I was putting the finishing touches on a mushroom gratin, Harrys favourite dish, while the house glowed with the scent of simmering herbs. The children were already asleep, the livingroom lights dimmed, the kettle still warm on the counter. My phone buzzed on the kitchen table.
The screen lit up with a brief message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and 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, then another notification appeared. I didnt even read it.
My hands shook as I slid the gratin into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we had built togetheractually, the one he had built while I gave myself away.
Darling, the most important thing now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed 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, eyes fixed on his plate.
I watched him silently, his gaze lost in the food, and could only wonder: who was he lying to mostme or himself?
Are you alright? he asked, noting my silence.
Fine, just tired, I replied with a smile that didnt reach my eyes.
Inside, everything was crumbling.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, eyes shut, replaying how we first methim admiring my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then marriage. Pregnancy. A second pregnancy. A company that swallowed more and more of his time.
You see, the priority is to get stable, hed say.
I understood. I ran the house, scheduled appointments, answered calls, and tucked my drawings away in a drawer for better days.
The next morning I began to notice things that had slipped past me before: the way he chose his shirts with care, how he spent ages fixing his hair, how his eyes flicked away when he read messages.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son clutched my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting I wondered whether shed be wearing that blue dressthe same one Id worn at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in my wardrobe, too elegant for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept on as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet inside one question burnedwhy?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter whispered, hugging me tightly.
Everythings fine, sweetheart. Im just a bit weary, I lied, but this time the excuse felt hollow.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketchbooks from the drawer. So many ideas, so many plans. I found the design for a childrens bedroom Id drawn while pregnant with Lilya vibrant room with hanging swings and modular walls.
And Harry had once shrugged, Make it simple. Its just a nursery.
Just
When had my dreams become just?
The phone buzzed again. A message from him:
Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and finally understood: I could not keep living like this.
The following night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I waited for him, a resolve steady in my chest.
He walked in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The words slipped out quietly, but cut the silence like a blade.
He froze, poured himself a whisky, his hands trembling.
Claire, he stammered.
Tell me the truth. I deserve to know.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing? I pressed.
Its just you know, everything between us has grown cold for a long time.
Cold.
I recalled everything:
Making him breakfast when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his files.
Skipping a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I demanded.
When what?
When did it all go cold?
When I stopped wearing nice dresses?
When I gave up my dream for your company?
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife.
A housewife?
Ive done your bookkeeping, organised your meetings, raised our children. Is that what you call a housewife?! I shouted.
Sophie, listen
He reached for my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over.
But I saw a stranger looking back at me.
You know whats worst? I said, voice low.
He stayed silent.
It isnt that youve found another woman. Its that you never understood what youve done.
I would become me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I fetched the children, and from that moment a new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was myself again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt exhilarating.
Because the greatest betrayal of all is to betray yourself.
