Betrayal Peter raised his hand in farewell: “Well, Rosemary, I’m off! I’ll transfer the money to Mum, don’t worry.” The door slammed behind her husband and Rosemary sank heavily onto a kitchen stool, suddenly bursting into tears. “Mum, what’s wrong?” her son asked, appearing in the kitchen. “What happened?” “Nothing,” Rosemary was ashamed of her weakness, “Nothing terrible, love, I’m just in a bad mood and fed up with the boys. Joe and Christine are at Granny’s for the holidays.” “No,” Dominic replied firmly, “no one cries that bitterly over a bad mood, and you call the twins every day. I’m not a child, Mum. I get what’s going on.” Rosemary looked at her sixteen-year-old son, who was already taller than her, and finally spoke aloud what she’d been too afraid to admit even to herself: “I think Dad’s about to leave us,” she explained at his questioning look. “He’s been cheating on me. For nearly six months now…” Dominic didn’t know how to react. He’d assumed something had upset his mum at work or perhaps she’d argued with a friend. But Dad? How could that happen? Anger bubbled inside him, and his mother noticed. “Dominic, don’t,” she urged. “These things happen between grown-ups, you’ll understand one day. Your Dad is a good man, but you can’t force the heart.” Even as she spoke, Rosemary didn’t believe her own words. She wanted to scream, to lash out and smash plates—but instead she tried to make her eldest son forgive, understand, even excuse his father! But the boy clenched his fists. “Well, let him go! We’ll cope without him. Why should we keep someone who’s broken his promises at home?” “Son, you say you’re grown up but you’re acting like a child. People make mistakes, you know? Your Dad will realise it’s just a passing fancy. His family—us—are what matters most.” “Mum…” ‘mature’ Dominic suddenly faltered, tears in his eyes, “Why did he do it? I’ll never be able to respect him like I used to.” “It will work out, love,” Rosemary stroked his hand. “Just don’t say a word to your brothers, okay?” “You either,” Dominic wiped his tears, “We don’t want them to lose faith in their strong and all-knowing big brother.” Rosemary glanced at the clock. “Aren’t you meant to be at football practice?” Dominic jumped up. “Oh, I’m late—damn!” Left alone, Rosemary brooded. After talking with her son she could think clearly, but the moment she was truly alone, the old wounds opened up and the tears came tumbling out: “How could he betray everything we had?” When she first met Peter, he was carefree, a charmer surrounded by girls he called “birds.” When Rosemary said she didn’t want to become another one of his “birds,” Peter looked serious for once: “Why ‘another’? There’s only you—my one and only, for life.” And she’d believed him, the fool. All those 17 years together she thought she was lucky! Despite having three children, despite all they’d lived through together, “in sickness and in health,” he still betrayed her. It all began half a year ago. Or maybe earlier and she just hadn’t noticed? No, surely just six months… They were invited to a wedding—his nephew Peter Junior was getting married. Rosemary couldn’t go but sent her husband alone: “It’s family, you must go.” Peter protested, at least outwardly, but of course his sister would take offence otherwise. Later, Rosemary looked through the wedding photos online and noticed a certain young woman leaning in towards Peter in every picture! It pricked at her, and she even mentioned something about the girl, but her distracted husband dismissed it: “What? Which girl? Oh! Must be a bridesmaid. Don’t know why she’s always nearby—are you jealous, Rosemary?” Peter grinned, “Jealous! She’s not even my type.” She believed him, because the girl really didn’t seem his type—she knew his taste! But a week later the strange phone calls started: silence on the line, heavy breathing. “Now even Dominic’s ‘birds’ are after us!” she joked to Peter. After that, the calls stopped, but Rosemary didn’t connect it to anything Peter had said. Only much later did things start to add up: Peter—who had always favoured jeans and jumpers—suddenly started wearing suits, shirts and a tie, and swapped his old-school aftershave for posh new cologne. Then there were the constant late nights at work… When Rosemary asked what was going on, Peter answered without missing a beat: “We’ve got a strategically