20 October 2025 Evening
Im still trying to piece together the evenings absurdity while the kettle whistles in the background. Yesterday, Olivia my wife of twentytwo years decided to verify my whereabouts after I claimed I was out fishing. Using the familylocator app on our phones, she saw my pin sit not on a lake, but outside St. Marys Maternity Hospital, Ward5, on Bloomfield Road, number7. Her first thought was a glitch; the second, something far more unsettling.
Earlier that day, before the fishing trip, Olivia was on the line with the site foreman at the new boutique office block were refurbishing in Manchester. Olivia Hart, why does the invoice show £30,000 less than the estimate? she asked in a tone as cold as a December frost. We agreed on Italian porcelain tile, reference 712. Have you installed a cheap Chinese knockoff?
The foreman, trying to sound apologetic, replied, MrsHart, whos going to notice? It looks identical, and we can split the savings. No one will find out.
Olivia snapped, Ill find out, and youll have half the kickback you promised. Replace the tiles by tomorrow noon or Ill take you to court. Youll lose this contract and your licence. She hung up, her hands trembling with anger. Ive always admired her iron nerves; twenty years on the job have forged a steelstrong character that could take on any overambitious contractor.
She trudged home late, exhausted and irate, only to be met at the doorstep by me, holding a steaming cup of her favourite peppermint tea. Another battle? I asked with a gentle smile, taking her heavy sample bag. Come in, my valiant lady, dinners ready.
Ive always been the opposite of her relentless drive: calm, homeoriented, with a modest but steady salary as a structural engineer at a quiet firm in Leeds. My world was our cosy flat, the kitchen table, and the evenings we spent discussing her latest offcolour beige dilemma. Friends called us the perfect couple, and for a long time we believed it.
Lately, though, Id become distant, seeking solitude on the lakes of the Peak District with my mate Colin. Whats wrong with fishing in November? Olivia once asked. Nothing, I shrugged. The fish are biting, the waters still, and it gives me a chance to think. You could use a break too. She never argued; she packed my thermos and sandwiches and let me go, assuming I needed space.
That Saturday, after a rushed morning departure, Olivia finished a critical design job and decided to treat herself. She visited a salon, then a large supermarket, mapping out a weeks menu between the aisles. She tried calling me to ask if I needed anything for my return, but the line rang eternally. Normally Id answer, so a knot of worry tightened in her chest. She remembered the locator app wed set up half a year ago to keep tabs on our universityage son, Thomas. Reluctant to use it, she finally opened it and saw three dots: hers, Thomass at his hall of residence, and mine. My dot glowed not on a lake but in the city, in a residential area. Zooming in, the pin landed on Bloomfield Road, number7 St. Marys Maternity Hospital, Ward5.
Her mind raced: a glitch? A misclick? Perhaps Colin had visited a new grandchild? Yet the thought of lying about fishing seemed absurd. She tried calling again; my phone was switched off. Panic gave way to a cold, sticky fear. She abandoned her grocery trolley in the middle of the aisle, ignored a womans rebuke, and fled to the car, hands shaking so hard she struggled to turn the key.
On the drive, she muttered, Its just a mistake, trying to conjure rational explanationsmaybe a neighbours car broke down, maybe a misdelivery. She parked opposite the maternity ward, a typical yellowbrick building with crowds of smiling parents, grandparents, and balloons. She sat in the car, unwilling to step out, fearing a revelation that would shatter the immaculate interior shed built for our lives.
Then she saw him. Stephen Hart, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp shirt shed ironed the night before, emerged from the wards doors with a young woman, about twentyfive, her face a mix of exhaustion and joy. In Stephens hands was a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon. A elderly lady, presumably the young womans mother, rushed forward, embracing Stephen, laughing. He beamed with a happiness I hadnt seen in yearsthe same grin from when I first brought home baby James, two decades ago.
Olivia watched from the car window, the world narrowing to that single tableau: her husband, another woman, and a newborn. The realization hit her like a wrecking ball. She didnt get out, didnt scream. Instead, the steel shed forged over years of battles guided her to act, not react. She turned the car around, drove home to the flat wed both built, every piece of furniture shed chosen, each decorative item bought with her own money, now feeling like a museum of his betrayals.
She stormed to the bookcase, seized the largest model ship from his longstanding hobby, and flung it to the floor, shattering it into splinters. The sound was oddly liberating. Methodically, as if drafting a new bill of quantities, she called her solicitor, Archibald Lewis, demanding an immediate divorce and a division of assets. She logged into the bank, transferred every penny from our joint savings into her own accountusing the password, our wedding date, a bitter ironyleaving just £10 on the shared account for sandwiches for the fisherman. She packed his shirts, his fishing boots, his cheap sailboat models into rubbish bags, arranged a courier to send everything to his mothers address.
When the flat finally fell silent, she sank onto the sofa and let the tears flow, not from hurt alone but from anger at herself for ever trusting so blindly. How could a woman so sharp at work be so oblivious at home?
Later, his voice rang out, shaky and pleading. Olivia, I dont get it I came home and everythings gone. The accounts are empty. Did someone rob us?
My dear Stephen, she replied coolly, its just a redesign. Ive cleared out the unnecessary.
Where are my things? Wheres the money?!
Your things are with your mother now. The money consider it child support for your newborn. I visited the fifth maternity ward todayquite a moving scene, congratulations. Hope the catch was good.
A heavy silence stretched between us. Olivia Ill explain everything!
I need no explanations, Stephen. I need nothing more from you. My solicitor will be in touch tomorrow about the divorce. Dont try to find me, and delete this number.
She hung up, blocked his number, and fetched a fresh pack of drawing paper and her favourite pencils. She began sketching a new life planno lies, no compromises, a colour that was not almost right but the exact shade of freedom.
Betrayal cuts deep, but it also marks the point where a new, genuine chapter can begin. Ive learned that deceit, however skillfully hidden, inevitably collapses under its own weight. Honesty is the only foundation sturdy enough to support any partnership, whether in love, work, or life itself.
