Youre going to her again?
Emma stared at me, eyes sharp as a needle. I was kneeling, pulling on my boots.
To the kids, love. To the kids, not to her, I muttered, tying the laces. How many times do we have to go over this?
Emma stayed silent, her lips a thin line. She had a thousand things to say, but the words got stuck, forming a painful lump in her throat.
It was fine before the wedding, I kept on, standing up and grabbing my coat from the hook. You knew I had children. I told you everything from the start. You said you understood. And now? Tantrums? Interrogations?
She clenched her teeth harder. I slung the coat over my shoulders and, without waiting for an answer, headed for the door. The lock clicked, and she was left alone.
A few seconds passed before Emma managed to lift herself off the sofa. Her legs felt like they were filled with lead. She collapsed onto the settee in the living room, turned on some mindless sitcom, the background chatter filling the room, anything to drown out the thoughts.
Wed been together three years, two of them married. And yes, shed known from the start: a divorce, two kidsa boy and a girl. Id mentioned them on our third date. Emma had smiled then, said it wasnt a problem, that she understood, that children werent an obstacle.
Now those words seemed naïve, foolish.
She covered her eyes with her palm, took a deep breath. Holding back tears was getting harder; her chest tightened as if an invisible slab pressed down on it.
Eventually she couldnt bear it any longer. Twice a week, without failTuesday and SaturdayI went to my exs house. On paper, it was to see the children. In reality I stayed for dinner, spent time with Claire, my former wife.
Emma knew it was absurd. She trusted me, or at least tried to convince herself she did. Yet something inside warned her that trouble was brewing, a vague nausea creeping up.
When I left, Emma was alone in the flat. She fell into selfreproach, berating herself for not standing firm, for yielding to my promises, for staying silent when she should have shouted.
She grabbed her phone and fired off a quick text to her friend.
He’s with her again.
The phone buzzedan incoming call from Sophie.
Hello? Emma tried to keep her voice steady.
Emma, what are you doing? Sophie didnt beat around the bush. How long can you put up with this? Hes cheating, isnt he? Its obvious.
No, Sophie, you dont understand Emma started, but Sophie cut her off.
I get it perfectly. Hes twice a week at Claires, staying until nightfall. And youre telling me theyre just building Lego sets with the kids?
Emma ran a hand over her face. She knew Sophie was right, yet admitting it meant admitting her marriage was a farce.
He says theres nothing between us, that hes only there for the children, Emma whispered.
Youre so gullible, Sophie sighed. Open your eyes, Emma. Decent men dont spend half an evening at their exs flat. They pick up the kids, take them for a walk, then bring them home. Your husband is there, eating Claires borscht, probably holding her hand when the kids arent looking.
Sophie, thats enough, Emma clenched the handset tighter.
Enough? Fine. But remember my words. Youll keep feeding him lies, and when you finally do, dont say I didnt warn you.
The call ended. Emma stared at the ceiling while someone on TV laughed loudly. She felt nothing.
I came back close to midnight. Emma heard me strip in the hallway, hear the water run in the bathroom. I slipped into bed beside her, and the scent of a foreign, cloying perfume filled the room.
She didnt ask why I was late. She had no strength left. I started talking, settling into a comfortable position.
Sorry Im late. Lucy needed a craft for kindergarten, so I helped her, I mumbled, already halfclosed. She made a pinecone bull looked funny.
Emma nodded in the darkness, though I couldnt see her.
That pattern went on for months: Tuesday, Saturday. Off and on, the foreign perfume, the excuses.
Then I changed. I grew sullen, withdrawn. I could sit for hours staring at my phone, brow furrowed. Emma tried to pry, to ask what was wrong, but I waved her off, muttering something unintelligible before retreating to another room.
A couple of weeks later I dropped some news on her.
Listen, weve got a double date on Friday.
Emma looked up, eyebrows raised.
With whom?
With Claire and her new boyfriend.
The weight on Emmas shoulders lifted. So Claire had someone? I wasnt with the ex? I hadnt been cheating? All her fears were unfounded? A smile flickered on her face. She turned to me, wrapped her arms around my neck.
Of course well go.
Friday arrived quickly. Emma bought a new dresslightblue, formfitting, wanting to look her best, to show Claire she was worthy of me, that she was the right choice.
We met at a cosy café on the other side of town, wooden tables, soft lighting. Claire was already seated with a man in his forties, tall, athletic, with a warm smile.
Hi, Claire stood to greet us. This is Mark.
She looked polished, slender, wellkept.
Mark shook my hand, and we all settled in. Emma felt a hopeful flutter; the evening should be calm, wed chat, then go our separate ways.
But the double date turned into a disaster.
All night I behaved as if I were trying to reclaim my ex from this newcomer. I kept cutting Mark off, dramatically proving that I knew Claire better.
Mark suggested ordering a peppery pizza. I interjected:
Claire cant handle spice.
I know, Mark replied calmly. We discussed that earlier. You interrupted, didnt let me finish. Lets get her something else.
I wouldnt let it go.
Remember, Claire, when we took the kids to the seaside? I blurted, ignoring Mark. Harry brought a jellyfish to the shore, thinking it was a toy.
Claire nodded, irritation evident on her face.
James, that was ages ago, she tried to change the subject.
But I kept going, recounting story after storyabout the kids, about the time we chose a pram for Lucy, about sleepless nights when Harry had colic.
Emma sat mute, clutching a glass of water. Each of my words hit a raw nerve. Claire looked uncomfortable, Mark tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but I was oblivious.
And then it hit me. I hadnt let go of Claire. I was still clinging to our shared past, to the children, to the memories. I was the spare part, the temporary replacement.
My phone ranga bank automated voice. I pretended to be talking to my mother, said something urgent.
Sorry, I have to go. Its important.
No one stopped me. I slipped out of the café, hailed a taxi, and sped home.
In the flat, I dragged a large suitcase out and began packing. I could no longer endure his behaviour.
James came back an hour later, irritated, angry. He saw the suitcase at my feet.
Whats happening? he demanded.
I lifted my gaze, eyes dry, tears long gone, buried between sweaters and jeans.
Im leaving, I said simply.
Where? he frowned.
Anywhere but here, I shrugged into my coat. Tonights date opened my eyes. You still love Claire, or you just cant let go. I dont know which is worse.
What are you talking about? he started, but I raised a hand, halting him.
Stop. Dont lie. I saw how you behaved. You tried to win her over from Mark, spending the whole evening showing shes yours, that theres still a bond. I was just a spare.
He fell silent.
I wont be a backup, James, I continued, gripping the suitcase handle. Im done. Im leaving.
Emma, wait, he pleaded.
No, I shook my head. I love you, but this love has burned out, it will only scar me more. At least Ill keep a shred of my dignity.
I walked out the door. He just watched, saying nothing, not trying to stop me, not begging me to stay, not even offering an explanation.
I called a taxi and headed to my parents house. In the back seat, the night city blurred past the window, and I thought of only one thing: at last I was free.
