I was putting the final touches on a mushroom gratin Marks favourite dish while the house hummed with the warmth of the oven and the scent of thyme. The children were already asleep, their breath soft in the next room. My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with a brief note:
Love, Ill be home late. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just three words, but they shattered my world in an instant. Ten years of marriage crumbled in a heartbeat.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark, then another ping arrived. I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slid the tray into the oven. Ten years. Two kids. A business wed built together or, more accurately, a venture hed driven while I gave up my own ambitions.
Darling, right now all I need is your support. Youll have time for your projects later, hed said.
Id believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing these past weeks, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he murmured, his eyes glued to his plate.
I watched him in silence, wondering who he was lying to more me or himself.
Are you okay? he finally asked, noticing my quiet.
Yes, just tired, I replied, forcing a smile even as everything inside me fell apart.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, eyes closed, replaying the first time we met. The way hed admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, the first pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and a business that devoured more and more of our time.
You see, the most important thing is that we get stable, hed told me.
I understood. I ran the household, scheduled appointments, answered calls, and tucked my drawings away in a drawer for a better day.
The next morning, I began to notice details Id missed before: the way he chose his shirts with care, how he spent too long fixing his hair, how his eyes darted away when his phone buzzed.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Oliver, asked, tugging at my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered if shed wear a blue dress the same one Id worn at the start of our romance, now gathering dust in the back of my closet, too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: cooking breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet inside, a single question burned: why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, Lily whispered, pulling me into a tight hug.
Its fine, sweetheart. Im just a bit exhausted, I answered, but my own excuses no longer convinced me.
We need to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketchbooks from the drawer, pages brimming with ideas and projects. I found the design for a childrens bedroom Id drawn while pregnant with Lily a colourful space with hanging swings and modular walls.
Mark had once brushed me off: Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
When did my dreams become just simple?
My phone buzzed again. A text from him: Ill be home late again.
I stared at the screen and finally understood: I could not keep living like this.
The following night, with the children staying with their grandmother, I waited for him, resolve hardening in my chest.
He slipped in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The words slipped out quietly, but cut the silence like a knife.
He froze, poured himself a whisky, his hands trembling.
Claire, he whispered.
Tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I demanded, my voice shaking.
He fidgeted with his glass, eyes darting.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
It means nothing? I pressed.
Its just that things have been cold between us for a long time, he muttered.
Cold.
I remembered everything:
Id made him breakfast even when I was ill.
Id spent sleepless nights organising his paperwork.
Id given up a trip to London for one of his meetings.
When? I asked.
When what? he replied.
When did it all go cold? I pressed.
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses? he snapped.
When I sacrificed my own 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, booked your meetings, raised our kids. Thats what you call a housewife? I shouted.
Sophie, listen he began, reaching for my hand.
We can fix it. Ill stop we can start over, he promised.
But the man before me felt like a stranger.
You know whats the worst part? I said, voice low.
He fell silent.
Its not that youve met someone else, I continued. Its that you cant even see what youve done.
I would be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I picked up the kids, and a new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was me again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt beautiful.
Because the deepest betrayal is when you betray yourself.