important project, Rose! I don’t know how long it will take, but afterwards—” Peter closed his eyes dreamily, “we’ll have everything. We’ll holiday wherever you want, buy you the fur coat you fancied, get Dominic that hoverboard or maybe even a quad bike. Just hang in there, okay?” From then on, not only was Peter “working late,” he sometimes disappeared at weekends too. Just as they were about to go out for a family trip… the phone would ring and he’d give her a guilty look: “Rose, they need me at work. Sorry, time’s short, what else can I do…” Rosemary wanted to track down the girl from the wedding photos—pull her hair, scratch her face—but she decided she wouldn’t even try to find her name or address for fear of temptation. Six months of this turned Rosemary into a virtual nervous wreck. Around others and with her children she tried to hold on, but when by herself she let the pain out. Today, after that talk with Dominic, she decided firmly: “I need to talk to him. Something has to be done, so Dominic doesn’t grow to hate his father.” Her husband beat her to it. Peter rang and invited her to a restaurant. “Rose, we need to talk. Preferably away from the kids.” Rosemary gave a sad smile: he didn’t want a scene, and she’d never cause one in public anyway. At first, she decided to wear her ordinary clothes—why make an effort? Then she considered going in her gardening gear, just to embarrass him. But an hour and a half before she was due to leave she changed her mind: “I’ll look my best. Let him see what he’s losing!” The taxi driver watched her quietly in his mirror. When she paid, he said unexpectedly, “Such a lovely lady, and so sad! Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” The compliment lifted her mood a little, and she entered the restaurant smiling. Peter was already waiting, holding a rose—she was surprised: if he was about to leave her, why bring a flower? Was it a symbol—laying a bloom on their love’s grave? Rosemary even smiled. Why did such strange thoughts come to her? It wasn’t like her. They dined, chatting about nothing in particular. Inside, Rosemary felt as if a coiled spring had tensed in her chest, ready to snap at any moment. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in: “Peter, you said we needed to talk…” He nodded. “That’s right. To sum up, Rose, here’s what I wanted to say.” He paused, as if collecting his courage, “I’ve been thinking… Would you mind if we didn’t go on a holiday, didn’t buy the fur coat or quad bike?” The spring was about to snap, but Peter went on: “Look, today I was paid almost double salary, with a bonus. So, I thought, Dominic’s 16—he’ll soon need his own place. Maybe we should buy him a flat with the money? If we invest now, it’ll be ready for his 18th birthday. Sound good, yes?” “I see, Peter,” Rosemary tried to answer calmly, but suddenly froze, “What? A flat? What flat?!” “Haven’t you been listening? Actually, you’ve been so distracted lately… Rose, what’s going on?” After that, Peter raised his voice. In the restaurant he held back, but once outside he let his feelings show: “Are you out of your mind?! What mistress, what affair? I explained, it’s an important project, I might be held up! You never said a word against it—I even told everyone how understanding my wife is! So much for ‘understanding’—you’ve been judging me all this time for nothing!” They walked in silence until they reached their house, Peter grumbling, Rosemary smiling in relief. All his complaints now sounded like music. When they arrived at the door, Peter finally calmed and said: “Didn’t I tell you I’d found my one and only? Have I ever let you down?” … Dominic’s day fell apart. His mother’s admission had thrown him off, he was late for football, got a roasting from the coach, did terribly in practice, argued with a mate over nothing, then wandered the streets looking for trouble—wishing someone would pick a fight so he could let his anger out. He couldn’t be the one to start it; his conscience wouldn’t allow it. When no one picked a fight, he went home—only to see the silhouette of two people kissing. He recognised his mother’s coat at once, and his heart boiled. He’d blamed his dad for betrayal, but now—! Clenching his fists, he stepped forward… “Oh, son,” Peter greeted him, a little embarrassed. “We’re just—” … Sometimes, all’s well that ends well. Betrayal