Hey love, you wont believe the drama that unfolded last week. I was checking my husbands location on the family tracker you know, the one we set up after the kids went off to university and it showed him standing right outside the maternity ward on Crown Street.
I was on the phone with the site foreman, yelling over the speaker about a discrepancy in the invoice. Olivia, why does the completedworks statement show £30,000 less than the original estimate? I said, my voice as cold as ice. We approved the Italian tiles, catalogue 712. What have you put in? A cheap Chinese copy?
The foreman tried to smooth things over, Olivia, whos going to notice? It looks identical, right? We can save a fortune Ill even give you half the kickback, and nobody will ever find out.
I snapped, Ill find out, and thatll be enough. Get the tiles replaced by lunch tomorrow, or well be in court. I guarantee youll lose this project and your licence if you dont. I hung up, my hands trembling with anger. Its always the same you pour your heart into every detail, stay up late sketching every square inch of a future interior, and then some slicktalking contractor tries to pull a fast one on you, thinking youre a fool. A designer needs nerves of steel and an iron will; Ive got both in spades after twenty years of fighting for my projects and putting arrogant builders in their place.
When I finally got home, exhausted and seething, James was waiting at the door with a mug of my favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he asked with a soft smile, taking my heavy sample bag. Come in, my valkyrie, dinners ready.
James is the exact opposite of me laidback, homebound, never chasing the next big thing. He works as a design engineer at a quiet firm in the City, earning a modest but reliable salary, and seems perfectly happy in our snug little world. Hes my island of calm after the daily storms.
Wed been married for twentytwo years, raised a son whos now studying up north, and our lives have run smoothly, without any major upheavals. Id built my career, and James kept the home front steady. He always greeted me with a meal, listened to my endless rants about the wrong shade of beige, and never blamed me for being away on site for days. Everyone called him the perfect husband and I believed it.
Lately, though, hed changed. Hed become distant, lost in thought, and taken up a new hobby fishing. Every weekend hed head off with his mate Tom to the lakes.
James, is fishing really a thing in November? I asked, halfamused.
Nothing special, he shrugged. The fish are biting now, and its quiet. Good time to think. You could use a break too.
I didnt argue. Let him have his space. I packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped up some sandwiches, and sent him off with a smile.
That Saturday he left early, as usual. Id just wrapped up a rush job, so I gave myself a day off. I stopped at the salon, then swung by the big Tesco for groceries, wandering the aisles while mentally planning the weeks meals. I thought Id give James a call to see if he needed anything for his return. I dialled his number long rings, then silence.
Weird, he always answers. A little knot of worry started to form. What if something had happened? A flat tyre, a broken engine? I remembered the familytracker app wed installed half a year ago just in case we needed to keep an eye on the kid. I hadnt used it much, feeling it was a bit intrusive, but now
I opened the app. Three dots appeared: mine, my sons dorm, and James. My heart thudded. His dot wasnt out by the lake or in the countryside it was right here, in the city, in a residential area. I zoomed in. The pin sat on a specific building on Floral Avenue, number 7. I typed the address into Google and the screen showed City Maternity Hospital, Ward 5.
My God, I muttered. A glitch? Bad GPS? Toms just visiting his new grandkid? But why lie about the fishing?
I tried calling again. His phone was switched off. Panic turned cold, sticky. I dropped the trolley of groceries in the middle of the aisle. A woman beside me made a comment, but I didnt hear her. I bolted out, jumped into the car, hands shaking so badly I almost fumbled the key.
All the way there I kept repeating, Its just a mistake, a simple mistake. I tried to picture logical explanations: maybe Toms sons car broke down nearby, maybe they were dropping off a friends baby Anything but the nightmare.
I parked opposite the maternity block a typical yellowbrick building with people gathered on the steps, balloons, flowers, proud grandfathers, smiling grandparents. I sat in the car, terrified to step out. I was scared of what I might see, what could shatter the neat, colourcoordinated world Id built.
And then I saw him. James, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp white shirt Id ironed for him the night before. He wasnt alone. A young woman, about twentyfive, stood beside him, her face tired yet glowing. In Jamess hands was a white envelope tied with a skyblue satin ribbon.
An elderly lady rushed over the girls mother, I guessed wrapping James in a warm hug, laughing joyfully. He beamed the kind of smile I hadnt seen in years, the one he gave me when we first brought baby Danny home twentytwo years ago.
I watched from behind the steering wheel, and the world seemed to melt away. No cars, no crowds, just that tableau: my husband, a stranger, and a baby that wasnt ours, while I sat in a car Id paid for with my own savings.
I didnt get out. I didnt scream. My steelhardened resolve, forged in countless battles with builders and clients, whispered a different plan: stay cool, act, dont let emotions hijack me.
I turned the car around and drove straight home to our flat my fortress. Inside, everything bore my touch, bought with my money, and now everything reminded me of him. I marched to the bookcase, grabbed his favourite model ship a massive frigate hed collected since boyhood and flung it across the floor. The wooden hull shattered into countless splinters, and for the first time that night I felt a surge of relief.
Then I got to work, methodically, just like Id draft a bill of quantities. First, I called my solicitor.
Arthur, its Olivia. I need you on a divorce and asset split it cant wait.
Next, I opened my laptop, logged into the bank, and transferred every penny from our joint savings into my personal account. The password was our wedding date a little poetic irony. I also moved the remaining balance from my salary account, leaving exactly £1,000 in the joint account for the fishermans sandwiches.
I packed Jamess belongings crumpled shirts, his fishing boots, those silly model ships into big rubbish bags, called a removal van, and sent everything to his mothers address.
When the flat finally felt empty and echoey, I collapsed onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow. Not just hurt, but angry at myself for being so blind, for trusting completely at home while I could spot a fraud on a construction site in a heartbeat.
That evening James called, his voice shaky and lost.
Olivia, I dont understand I got home and my stuffs gone. The accounts are empty. What happened? Did someone rob us?
It wasnt a robbery, James, I said, my tone as cold as steel. Just a redesign. I cleared out the dead weight.
What dead weight? Wheres my stuff? Wheres the money?!
Your things are with your mum now. As for the money consider it child support for your newborn. I added, I happened to be at the maternity ward earlier. Lovely scene, really. Hope you caught a good haul today.
Silence hung heavy for a few seconds.
Olivia Ill explain everything! Its not what you think!
I dont need explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will contact you tomorrow about the divorce. Dont look for me, and delete my number.
I hung up, blocked him, and shuffled into the kitchen. I pulled out a pad of drafting paper, my favourite coloured pencils, and started sketching. This time I was drawing the blueprint of my own life no him, no lies, no compromises. The colour wouldnt be almost the same, it would be the exact shade of freedom.
Betrayal from someone close cuts deep, but sometimes its the push that launches you into a brandnew, authentic chapter. What would you have done in Olivias shoes? Would you have listened to his pleas, or taken the same decisive step? Let me know it matters. And if this story struck a chord, do give it a like and maybe share it with someone who needs a bit of courage.
