I was putting the final touches on dinner a mushroom gratin, the one Henry loved most. The kids were already asleep, and the house was cosy, scented with the lingering perfume of herbs. My mobile buzzed on the kitchen table.
The screen lit up with a short message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they shattered my world in an instant. Ten years of marriage collapsed in a heartbeat.
I stared at the phone until the display faded. A moment later another notification appeared, but I didnt read it.
My hands trembled as I slid the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we had built together or rather, one he had built while I gave up my own ambitions.
Darling, the most important thing now is that you support me. Youll have time for your projects later, he had said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing more often lately, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he said.
I watched him in silence, his gaze fixed on his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to me, or himself?
Everything okay? he asked, noticing my silence.
Yes, just tired, I replied, forcing a smile.
Inside, everything was crumbling.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I couldnt sleep. With my eyes shut, I drifted back to the day we met the way he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
And then
Marriage. Pregnancy. A second pregnancy. A company demanding more and more of my time.
You understand, dont you? The priority is that we get stable, he would say.
I understood. I ran the household, sorted appointments, answered calls. My sketches went into a drawer saved for better days.
The next morning I began to notice details Id missed before. How he chose his shirt with care. How he spent too long fixing his hair. How he glanced away when his phone buzzed.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Sam, asked, clutching my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered would she wear a blue dress?
The same dress Id worn at the start of our relationship now gathering dust in my wardrobe, too elegant for grocery runs or PTA meetings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet beneath it all a single question burned why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter, Lily, whispered, pulling me into a hug.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I replied, but this time I didnt trust my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches out of the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects I found the design for a childrens bedroom Id drawn when I was pregnant with Lily colourful walls, hanging swings, modular panels.
And Henry had said, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
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 suddenly realised:
I couldnt keep going like this.
The following night, while the children were at their grandmothers, I waited for him with a clear decision in my heart.
When he walked in, not even taking off his coat, I asked:
Who is she?
The question that had smouldered inside finally broke the silence like a blade.
Henry stopped dead. He poured himself a whisky, his hands shaking.
Claire he muttered.
Tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I pressed.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Anything?
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for ages.
Cold?
I thought of everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to finish his reports.
Giving up a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I demanded.
When what? he replied.
When did it all become cold?
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses?
When I sacrificed my dream for your company?
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised the kids. Thats what being a housewife is?! I shouted.
Sophie, listen he began, reaching for my hand.
We can fix this. Ill step back. We can start over.
But I was looking at a stranger.
You know whats worst? I said, voice steady.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman. Its that you dont even understand what youve done.
I would be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I collected the children, and then
A new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was myself again.
The uncertainty that once frightened me now felt exhilarating. Because the deepest betrayal is not being betrayed by another, but betraying yourself. The lesson is simple: never lose sight of who you are, even when love tries to dim the light.
