I was finishing dinnera mushroom gratin, Jamess favourite. The children were already asleep, and the house was warm, filled with the scent of herbs. My phone 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 screen until it went dark. 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 togetherwell, more that he had built while I sacrificed my own ambitions.
Darling, right now the most important thing 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 lately, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he apologized.
I watched him silently, his gaze fixed on his plate. All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to moreme or himself?
You alright? he asked, noticing my silence.
Fine, just tired, I replied with a smile.
Inside, everything was crumbling.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I couldnt sleep. With my eyes shut I replayed the moment we methow he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and a business that devoured more and more of my time.
You see, the priority is that we become stable, he would say.
I understood. I ran the house, kept appointments, answered calls. My sketches ended up in a drawer, waiting for a better day.
The next morning I began noticing details I had missed before: how he chose his shirts carefully, 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, Tom, asked, tugging at my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, I have an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wonderedwould she be wearing a blue dress? The same dress I had loved at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in my wardrobe, too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet a single question burned inside mewhy?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, Lily said, hugging me tightly.
Its fine, sweetheart. Im just a bit weary, I answered, but my excuses no longer convinced me.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches out of the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects. I found a drawing of a childrens bedroom I had made while pregnant with Lilya colourful room with suspended swings and modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a nursery.
It was just what? 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 realized I could not keep living like this.
The next night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I waited for James with a clear decision in my heart.
When he walked in, coat still on, I asked, Who is she?
The question that had been smouldering inside finally cut the silence like a knife.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands trembled.
Claire, he whispered.
Tell me the truth. I deserve to know, I said, my voice steady.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing? I pressed.
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for a long time.
Cold?
I remembered everything: making his breakfast when I was ill, pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork, giving up a trip to London for one of his meetings.
When did it become cold? I asked.
When did you stop wearing nice dresses? he muttered.
When I gave up my dream for your business? I replied.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife? I did the accounts, organised your meetings, raised our childrenthis is what you call being a housewife? I snapped.
Sophie, listen
He reached for my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over, he offered.
But I saw a stranger looking back at me.
You know whats worst? I said.
He fell silent.
Its not that youve met another woman. Its that you dont even understand what youve done, I finished.
I would be myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I went to collect the kids, and from that moment a new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I had become me again, and the uncertainty that once frightened me now felt wonderful.
The greatest betrayal is not being unfaithful to another, but betraying yourself.
