**Diary Entry**
I glanced at my husbands grocery receipt and saw two jars of baby food. But we dont have children. That evening, everything became painfully clear.
The paper receipt lay on the kitchen table, white and unassumingjust the summary of Pauls quick trip to Tesco. My eyes skimmed the items: milk, bread, cheese. All ordinary. Then, two jars of apple puree.
We didnt have children.
Paul, whats this? I tapped the line with my nail as he walked in, rustling a plastic bag.
He barely glanced at it.
Oh, thats for Simmons from work. His daughter just had a babyasked me to pick some up. He shrugged, opening the fridge. Mans swamped, never has time.
It sounded plausible. Even thoughtful. But something in his flat tone set off a quiet alarm.
The next day, his jacket, slung over the bedroom chair, smelled foreignnot of my perfume or his cologne, but something faintly sweet. Baby powder. I pressed the fabric to my face. The scent was persistent, clinging. This wasnt an accident.
That evening, I asked again, steadying my voice.
Did you drop by Simmons today? Give him the baby food?
Paul, eyes fixed on his phone, nodded.
Yeah, of course. He said thanks.
Strange, I said slowly. I called your office today, asked for you. The receptionist said Simmons has been off sick for a week. Tonsillitis.
He finally looked up. His eyes held no guilt, no shamejust icy irritation, like a man interrupted mid-calculation.
Katherine, youre exhausting me. Are you spying now? I went to his *flat*. Whats the issue?
There was no issue. Just a meticulously constructed lie.
Days later, I found a cheap plastic rattle under the car seata little yellow duck, worn from use. It didnt belong to any of our friends kids; we hadnt driven anyone but each other in months.
I cradled it in my palm. And in that moment, I *knew*. Not with my mindwith my whole being.
My perfect, dutiful husband had another life. One with children.
Back in the flat, Paul was watching TV.
I found this in the car, I said, holding out the rattle.
He stared at it, then at me. For the first time, his mask of calm cracked. Fear flickered across his face.
No idea what that is, he muttered.
I do, I said. Just tell mehow long?
Silence. His eyes fixed on the wall. That silence was worse than any outburst. It was confession.
Four years, he finally spat out. My son is four.
*Four years*. The number echoed in my skull. Not a fling. Not a mistake. A whole parallel life.
Her names Olivia, he said, as if reporting the weather. We met at a conference in Manchester.
No apology. Just a ledger entry.
You thought you could justhave two families?
You didnt want kids, Katherine, he snapped. We *talked* about this. Your career came first.
A twisting of truth. Id said *not yet*after Id built my law practice. Hed translated that into *never*.
So you outsourced it. Very efficient.
It wasnt *meant* to happen, he defended, voice turning rough. But I provided. For you. For *them*.
I looked around our immaculate living roomthe designer furniture, the abstract art, the heavy drapes. All props in a staged life, bought with money that was never wholly mine.
Where do they live?
Surrey. I bought them a flat.
Of course he had. Probably chose the nursery wallpaper during his business trips.
I pulled our wedding photo from the shelf. Two grinning fools.
Show me him. Your son.
Paul hesitated, then scrolled through his phone. A blond boy grinned back from the screen, balanced on a bike. His smile was Pauls. His eyes, too.
I handed the phone back.
Pack your things. Leave by morning.
He didnt. At breakfast, he sipped coffee, scrolling through stock updates as if last night hadnt happened. A notepad sat beside his mugready for negotiations.
Ive thought it over, he began smoothly. Your reaction was emotional, understandable. But we cant let that destroy ten years.
I poured water, my emptiness hardening into something glacial.
Heres the civilised solution, he continued, jotting notes. We stay together. Ill phase things out with themfinancially support the child, of course. And to compensate you He listed options: a holiday, a new car. As if my grief had a price tag.
Alright, Paul, I said, matching his tone. Lets be *civilised*.
Relief flashed across his face. Hed won.
In the lift, I dialled a number I hadnt used in years.
Dmitri? Its Katherine. I need a lawyer.
\—
The divorce took three months. Paul fought, then folded when he realised his double life would bleed into court. I kept the flat. At first, its silence echoed. Then I filled itunserious books on shelves, music hed hated blaring. Not just freedom*realness*.
Months later, Dmitri and I laughed over board games in that same living room. As he left, I said, Funny, isnt it? Two jars of baby foodthats all it took to unravel everything.
He smiled. Sometimes the truth hides in the smallest details. You just have to be ready to see it.
\—
Two years on, sunlight floods my flat nowno heavy drapes, no investment art. Just messy, alive things. Dmitri and I moved slowly, without desperation. No fixing. Just *being*.
Paul? Last I heard, Olivia left him. His perfect scheme crumbled when the money did.
I saw him oncein Tesco, staring blankly at baby food. A stranger.
That night, I dreamt of the receipt again. But this time, seeing apple puree didnt hurt. It just whispered: *Thank you*.
Sometimes, you only get a real life when the fake one shatters. And thats not an ending.
Its the start.
