**The Son from His Wife Didnt Matter**
“Have you lost your mind? You spent the money we saved for five years on a flat for your pregnant mistress? My money toojust thrown away on some I cant even find the words! How could you?”
Thirteen years. That was how long Anna had been married to Ian. She adored himhis perpetually tousled chestnut hair, that tired but tender smile he reserved for their eight-year-old son, Oliver. Life in their quiet Yorkshire town had always been steady, predictable.
Ian walked in at exactly half past nine. Lately, hed been working late, but Anna hadnt thought much of ituntil now. The door slammed shut behind him as he shrugged off his blazer. The scent that clung to it wasnt his usual cologne but something sickly sweet, floral. She noticed it immediately.
“Hello,” he muttered, kissing the top of her head. “Im shattered. Long day.”
“Hello. Fancy some dinner? Come on, Ill dish it up.”
“No, thanks. Need a shower.”
He moved past her, and a prickle of unease crawled up her spine. Another refusal to eat. Was there someone else? Hed been coming home later, his phone always in his pocket. Once, hed left it on the bedside table; now, it was face-down, locked. Even the slightest brush against it made him tense.
“You were late again,” she said, standing to clear the table. “Busy at work?”
Ian hesitated by the bathroom door.
“Yeah, love. You know how it isend of the quarter. Reports. Paperwork nightmare.”
“Then why do you smell like perfume?” The question escaped sharper than she intended.
Ian froze. Shed caught him off guard.
“Like what?” He forced indifference, but his shoulders stiffened.
“Flowers. Something sweet. Its not your aftershave.”
“Oh, must be one of the girls in the office. Lucy from accounting got new perfumeprobably reeked of it all day.” He waved a hand. “Dont keep me, An. Im knackered.”
“Lucy from accounting,” Anna echoed softly, returning to the living room. “Right.”
That scent had haunted her for weeks. Shed tried to convince herself it was coincidence, that his colleagues wore perfume too
Their familys dream had lived in a savings accountfive years of scrimping, sacrificing. A home for Oliver when he turned eighteen. Ian, an engineer at the local factory, and Anna, stitching dresses for private clients, had poured every spare penny into it. No holidays for five years, no new car, cutting corners everywhere except for Olivers future. Nearly £25,000more than enough to get him into a decent university flat in Manchester.
Then, the storm hit. A client paid Anna early, tossing in a bonus for her quick work. She decided to deposit it straight awayshe couldve done it online, but the sun was out, and she fancied the walk.
The teller, a young woman named Claire whom shed known for years, gave her a polite smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Whitmore. How can I help?”
“Just checking the balance on our savings, Claire. And if possible, Id like to add a bit more.”
“Of course. May I see your ID?”
Anna handed it over. The clatter of keys filled the silence.
“Mrs. Whitmore” Claire frowned. “Its empty.”
“What do you mean, empty?” Annas voice wavered.
Claires tone softened. “Theres nothing left. Zero pounds.”
Annas knees buckled. She gripped the counter, knuckles white.
“Thats impossible. Check again. We opened it five years agounder Ian Whitmore, my husband. I deposit into it every month!”
“Ive checked the records,” Claire murmured. “The last withdrawal was two weeks ago. The full amount£24,900. The account was closed.”
Two weeks ago. Ian had come home late that night, muttering about a meeting.
“Print the full transaction history. Now.”
She left the bank in a daze, barely remembering the drive home. £25,000. Gone.
***
When Ian returned, Anna was waiting at the kitchen table, the bank statement folded neatly in front of her. No tearsjust ice in her veins.
“Hello. How was your day?” she asked flatly.
“Sit down, Ian.” Her voice was low, deadly calm.
He glanced at the papers. Understanding flickered across his face.
“Whats this?”
“You know exactly what it is. I went to the bank today. Our savingsgone. All of it.”
Ian exhaled, dropping into the chair opposite.
“An, I needed it.”
“For what? Who?”
He met her eyes, not with remorse, but irritation.
“I bought a flat.”
“For who, Ian?”
“Sophie.”
Annas breath stalled.
“Sophie who?”
“Sophie Grayson.”
She stared. Ian squirmed under her gaze.
“Remember that team-building trip last year? The one the boss forced us on? I met her there. Shes different, An. Wild. Youre home, steadybut shes fire. I felt alive again. Shes only nineteen, for Gods sake. Rides a motorbike, tattoos everywhere. I lost my head.”
Annas hands clenched, but she didnt move.
“Go on.”
“We split for a bit. She got bored of me. I was wrecked, An. Called her, begged. Then she came back. And thenshe told me she was pregnant. I couldnt leave her, not with a kid. Her mum kicked her out. I wasnt going to let my daughter live in a hostel!”
Anna stood, walking to the window.
“So your mistresss child matters, but your son doesnt? Right. Heres whats going to happen. Tomorrow, you sign your half of this house over to Oliver. When hes older, Ill sell it, and hell have his own place. As for youI dont care. Im filing for divorce. And if you fight me, Ill ruin you.”
Ian pleaded, begged, even camped outside their house. But Anna never answered his calls.
The divorce was swift.
And as for Sophies baby? Born right on timewith unmistakably Asian eyes. Not his.
Some stories write their own endings.
