I am the mistress. If I leave, I lose everything: my child, the money, the luxury…
Yet I am not happy.
I always despised the countryside. The narrow lanes, the handful of shops serving the entire neighbourhood, the silence that hummed in my ears at night. In winter, it felt as though the world had died. If anyone had asked me then about my dreams, I wouldn’t have hesitated: *Just one—to leave. Forever.*
I wasn’t some great beauty. But there was always Archie—my classmate, who had worshipped me since we were children. He endured my tantrums, my sharp words, my coldness. Even when I spent summers away visiting my father, I’d return to find him still waiting outside my house, the same devotion in his eyes.
Back then, my brother and I were still in school, my father had lost his job, and my mother earned pennies. When we couldn’t even afford a haircut, I’d take the scissors and trim my brothers’ hair myself. At some point, I realised—I was actually good at it.
One evening, after graduation, it hit me in the suffocating quiet of provincial life: *This* could be my way out. I packed a bag and left for London. I enrolled in hairdressing school.
It didn’t take long for my instructor to notice my talent. He offered me a job at his salon. Through my clients, I learned to take care of myself, to master style and makeup. At first, I lingered in cheap cafés, but soon I was slipping into luxurious restaurants—I loved the way men looked at me. I was becoming someone else.
And then, in one of those restaurants, I met *him*.
He picked up my bag—the one I hadn’t even noticed I’d dropped. I remembered him sitting at the next table, brow furrowed, 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 top-of-the-range Range Rover, the latest model. I told him about my work on the drive, and he dropped me near my rented flat.
A month later, I couldn’t believe my eyes when he walked into my salon. He had *looked* for me. That’s how it all began.
He was thirty-five years older. But he looked at me like I was a goddess. He took me to the finest restaurants, to resorts, booked us suites in five-star hotels, whisked me away to places most people only dream of. He said he was in love. *Me—a girl from nowhere—living a fairy tale.* And I never wanted it to end.
Of course, he was married. But he swore there was nothing left between them. Children? No, never. And that’s when I knew—*this was my chance.*
I was young. But was youth an obstacle to motherhood? I was certain: if I had his child, he’d provide for me. And I’d bind him to me forever. Besides, his touch had grown familiar, even pleasant.
I got pregnant almost immediately. And for a while, I lived in paradise. The attention, the gifts, the care… When our daughter was born, he was radiant. He doted on her, showered her with toys, clothes, jewels.
Sophia grew up like a princess. A nanny, a schedule, private tutors. And I—I flitted between beauty salons, adjusting to my new self. I became spoiled, sharp-tongued—I’d snap at waitresses or nail technicians. I wasn’t that provincial girl anymore. I was *the mother of his child.* And I wanted more.
He bought me my own salon, made me the manager. Gave me a car, a spacious flat. But my status never changed. *Mistress.* And it ate at me. I seethed. And he—he started controlling me. Forbade me from going out alone. Afraid I’d leave.
It was all so lavish… but I lacked the one thing that mattered—*freedom.* The kind Archie once gave me.
Then, one day, in a shopping centre, I saw him. *Archie.* Arm in arm with a young, pregnant woman. In their plain jackets, warm glances fixed on baby clothes in the window. He didn’t just fail to notice me—he looked *through* me, as if I were nothing. With disgust. With contempt. And then he walked past, kissing her temple. And I stood there—a petal torn loose, weightless, severed from the earth that once gave it life.
Now I stand at a crossroads.
If I leave—I lose it all. Sophia. The money. This life. His protection. If I stay—I remain *someone’s mistress.* Not even a wife. Just a convenient shadow.
I’m terrified. I’m growing older. I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of love again.
I’m terrified because Sophia already cries at night. Because the kids at school taunt her—*“Your granddad’s here to pick you up.”* Because one day, she’ll ask: *“Mum, why did you do this?”* And I won’t have an answer.
More and more, I wake up yearning for that little house again. To be free. Just to *live.* But with pockets full of money.
So I pour myself coffee, stare into the mirror, pick up the phone—and start dialling. Hairdresser, manicure, massage, shopping… Holding onto the surface, anything to drown out the collapse within.
How long can I keep this up? I don’t know.
