“Forgive, but I won’t forget.”
“Harry, are you sure you’ve not forgotten anything? Shouldn’t you double-check?” I called, pausing by the bathroom door.
“Grace, I’ve got everything. The suitcase is packed to the brim!” he replied over the sound of the shower. And somehow, his voice carried something uneasy, unsure.
I stepped back. I’d seen the suitcase, but what exactly he’d stuffed inside—well, that I didn’t know.
“Make the coffee strong, please, no milk,” he called again, his voice steadier now.
On autopilot, I went to the kitchen. Scooped the grounds into the pot, added water, a pinch of salt. Though we’ve a proper machine, he always asks for it brewed by hand—says it tastes better, like his nan used to make. And I do it. Habit. Love.
“The divine scent of the divine drink!” He walked in, running a hand through damp hair before sitting at the table. “When the courier comes, take the parcel. I’ve ordered car seat covers.”
“No upfront payment?” I sat opposite him, sinking into the chair.
“Cash on delivery,” he sighed. “And damn, this business trip—dropped on me out of the blue. Couldn’t refuse, you know how it is. Career. Senior manager, after all.”
“Who’d have thought ‘senior managers’ still dashed off on trips like this…”
He shrugged, picked up his phone—time to work a bit while he still could. Stood, left.
I glanced at the empty mug—still there. Never mind, I’d forgive. Not the time for washing up—nerves, first trip and all…
Then—a ping. A message.
Opened it.
“Grace, Harry’s lying. He’s flying to Italy with Clara Hartley. Stop him, he’s making a mistake.”
Emma. His sister.
I froze. Not a joke. Emma didn’t jest about such things. So—truth.
Panic flared in my chest. I sat. The water in the glass—downed in one. The second—same. Wanted to scream. Rage. Smash everything. Instead—silence. Ice inside.
He’d known. Planned it. Used our shared money, packed his bags, lied about the trip. And I—brewed his coffee.
I returned to my phone. Opened the banking app. £12,000. Minus £3,000. Already withdrawn. Most of it was mine, anyway.
With Clara… Oh, I knew her. His childhood sweetheart. He’d told me himself. Emma filled in the rest. That Clara left him, came back, left again. Now—back once more. Old ghosts returned.
Why couldn’t he just say? Why—not like a man?
I’d act. Withdraw the rest. File for divorce. His things—sent by courier. Tomorrow’s presentation—ready. After—a holiday. Not Italy. But alone.
He returned to the kitchen, suited up.
“Off now. Thought I’d leave early,” he said.
“Safe trip,” I bit out.
“Grace, what’s wrong? Bit sharp, aren’t you?”
“Must be your imagination.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Doubt you’ll have time for that.”
“Not seeing me off?”
“You know the way. I’ll do the washing up.”
He left. The suitcase scraped the floor. The door slammed.
One thought—change the locks. Tomorrow. Called the building manager—settled it.
Only then did I let myself cry. How it hurt. How vile.
Another ping.
“Grace, how are you?” Emma again.
I dialled her.
“Where’d you hear it?” I asked flatly.
“From Clara’s friend. They’re packing now. I couldn’t stay quiet, Grace.”
“Thank you. But I didn’t stop him. Let him go. His choice.”
“Christ, the fool. Letting himself be used again…”
“His problem. But don’t tell him I know yet.”
“Course not. Frankly, I’m done with him. Idiot.”
“Emma… thanks. I’ll transfer the rest to Mum. Better it’s with her. Then I’ll start the divorce.”
“You’re brilliant, Grace. Stay strong.”
Hung up. Checked—another £1,000 gone. The nerve. Quickly—transfer to Mum. Every last penny.
“Mum?”
“Yes, Grace? Saw Harry off?”
“Mum, I’m sending you £11,000. Can’t keep it in my account—he’d get half in the divorce. This way—it’s mine.”
“What’s happened?…”
“He’s flown off with another woman. To Italy.”
“Bloody hell… Grace…”
“Done. I’m free now. He never wanted children—but I do. Have one on my own. That’s that.”
“Love… Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems? What about Lucy’s nephew—”
“Mum, not now. Money’s sent. We’ll talk later.”
Only after hanging up did I take my first deep breath all day. It hurt. But breathing came easier.