“Sorry, But I Won’t Forgive”
“Shaun, are you sure you haven’t forgotten anything? Need me to double-check?” I called out, pausing by the bathroom door.
“Angie, I’ve packed everything. The suitcase is bursting!” he shouted over the sound of the shower. There was something oddly uneasy in his voice.
I stepped back. I’d seen the suitcase, but what exactly he’d stuffed in there—no clue.
“Make me a strong coffee, please. No milk,” he said, calmer now.
Out of habit, I headed to the kitchen. Ground the beans, filled the cafetière, added a pinch of salt—even though we’ve got a posh coffee machine, he insists on the old-school way. Says it tastes like his nan’s. So I do it. Love. Routine.
“Heavenly smell of a heavenly brew!” He strode in, running a hand through damp hair before settling at the table. “Courier’s coming—accept the delivery. Got some car seat covers.”
“Cash on delivery?” I perched opposite him.
“Yep,” he sighed. “And this work trip—out of nowhere. Couldn’t say no, you know how it is. Career and all. Senior manager, innit?”
“Who knew ‘senior managers’ still schlepped off to business trips…”
He shrugged, grabbed his phone—pretending to work, killing time. Then stood and left.
I glanced at his empty mug—still there. Fine, I’ll let it slide. Not like he’s got time for tidying, first business trip and all…
Then—ping. A message.
I opened it.
*”Angie, Shaun’s lying. He’s flying to Greece with Marina Powell. Stop him—he’s being an idiot.”*
—Claire. His sister.
I froze. Not a joke. Claire doesn’t joke about this stuff. So—it’s true.
Panic clawed at my chest. I sat. Downed the glass of water in one. A second—same. Wanted to scream. Tear the place apart. Instead—silence. Ice in my veins.
He knew. Planned it. Used our joint savings, packed his lies, spun a tale about work. And me? I made him coffee.
I grabbed my phone, opened the banking app. £12,000. Minus £3,000. Already gone. Mostly my money.
Marina… Oh, I knew her. His childhood sweetheart. He’d told me. Claire filled in the gaps. Dumped him, came back, left again. Now she’s back. History’s a stubborn ghost.
Why not just tell me? Why be so… inhuman?
I’ll act. Empty the account. File for divorce. His crap—courier it to him. Got a presentation tomorrow—I’ll ace it. Then? Holiday. Not Greece. Just… alone.
He returned, suit on, ready to go.
“Off then. Leaving early,” he said.
“Safe trip,” I forced out.
“Angie, what’s with the tone?”
“Must’ve imagined it.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Doubt you’ll have time.”
“Not seeing me off?”
“You know the way. I’ve got dishes.”
He left. The suitcase wheels grumbled against the floor. The door slammed.
One thought—change the locks. Tomorrow. Called the letting agency—sorted.
Only then did I let myself cry. Hurt like hell. Felt vile.
Phone buzzed again.
*”Angie, you okay?”* —Claire.
I called her.
“Where’d you hear this?” Flat. Cold.
“Marina’s mate. They’re packing now. Couldn’t not tell you, Angie.”
“Ta. Didn’t stop him. Let him go. His choice.”
“Christ, what a prat. Letting her walk all over him again…”
“His problem. Don’t tell him I know.”
“Course not. Honestly? Won’t even speak to him. Absolute clown.”
“Claire… thanks. Transferring the rest to Mum’s account. Safer there. Then divorce.”
“You’re a legend, Angie. Stay strong.”
Hung up. Checked the account—another £1,000 gone. Cheeky sod. Transferred the lot to Mum. Every penny.
“Mum?”
“Yes, love. See Shaun off?”
“Mum, sending you £11,000. Can’t keep it in mine—he’d get half in the divorce. This way? All mine.”
“What’s happened?!”
“Jetted off with his ex. Greece.”
“Oh god… Angie…”
“Done. Free now. He didn’t want kids—I do. Solo. Simple.”
“Love… Maybe it’s not all bad? Veronica’s nephew—”
“Mum, not now. Sending the cash. Talk later.”
Only after hanging up did I finally breathe. Hurt. But lighter.
