happiest woman alive. Ian and I had met at the College of Education. Ian already had a wife, Victoria, and two small children, a son and a daughter. The kids were the light of his life. Victoria adored Ian, willing to give him everything, and she cared for the children with tireless devotion. She was the picture of a dutiful, biblical wife.
I was jealous of her. Here I was, beautiful and clever, while his wife seemed like a drab mouse. I convinced myself that with Ian we could be perfect. I broke that ideal marriage. No proverb could sway me Dont bite off more than you can chew, Dont build happiness on anothers misery, He has children, after all I loved him anyway.
Years later I see I was a temptress, a sly serpent. From the wreckage of his family we tried to build our stolen happiness. Victoria accepted her fate without protest, merely pleading in a soft voice, Dont forget our children. She devoted the rest of her life to them and their grandchildren; no one could replace Ian for her, and she never sought another man.
Ian and I had a son, Stephen. We raised him well, gave him everything he needed. We could afford yearly trips to the coast, a spacious flat in London, an imported car, and a cottage in the countryside. Both of us were deans at the College. We never forgot Ians children; we looked after them, took them in during school holidays. Sometimes we spent vacations with them, and I sometimes felt they loved me more than their own mother.
Victoria worked as a nurse and could barely make ends meet, yet I would taunt her, Ask your mother to take you to the sea once. I knew she was struggling, and I wanted to strike a painful chord. Still, she never asked us for help not out of pride, but because she didnt want to intrude. Im sure Ian, in secret, supported her financially.
Stephen grew up, married, and left the nest. Ian and I remained in a huge flat in the city centre, our lives smooth and calm, until rumors began to swirl.
Laura, did you hear that Ian often spends extra tutoring sessions with a wayward student? a retired colleague whispered.
I was shocked and amused. The dean and a struggling student? Nonsense.
But a year earlier, after returning from a restaurant celebrating our silver anniversary, Ian stunned me.
Laura, Im sorry, Im leaving you for someone else. Lets get a divorce, he said, dead serious.
It was the textbook plot: an aging wife, a vigorous husband, a young lover. I erupted in hysteria.
Youre leaving me for that talentless golddigger? Think again, Ian! Ill have her expelled! The children will never forgive you! I shouted, but it was futile. Ian walked away with his new flame.
The world turned grey for me, but that was only the beginning of my turmoil. Ian and his lover moved into a flat next door, helped by mutual colleagues who claimed they were supporting a young couple. I saw them every winter at the bus stop, and Ians car would pass me as he drove past.
The student strutted, looking down on me as if I were a prop. She was sure of herself, just as I had been when I stole Ian from his first family. Now I was left with ash instead of love.
What about Ian? In his eyes a fresh ocean of happiness shimmered. At fifty he felt youthful, his hair greying like a storm cloud. Love knows no calendar.
Long ago I asked him, Why was it so easy to lure you away from your family? Victoria was a perfect, obedient wife.
Laura, I was bored in that comfortable swamp, he replied, kissing my hands.
It seemed boredom struck him again, a craving for unbridled passion. As the saying goes, Today you swear till the grave, tomorrow you watch your back. He seemed destined to abandon weary wives for new temptresses. I now count myself among both the thief and the victim.
I sought support from Ians children, but they sided with their father. They reminded me, What goes around, comes around. To them I was a foreign aunt who stole their mothers husband. No matter what I did, the parents remained the primary anchors for the children.
Ians son and daughter never loved me never. As adults we tried to buy their affection with gifts, trips, and flowery words, but they grew up and saw through it. I havent spoken to them in a year; theyve stopped contacting me.
Our divorce was quiet, without drama. Ian said his new partner, Alison, was expecting a child, and it would be fair to split our flat into two. I agreed without protest arguing would be like trying to retrieve last nights darkness at dawn.
Help a growing family, they said.
Now I sit in an empty fourbedroom flat, fortyfour years old, feeling like a wilted leaf. I still keep up with my appearance my husband used to buy me expensive cosmetics, perfume, stylish clothes. Im a costly trinket, yet a deep, unending melancholy gnaws at me. My only solace is Stephen, who always checks on me.
May I call you sometime? I ask the listening voice on the helpline. You never interrupted me. Thank you for understanding.
Laura hung up, exhaled, forced a smile, and redialled Stephen. He was surprised by the late call.
Mum, whats wrong? he asked, wary.
Everythings fine, Stephen! I feel light inside. Lets have you and the kids over this weekend Ill bake a cake, Laura said, sending a kiss across the line.
Six months later Laura phoned the same counsellor again.
You know, I ran into an old schoolmate. Hed been nearby all my life, never daring to approach. He knew Id loved and been loved. Hed never married. When he sensed the radical changes in my life, he finally showed up. We got married.
Happiness returned to my modest onebedroom flat, and Im grateful for the confession that cleared my heart. Now I know that life always offers something in return.
What goes around, indeed, comes around a reminder that our actions echo back to us.
