I’m the mistress. If I leave, I lose everything: my child, the money, the luxury… But I’m not happy.
I’ve always despised the countryside. The narrow streets, a handful of shops for the whole neighbourhood, the silence that rings in your ears at night. In winter, it felt like the world had died. If anyone had asked me about my dreams back then, I’d have answered without hesitation: “Just one—to leave. Forever.”
I wasn’t some great beauty. But there was always Jamie—my classmate, who adored me since we were kids. He put up with my moods, my sharp tongue, my indifference. Even when I spent summers away in the village with my father, he’d still be waiting outside my house when I returned, the same devotion in his eyes.
My brother and I were studying, Dad had lost his job, and Mum barely scraped by. When we couldn’t even afford a hairdresser, I’d take the scissors and cut my brothers’ hair myself. And then I realised—I was actually good at it.
One night after graduation, in the quiet of that provincial town, I knew—this skill could get me out. I packed a bag and left for London, enrolling in a hairdressing course.
Soon, my instructor noticed my talent and offered me a job at her salon. Through the clients, I learned how to take care of myself—how to dress, how to do my makeup. At first, I’d sit in little cafés, but then I started visiting fancy places—I liked the way people looked at me. It was as if I was becoming someone else.
And that’s where I met *him*.
He picked up my bag, which I hadn’t noticed I’d dropped. I remembered him sitting at the next table, frowning, lost in thought. Later, we ended up side by side on the escalator. He asked where I was headed, and—before I knew it—I was in his car. A luxury SUV, the latest model. I told him about my work on the drive, and he dropped me by the flat I was renting.
A month later, I couldn’t believe my eyes when he walked into my salon. He’d found me. Searched for me. And that’s how it all began.
He was 35 years older than me. But he looked at me like I was a goddess. He took me to the best restaurants, whisked me away to resorts, we stayed in five-star hotels and travelled to places most only dream of. He said he was in love. Me—just a girl from the sticks—living a fairytale. And I never wanted to wake up.
Of course, he was married. But he swore there was nothing left between them. Kids? No, never. And that’s when I knew—this was my chance.
I was young. But was youth really a barrier to motherhood? I knew if I had his child, he’d give me everything. And I’d tie him to me forever. Besides, I’d grown used to his affection, even liked it.
I got pregnant almost immediately. And for a while, it was paradise. Attention, gifts, care… When our daughter was born, he shone like the sun. He doted on her, showered her with toys, clothes, jewellery.
Emily grew up like a princess—a nanny, a strict routine, the best education. And me? I flitted between salons, getting used to my new self. I became spoiled, rude. I’d snap at waitresses or manicurists. I wasn’t that small-town girl anymore. I was the *mother of his child*. And I wanted more.
He bought me a salon, made me the manager. Gifted me a car, a spacious flat. But my status as the mistress never changed. And that burned inside me. I grew angry. And he—he started controlling me. Wouldn’t let me go out alone. Afraid I’d leave.
It was all so lavish… but I was missing the one thing I truly wanted—freedom. The kind Jamie had once given me.
And then one day, in a shopping centre, I saw him. Jamie. Walking arm-in-arm with a young, pregnant woman. In their plain jackets, warm smiles, browsing baby clothes. He didn’t just not notice me—he looked *through* me, like I was nothing. With disgust. And then he kissed her temple and walked on. I stood there, like a petal torn from the earth that had once given it life.
Now I’m at a crossroads.
If I leave—I lose it all. Emily. The money. The life I’ve grown used to. His care. If I stay—I’ll always be just the mistress. Not even a wife. Just his convenient shadow.
I’m terrified. I’m getting older. I don’t know if I’ll ever love again.
I’m terrified because Emily cries at night. Because kids at school taunt her—”Your grandad’s picking you up.” And I won’t know how to answer her when she asks, “Mum, why did you do this?”
More and more, I wake up dreaming of going back—to that little house. Being free. Just *living*. But with pockets full of money.
So I pick up my coffee, glance in the mirror, grab my phone—and start dialling. Hairdresser. Manicure. Massage. Shopping… Holding onto the outside, so I don’t have to listen to everything crumbling inside.
How long can I keep this up? I don’t know.