15October2025
Today I found myself thumbing through the SundayTimes, letting my eyes drift over the headlines without really stopping. My thoughts were elsewhere, circling a single, sore subject.
The Looking for Love column always catches my eye, but I never lingeredjust flipped the page. In that realm my life has always seemed neat and predictable. Yet now Im poring over the printed pages, each one dotted with telephone numbers of strangers yearning for connection. Some are seeking a lifelong partner, some a night of fun, some just an hours company.
I wasnt after fresh thrills; I simply wanted someone on the other end of the line to hear me out. That evening I had no one to unburden my heart to, and the need was acute. I dialed the first number that caught my eye.
Good evening, Dating Service, how may I help you? a warm, confident female voice answered.
Hello, I stammered, my voice trembling. I didnt know what to say next.
Ill assist you, dont worry. Lets record your details and preferences, the silky voice replied, growing impatient with my hesitance.
Excuse me, may I be a little honest with you? I gathered my courage.
You dont want to find a man? Im too busy to listen to every clients confession. Call the helpline; they have counsellors, she said, reciting a number in a rush before hanging up.
I scribbled the helpline number downit felt like a lifeline. I dialed carefully, trying not to slip on the digits.
Hello, good evening. May I speak with you? I really need to talk, I ventured.
Of course, Im here to listen, a calm voice replied.
Thus began my confession. At first my words were scattered, nerves getting the better of me; then I steadied, speaking with a measured calm. There is something oddly comforting about laying ones soul bare to a stranger, a random passenger on the night train of life. I poured out everything, raw and unadorned, not seeking advice, merely the relief of being heard.
My story unfolded bitterly.
My husband left me, I said. A year ago we celebrated our silver wedding anniversary. I thought I was the happiest woman alive.
Ian Parker and I had met as students at the London College of Education. Ian was already married to Violet Harper, a devoted mother of two young childrena boy and a girl. The children were the light of their lives. Violet adored Ian, willing to give him anything she could. She was the picture of a dutiful, almost biblical wife. I envied her; she seemed content with a modest, unremarkable life, while I, with my looks and wit, imagined a brighter future with Ian.
In the end I shattered that seemingly perfect marriage. No proverbdont bite the hand that feeds you, you cant build happiness on anothers miserycould sway me. I loved him, and that was all that mattered.
Years later I realise I was the temptress, the sly snake that slithered into a happy nest. After the divorce, we tried to piece together a stolen happiness. Violet, ever graceful, accepted her fate without bitterness, simply asking Ian, in a trembling voice, Dont forget our children. She devoted the rest of her life to them and their grandchildren; no other man ever replaced Ian in her heart.
Ian and I had a son, Steven. We raised him well, never lacking. We could afford yearly trips to Brighton, a spacious flat in Chelsea, a sleek foreign car, and a cosy cottage in the countryside. Both of us became heads of our respective departments at the college. We never forgot Ians children; we looked after them, welcomed them during school holidays, and sometimes spent vacations together with them. I even joked, halfheartedly, Ask your mother to take you to the sea one day, knowing full well how tight Violets purse was. It was a cruel jab, but Violet never sought our helpnot out of pride, but because she didnt want to intrude. Im sure Ian, behind my back, still supported her financially.
Steven grew up, married, and left the nest, leaving Ian and me alone in our large flat in the heart of London. Life felt smooth, the ship of our existence sailing unimpededuntil a rumor knocked on our door.
Word spread through the faculty corridor: Laura Ellison, are you aware that Ian Parker frequently spends extra tutoring sessions with a certain underperforming student? A retired colleague whispered it to me, and I laughed, dismissing it as nonsense. A dean and a struggling studentabsurd!
But a year earlier, after a celebratory dinner for 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 ageing wife, a man in his prime, a young lover. I erupted, hysterical, pleading, Youre abandoning me for that that floozy? Youll regret this! Ill make sure shes expelled! The children will never forgive you! My words fell on deaf ears. Ian walked away, and the world lost its colour for me, turning a bleak, grey shade.
He moved in with his new partner, a student named Amelia, in a flat just down the hall. Our mutual colleagues helped them find a place, claiming they were supporting a young couple. It felt like a mockery. Every winter morning, as I waited at the bus stop, Id see Ian and Amelia cruising past in our own car. Amelia strutted, eyes full of triumph, as if I were merely a prop in her drama.
Ians eyes now glittered with the fresh spark of a new romance, his fiftysomething self soaring like a bird. As the saying goes, love knows no calendar.
Once, I asked Ian why it had been so easy for me to lure him away from a solid marriage.
Laura, I was bored in that comfortable swamp, he said, planting a kiss on my hand.
It seems boredom struck him again, prompting a reckless chase after younger women. As the old adage warns, He who vows till the grave may yet break his vows tomorrow. I now count myself among both the guilty and the scorned.
I sought solace in Ians children, but they stood firmly with their father. Their unified voice reminded me of the proverb, What goes around comes around. To them I am nothing more than a treacherous aunt who stole their mothers husband. In their eyes, parents are the unbreakable core of a childs world.
The children never loved menot even once. We, the adults, tried to win them over with gifts, outings, and flowery words, but they saw through it. A year has passed since I last spoke to them; they too have stopped reaching out.
Our divorce was amicable, without theatrics. Ian mentioned that Emma, his new partner, was expecting, and suggested we split the flat into two. I agreed without protestwhy argue when youre trying to turn back yesterdays night?
Now I sit in my empty fourbedroom flat, fortyfour years old, feeling like a wilted leaf on an autumn branch. My husband used to buy me fine cosmetics, perfume, stylish clothesluxury that now feels hollow. A deep, persistent melancholy gnaws at me. The only comfort is Steven, who still checks on me, offering a kind word when I feel lost.
May I call you sometime? I asked the helpline counsellor, grateful for the rare, uninterrupted listening ear. She never cut me off. Thank you for that.
I hung up, exhaled a sigh of relief, forced a smile, then dialled Steven. He sounded surprised at the late call.
Mum, whats wrong? he asked, wary.
Alls well, dear. I feel lighter now. Come over this weekend with the kids; Ill bake a cake, I replied, sending a warm kiss through the phone.
Six months later I rang my telephone therapist again.
You know, I ran into an old schoolmate. Turns out hed been living nearby all these years, too shy to approach. He never married, and when he saw the changes in my life, he finally reached out. We got married.
Happiness has found its way back into my modest oneroom flat, and I am grateful for the confession that set me free. Life, it seems, always offers something in return.
