“You’re late again, Emma!” Victor tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table in frustration. “Third time this week. I’ve been waiting two hours for dinner.”
“It was busy at the shops,” Emma said quickly, unpacking groceries onto the kitchen counter. “Besides, your hands wouldn’t fall off if you cooked something yourself.”
“It’s not about dinner,” Victor stepped closer, studying his wife. “It’s about you always disappearing. Work running late, queues at the shops, urgent meetups with friends. And now your phone’s off? I called you three times.”
Emma sighed, shoulders slumping.
“Battery died, probably. You know how old my phone isit barely holds a charge anymore.”
Victor watched as she methodically put the shopping away. Fifteen years of marriage had trained him to notice the small thingsthe tension in her movements, the way she avoided his gaze, the too-careful words. Something was off, and it had been bothering him for months.
“Chicken or fish?” Emma asked, as if nothing had happened.
“Whatever,” Victor muttered, returning to the living room.
He turned on the telly, but his mind was miles away from the news. There was a time when Emma would rush home to meet him after work. They’d chat over dinner, share stories, make plans for the weekend. Now? Now there was an invisible wall between them.
Half an hour later, Emma called him to eat. They sat in silence, exchanging only the occasional remark about the weather or rising prices.
“Mum called earlier,” Emma finally said. “Asked if we’re coming to the cottage this weekend.”
“What did you say?”
“That we probably would. You dont mind, do you?”
Victor shrugged. “Why not? Been a while since we got out.”
After dinner, Emma disappeared into the bathroom while Victor cleared the table. Her handbag sat on the kitchen chaira large one with too many pockets. He hadnt meant to snoop, but as he reached for her purse to move it to the hall shelf (an old habit), something hard clunked against the table.
A phone. But not the battered old one shed used for yearsa sleek new one, black and gleaming.
Victor froze. A second phone. His wife had a secret phone.
Dazed, he sat at the table, turning it over in his hands. Memories flashedEmma stepping away to take calls, her insistence on keeping her bag with her at all times, the unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, locked. He didnt know the passcode, didnt try to guess. He just put it back where hed found it.
When Emma returned, Victor stared blankly at the telly.
“You alright?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Just tired,” he said without looking at her.
That night, he couldnt sleep. Emma breathed softly beside him while his mind spiraled. Why did she need a second phone? There was only one answer, and it tore at him. An affair. Secret calls, messages, meetings. Could fifteen years really end like this?
The next morning, he watched her closely as she made tea, packed sandwiches, gathered her thingswas there anything different?
“Will you be late again today?” he asked, forcing casualness.
“Shouldnt be,” Emma replied. “But Ill call if I am.”
*Which phone will you use?* he wanted to ask, but didnt.
At work, he couldnt focus. All he saw was Emma whispering into that secret phone. To who? About what? A colleague joked he looked like a man whod just found out his wife was cheating. Victor forced a laugh, not realizing how close to the truth it was.
By lunch, he cracked. He called his old mate Paul, who worked for a private investigation firm.
“Listen, Ive got a situation,” Victor said when they met at a café near his office. “I found a second phone in Emmas bag. One shes never mentioned.”
Paul nodded knowingly. “And you think shes cheating?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” Victor scoffed bitterly. “Why hide a phone if theres nothing to hide?”
“Dont jump to conclusions,” Paul said, sipping his coffee. “Get the facts first. I could help, but youre not really the type to hire a PI to tail your own wife, are you?”
Victor shook his head. “No, thats too far. Ill handle it.”
“Then just ask her,” Paul suggested. “Sometimes honestys the easiest way.”
But Victor wasnt ready for that. What if his suspicions were true? What if Emma confessed? Could he forgive? Could he start over at forty-three?
He came home early. Emma wasnt back yet. He checked her wardrobe, her drawers, her bagsnothing suspicious except that phone, which she mustve taken with her.
He sat and waited. At seven, the front door clicked.
“Youre home early,” Emma said, surprised. “Everything okay?”
“We need to talk,” Victor said grimly.
Emma stiffened. “About what?”
“About your second phone,” he blurted. “I saw it yesterday when I cleared the table. It fell out of your bag.”
