28October2025
I spent the afternoon checking Simons location on the family tracker, the one we set up half a year ago just to keep tabs on our son at university. Hed been out fishing with his mate Kevin, but the map showed him not by a lake in the countryside but outside the doors of StGeorges Maternity Hospital on Rose Street, number7. My heart lurched.
The day began with a heated call to the site manager at the new flats on Camden Road.
Youre telling me the invoice is £300 less than the estimate? I snapped, my voice as cold as a January drizzle. We agreed on the Italian porcelain, reference 712. What have you suppliedsome Chinese copy?
The manager tried to smooth things over, his tone overly eager. Olivia, surely youll understand. It looks identical, saves us a fortune. I can even give you a kickback, no one will notice.
I cut him off. Ill notice. Replace the tiles by lunch tomorrow, or Ill see you in court. Youll lose this job and your licence. I hung up, my hands still trembling with anger. Its always the same: I pour myself into a project, sketch every centimetre of a future interior, and then some cheeky contractor thinks he can shortchange me, treating me like a fool. In this line you need nerves of steel and a backbone of ironqualities I have in abundance after twentytwo years of fighting for my designs.
I drove home late, exhausted and seething. At the doorstep waited Simon, cradling a steaming mug of my favourite peppermint tea.
War again? he asked with a soft smile, taking my heavy bag of fabric samples. Come in, my brave lady, dinners on the table.
Simon is everything Im not: calm, homebound, utterly unambitious. He works as a design engineer for a modest firm, earns a modest but steady salary, and seems perfectly content in our cosy little world. He is the quiet harbour I return to after each days battle. Weve been married for twentytwo years, raised a son who now studies in Leeds, and lived a life that has been steady, without dramatic peaks. Friends always called him the perfect husband, and I believed them.
Lately, however, hes changed. Hes become pensive, distant, and has taken up fishing. Every weekend he slips away with Kevin to the lakes up north.
Fishing in November, Simon? Isnt it a bit early? I asked.
Its the best time, love. The fish bite, the silence lets you think. You could use a break too, he shrugged.
I didnt argue. I packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped his sandwiches, and let him go with a light heart.
That Saturday he left at dawn. I finished a rush job, then treated myself to a haircut and a long shop run at the big supermarket on the outskirts. As I wandered the aisles, compiling a weeks menu in my head, I tried calling Simon to ask if he needed anything for his return. The line rang, rang and then silence. Oddhe always answers. A nagging worry settled in my chest. Had something happened? A flat tyre? A slip? I opened the familytracker app. Three dots glowed: mine, my sons dorm, and Simons. His dot wasnt out by the lake; it was right here, in the city, on the other side of town. I zoomed in. Rose Street, number7. I typed the address into my phone and it spat out an unnerving result: StGeorges Maternity Hospital, Ward5.
My first thought was a glitch. Bug, mistake, whatever, I told myself. Maybe Kevin, now a new grandfather, was dropping by to congratulate? But why the lie about fishing?
I tried calling again. His phone was switched off. Panic sharpened into a cold, sticky fear. I abandoned my trolley in the middle of the aisle; a woman scolded me, but I barely heard her. I fled the store, got into the car, and fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I almost stalled the engine.
All the way there I repeated a mantra: Its a mistake. Its just a mistake. I conjured every plausible explanationKevins sons car broke down, they were picking up a friend, a mistagged location. Nothing could quite fit the image forming in my mind.
I parked opposite the hospital, a typical yellowbrick building surrounded by crowds bearing flowers and balloons. Happy fathers, grandparents, nervous mums. I sat in the car, terrified to step out, fearing the scene that might shatter the world I had meticulously built, as perfect as any interior Id designed.
And then I saw him. Simon emerged from the hospital doors, not in his fishing jacket but in the crisp white shirt I had ironed for him the night before. Beside him walked a young woman, about twentyfive, her face a mix of exhaustion and joy. In Simons hand was a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon.
An elderly lady, presumably the young womans mother, rushed forward, hugging Simon and whispering jubilant words. He smileda smile I hadnt seen in years, the kind he wore twentytwo years ago when he first brought home our baby, Daniel.
Through the car window I watched the tableau: my husband, a stranger, and a newborn child. My world collapsed. No cars, no people, no cityjust that painful picture. I was the duped, betrayed fool, sitting in a car Id bought with my own money.
I didnt get out. I didnt shout. My steelhardened resolve, forged in countless arguments with contractors, whispered a different course: act, not react. I drove home, back to the flat I considered my fortress. Inside, everything bore my touch, bought with my earnings, and now all of it reminded me of him. I stalked over to the bookcase where his cherished model ships sat. I grabbed the largest frigate and flung it to the floor; it shattered into countless splinters, and for the first time I felt a release.
Methodically, like drafting a bill of quantities, I moved on. First, I phoned my solicitor.
ArthurMiller, good afternoon. I need to start divorce proceedings and sort the financial settlement immediately.
Then I logged onto the bank, transferred every penny from our joint savings into my personal accountpassword: the date of our wedding, a bitter irony. I left exactly £10 in the joint account, for the fishermans sandwiches. I also moved the remainder of my salary into the same account.
I packed Simons belongingswrinkled shirts, his fishing boots, his silly model shipsinto large black bags. I called a removal van and arranged for everything to be sent to his mothers address.
When the flat emptied, the echo was deafening. I sank onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow, not out of hurt but from fury at myself. How could a woman so sharp at work be so blind at home? How had I missed the lies?
That evening Simon called, his voice shaky.
Olivia, I dont understand I got home and everythings gone. The accounts are empty. Did we get robbed?
It wasnt a robbery, Simon, I replied, my tone as cold as steel. Just a redesign. I cleared out the unnecessary.
What do you mean unnecessary? Where are my things? Wheres the money?!
Your things are with your mother. As for the money consider it child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity hospital todaywhat a touching scene, congratulations. Hope the catch was good.
A heavy silence fell.
Olivia Ill explain everything! Its not what you think!
I dont need your explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will contact you tomorrow about the divorce. Dont call me again. Delete my number.
I hung up, blocked his number, then walked to the kitchen, pulled out a pad of drawing paper and my favourite sketch pencils, and began to draft the blueprint of my new lifewithout him, without deceit, without compromise. The colour Ill choose wont be almost the same; it will be the exact shade of my freedom.
Betrayal from someone close wounds deeply, but often that wound becomes the point from which a genuine, fresh life begins.
Olivia.
