I was stirring a mushroom gratin James Whitakers favourite dish as the house glowed with the warm perfume of spices. The little ones were already dreaming, the rooms humming with a soft, sleepy heat. My mobile buzzed on the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with a short note:
Darling, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, and they shattered my world in an instant. Ten years of marriage folded into a single breath.
I stared at the glow until it faded, then another buzz arrived. I didnt read it.
My hands trembled as I slipped the tray into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we had built together or rather, one he had erected while I sacrificed myself.
Love, the only thing that matters 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 of late, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he murmured, eyes lost in his plate.
And all I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to more me or himself?
Are you alright? he noticed my silence.
Yes, just tired, I replied, smiling.
Inside, however, everything was crumbling.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night sleep refused me. With my eyes shut I replayed the moment we met: how he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then the wedding. The first pregnancy. A second pregnancy. The company demanding ever more of my time.
You see, the most important thing is that we get stable, hed said.
I understood. I ran the household, booked appointments, answered calls, and tucked my sketches away in a drawer for better days.
The next morning I began to notice details Id missed before: the way he chose his shirts with care, the extra minutes he spent fixing his hair, the sideways glances when his phone buzzed.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son clutched my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, I have an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered would she be wearing a blue dress? The same dress Id worn at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in the wardrobe, too elegant 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 why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter whispered, wrapping her arms around me.
Everythings fine, sweetheart. Im just a bit weary, I answered, no longer believing my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled the old sketches from the drawer a flood of ideas, a design for a childrens bedroom Id drawn when I was expecting baby Emma. Bright, whimsical, with hanging swings and movable walls.
James had once said, 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 suddenly understood:
I could not go on like this.
The following night, while the children stayed with their grandmother, I waited for him with a clear decision in my heart.
He stepped in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The words slipped out softly, yet cut the air like a blade.
He froze, poured himself a whisky, his hands trembling.
Claire
Tell me the truth. I deserve to know.
He sat opposite, fidgeting with his glass.
It means nothing, he said.
Nothing?
Its just that you see, between us everything has been cold for ages.
Cold?
I recalled everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When everything grew cold? I demanded.
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses? he muttered.
When I sacrificed my dream for your company? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Is that what being a housewife looks like?!
Sophie, listen he tried to take my hand.
We could fix it. Ill quit. We could start over.
But I was already looking at a stranger.
You know whats worst?
He fell silent.
Its not that youve found another woman.
Its that you never understood what you did.
I would be myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I fetched the kids, and then
A new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was me again.
The uncertainty no longer frightened me; it dazzled me.
Because the deepest betrayal is betraying yourself.