Emma went pale. She slumped into a chair opposite him.
“I see,” she said quietly.
“Thats all you have to say?” Victors anger surged. “Fifteen years, and you Who is he? How long has this been going on?”
“What are you talking about?” Emma stared at him.
“Your lover!” Victor nearly shouted. “Why else would you need a secret phone? Planning a coup?”
To his shock, Emma didnt deny it. She just sat there, staring at her hands. Then, slowly, she reached into her bag and placed the black phone on the table.
“See for yourself,” she said softly. “Passcodes our wedding date.”
Victor hesitated, then entered the numbers. The screen unlocked. He expected messages from a secret admirer, photos, proof of betrayal. Instead, he found a drawing app, nature photos, and a single contact: “Willow Press.”
“What is this?” he asked, confused.
Emma took a deep breath. “Its for work. Well, my side project. The one thats started making money.”
“What project?”
“I write books, Vic,” Emma said sadly. “Childrens stories. Have done for three years. Just for fun at first, then I sent them out. Six months ago, a publisher took interest.”
Victor stared at her. “Youre a writer? And you hid this from me?”
“I was scared youd laugh,” she admitted. “Remember what you said about my poems at uni? Amateur drivel, I think you called it. And later, when they started publishing I didnt want to jinx it. Thought Id tell you when the first book came out.”
Victor flushed, remembering that cruel remark from their student days.
“So thats where youve been?” he asked, still reeling. “Writing stories?”
“Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésquiet places to work,” Emma nodded. “The separate phones for the publisher and notes. Didnt want work calls interrupting. Plus, the drawing appsI sketch illustrations too.”
Victor scrolled through drafts, character sketches, editor emailsall proof.
“Why didnt you tell me?” he asked, suspicion giving way to hurt.
“First I feared ridicule, then failure. When it worked out I wanted it to be a surprise,” Emma gave a small smile. “The book comes out in two months. I was going to give you the first copy on our anniversary.”
Victor was silent, absorbing it all. His jealousy, his accusationsall for nothing. His wife hadnt been unfaithful. Shed been writing childrens books.
“Can I read one?” he finally asked.
Emma blinked. “Really?”
“Of course,” Victor moved closer. “I should know what my wifes been hiding.”
She hesitated, then opened a file and handed him the phone.
“Its about a little hedgehog afraid of the dark,” she said shyly.
Victor read, and with each line, his smile grew. The story was tender, simple, yet deepeverything a good childrens tale should be.
“This is brilliant,” he said honestly. “Youve got real talent, Em.”
“Really?” she searched his face. “Youre not just saying that?”
“I swear,” Victor took her hand. “Im proud of you. And Im so sorry I thought well. You know.”
“That I was cheating?” Emma gave a dry laugh. “I wondered where this sudden jealousy came from. Fifteen years, not a hint, then this.”
“Forgive me,” Victor kissed her hand. “Ive been an idiot.”
“We both have,” Emma sighed. “I couldve just told you instead of all this secrecy.”
They talked late into the night. Emma showed him drafts, sketches, shared her dreams. Victor listened, amazed at how much he hadnt known about his own wifethe woman he thought was just a part-time accountant.
“You know,” he said before bed, “in a way, Im glad I found that phone. Now I get to rediscover you.”
“And Im glad you know,” Emma smiled. “No more hiding in cafés. I can write at home now.”
“On one condition,” Victor pulled her close. “I get to read your stories first. Before any editors.”
“Deal,” Emma laughed. “Youll be my personal critic. Just no amateur drivel, alright?”
“Promise,” Victor said solemnly. “Only fair, constructive criticism.”
That night, he lay awake, thinking how close hed come to ruining everything over baseless suspicion. How easy it was to accuse without knowing. Beside him, Emma slept peacefullyhis wife, whod turned out to be far more remarkable than hed ever realized. He vowed then to pay more attention, to take interest in her world.
Two months later, on their anniversary, Emma gave him the first copy of her booka colorful collection of stories with heartfelt illustrations. Inside the cover, shed written: *”For Victormy harshest critic and my greatest love. Thank you for believing in me.”*
And it was the best story hed ever read.
