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Favoured Girl

England offers some of the finer things on this little planet of ours. Scrumpy Jack, “The Mighty Boosh,” toffee pudding, and The Beast of Bodmin Moor are a short list of my favorite things found there. Recently added to this list are the words of Tolulope Popoola. 


Ms. Popoola is a writer, blogger and a passionate lover of books and literature. After venturing into a career in Accounting and Finance for a few years, she started blogging under the pseudonym "Favoured Girl" in 2006 and rediscovered her love for writing. In 2008, she quit her job to become a full-time writer. She now writes three popular blogs, and is the creator of the online fiction series, "In My Dreams It Was Simpler." She writes short stories, poems and articles for magazines, and is currently working on a novel and a collection of short stories. Find out more about her work at her writing blog.


Tearing Me Apart

The real father of my children stared back at me. Somehow, I found the strength to utter the words.

“You have to leave,” I said. “I am falling in love with you and it’s tearing me apart.”

A pained look crossed his face. He let go of my hand and swallowed hard.

“I understand. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” 

He went over to the cot where the twins were, fast asleep. He kissed them both and looked at me again. 

“Take good care of them. And give my regards to your husband.” Then he stepped out of the room and closed the door. 

I felt my heart break. 

When William had found out he was infertile, it was my idea for us to use a donor to get me pregnant. What I hadn’t bargained for was developing feelings for Gavin. He was just supposed to be a sperm donor and nothing more. But I found myself being drawn to him over time. And now the joy of having our babies was mixed with the pain of a marriage being shaken to its very foundation.




I was sitting at the table closest to the door of the busy café with John. He was talking enthusiastically about the concert and how wonderful it had been. I tried to pay attention to him, following his excited hand gestures with my eyes, but not registering what his moving lips were saying.

A group of young ladies walked into the café and I recognised them immediately. Just about an hour ago, I had been sitting with John in the impressive Royal Albert Hall, watching and listening to them play. John had bought us tickets to see the famous orchestra to celebrate our twenty-sixth wedding anniversary.

“What did you think about the show, Margaret?” I finally heard him ask. He was looking at me with questioning eyes. I looked at him, taking in his blue eyes, chiselled face and greying beard.

“I enjoyed every minute of it dear” I replied, pasting a smile on my face, but once again I was drawn to the group of young ladies ordering their coffees at the counter. I watched them talking and smiling amongst each other. One of them was holding a violin case that caught my attention. She looked like she was twenty years old – her face glowed with youth and pride. I remembered she had caught my eye during the concert as she played her violin. I stared at her with a feeling of awe and envy, for she reminded me of myself when I was her age.

I could have been playing the violin at impressive concert venues too, I thought to myself, if I had made the right choices thirty years ago. Instead I had wasted my musical talents pursuing frivolous goals. Now I’m condemned to sit in the audience and applaud. I would never take to the stage myself and receive applause.

I heard John saying something about another cup of coffee.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“Do you want another cup of tea, Margaret?”

I shook my head. “No I’m okay, thank you”

I watched John as he walked to the counter. Then I looked at the young girl again and I wanted to relive my life.



Find out more about Ms. Popoola, read more of her literature, and follow her on Twitter


Tolulope Popoola | London, England

Read Tolstoy's "War and Peace" at age 4. She found the description of St. Petersburg, Russia to be slightly inaccurate for the time period. 

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