I was putting the mushroom gratin in the oven Jamess favourite dish while the house hummed with the warmth of the kitchen and the scent of herbs. The children were already asleep, the night settled over our flat in Manchester. My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with a brief message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they turned my world upside down. Ten years of marriage seemed to collapse in an instant.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, then another notification appeared. I didnt read it.
My hands trembled as I slid the tray into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we had built together or rather, one he had built while I sacrificed my own ambitions.
Darling, the most important thing now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, he had said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing for weeks, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran longer than expected, he murmured, eyes fixed on his plate.
I watched him silently, wondering which lie hurt him more the one he told me, or the one he told himself.
Are you alright? he asked, noticing my quiet.
Yes, just tired, I replied with a smile, while inside everything was crumbling.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I lay awake. With my eyes closed I remembered how we met, how he admired my sketches, how he promised a bright future.
Then came the marriage, the first pregnancy, the second pregnancy, the business demanding ever more of my time.
You understand, dont you? The most important thing is that we become stable, he would say.
I understood. I ran the household, organised appointments, answered calls, and tucked my sketches away in a drawer for better days.
The next morning I began to notice details that had escaped me before: the way he chose his shirt, the extra minutes he spent fixing his hair, how his gaze darted away when his phone buzzed.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, begged, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, I have an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered if she would wear a blue dress the same dress I had worn at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in the wardrobe, too elegant for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the admin. Yet a single question burned inside me why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, said my daughter, Ethel, hugging me gently.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I replied, no longer believing my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches from the drawer a flood of ideas, a plan for a childrens bedroom I had drawn while pregnant with Ethel. Bright, whimsical, with hanging swings and modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a childrens room.
It was just when had my dreams become just?
My phone buzzed again. A message from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and realised I could not keep living like this.
The following night, with the children at their grandmothers, I waited for him with a clear decision in my heart. He slipped through the door, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The question, long smouldering inside me, cut the silence like a knife.
James froze, poured himself a whisky, and his hands trembled.
Claire
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know.
He sat opposite, fidgeting with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing?
Its just you see, things have been cold between us for a long time.
Cold?
I recalled everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to London for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he snapped.
When did it become cold? I asked.
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses? he retorted.
When I gave up my dream for your company? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise it. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did the bookkeeping, arranged your meetings, raised our children. Is that what being a housewife means? I shouted.
Sophie, listen, he began, reaching for my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit, we can start over, he offered.
But I saw a stranger sitting across from me.
Do you know whats worst? I said, voice steady.
He fell silent.
Its not that youve met someone else, I continued. Its that you never understood what you did to me.
I opened my sketchbook for the first time in years. The next morning I collected the kids and, for the first time, walked away from the shadow of someone else.
A new chapter began. I was no longer a reflection of anothers life; I was finally myself again. The uncertainty that once terrified me now felt beautiful, because the greatest betrayal is the one you inflict on yourself.
