Shed checked her husbands location on the familytracker app the one hed claimed was just on a fishing trip and it led her straight to the doors of the city maternity ward.
Why does the invoice show thirty thousand pounds less than the estimate? Ethel said, her voice icy, into the contractors handset from the site of her latest project. We approved the Italian porcelain, reference 712. Did you install a Chinese copy?
Ethel, whos going to notice? the foreman chuckled, trying too hard to sound affable. It looks exactly the same! Think of the savings. Ill even give you half the kickback, and no one will ever know.
Ill notice, Ethel snapped. And thats enough. Have the tiles replaced by lunch tomorrow, or well be meeting in court. Lose this contract and your licence, too.
She slammed the phone down before he could answer. Her hands trembled with anger the familiar cocktail of sleepless nights, endless sketches of every square centimetre of a future interior, only to have some smoothtalking handyman try to bleed her dry, treating her like a fool. A designer needed nerves of steel and a heart of iron; Ethel had both in abundance. After twenty years in the trade shed learned how to defend her designs and put the most brazen subcontractors in their place.
She got home late, exhausted and fuming. Waiting on the doorstep was her husband, Simon, holding a steaming mug of her favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he smiled gently, taking her overloaded bag of material samples. Come in, my valkyrie, dinners on the table.
Simon was the opposite of Ethel calm, homeoriented, unambitious. He worked as a design engineer for a quiet firm, earned a modest but reliable salary, and seemed perfectly content in their snug little world. He was the island of peace she retreated to after her daily skirmishes.
Theyd been married twentytwo years, raised a son who was now studying in another city, and lived a steady, unremarkable life. Ethel built her career; Simon kept the home fires burning, always meeting her with a meal, listening to her endless rants about the wrong shade of beige, and never blaming her for disappearing on site for days. Friends called him the perfect husband, and she believed it too.
Lately, though, hed grown distant, pensive. Hed taken up a new hobby fishing and every weekend he slipped away with his mate Colin to the lakes.
Simon, fishing in November? Ethel asked, bewildered.
Whats the fuss? he shrugged. The fish are biting now. A bit of quiet, a chance to think. You could use a break yourself.
She didnt argue. He needed his space. She packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped his sandwiches, and sent him off with a light heart.
That Saturday he left at dawn. After finishing an urgent job, Ethel decided to treat herself. She visited the salon, then wandered into a huge supermarket, drifting between aisles and mentally planning the weeks menu. She thought of calling Simon to see if he needed anything for his return, dialled his number, and was met with endless rings. Silence.
Usually hed answer straight away. A small knot of worry formed. Had something gone wrong? A flat tyre? A slip on icy roads? Six months ago theyd installed a familytracking app on their phones to keep tabs on their universitygoing son. Shed rarely used it, feeling it invasive, but now
She opened the app. Three dots appeared on the map: hers, her sons at his halls, and Simons. Her heart skidded. His point wasnt out in the countryside or by a lake; it was in town, in a residential area. She zoomed in. The pin stopped on a particular building on Flower Street, number 7. She typed the address into the search bar, and the phone displayed what her brain refused to accept: St. Marys Maternity Ward, London.
Glitch, she told herself. A silly app error. Perhaps Colin, now a new granddad, had stopped by to congratulate him? But why lie about fishing?
She tried calling again; his phone was switched off. Panic hardened into a cold, sticky dread. She tossed her trolley of groceries into the middle of the aisle. A shop assistant tried to get her attention, but she barely heard. She bolted out, rushed to the car, her hands shaking so badly she almost dropped the key into the lock.
All the way she muttered like a mantra, Its a mistake. Its just a mistake. She imagined a hundred logical explanations: theyd been picking up Colins son, the car broke down nearby, anything but the nightmare her mind was painting.
She parked opposite the maternity ward a typical yellowbrick building with a porch crowded by people clutching flowers and balloons. Happy fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers. Ethel sat in her car, unable to move. Fear of what she might see the shattering of her meticulously built world rooted her to the seat.
Then she saw him.
Simon stepped out, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp shirt shed ironed for him the night before. Beside him walked a young woman, midtwenties, her face a mix of exhaustion and joy, cradling a newborn. In Simons hand was a white envelope tied with a skyblue satin ribbon.
A frail woman, presumably the babys mother, hurried over, embracing Simon and whispering excitedly. He smiled a smile Ethel hadnt seen in years, the shy, delighted grin hed worn twentytwo years ago when hed first brought home baby Danny from the same ward.
Through the windshield, the scene unfolded like a painting, drowning out the world outside. No cars, no streets, no city just her husband, another woman, and a child. And there she was, a duped, betrayed fool, sitting in a car shed bought with her own money.
She didnt get out. She didnt raise her voice. Her steelhardened resolve, forged in battles with foremen and clients, whispered a different plan: act, not scream. Cool, calculated, ruthless.
She turned the car around and drove home, back to the flat shed considered a fortress. Inside, everything bore her fingerprints, bought with her cash, and now all of it reminded her of him. She stalked over to the bookcase where his collection of model sailing ships a hobby from his boyhood sat on display. She grabbed the largest frigate and flung it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand splinters, and a strange relief washed over her.
Methodically, as she would a bill of quantities, she made the first move: a call to her solicitor.
Archie Lawson, good morning. I need an urgent case divorce and asset division.
Next, she fired up her laptop, logged onto the bank, and transferred every penny from their joint savings into her personal account. The password was their wedding date how very fitting. She also moved the remainder of her salary, leaving exactly £1,000 in the joint account for the sandwiches, for the fisherman.
She packed Simons belongings rumpled shirts, his fishing boots, the daft model ships into large black bags. She called a removal van and arranged for everything to be sent to the one address she knew: his mothers house.
When the flat fell quiet and echoing, she sank onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow. Not from hurt, but from fury at herself at the blind trust shed placed at home while she could spot a flaw in a façade at work. How could she, so sharp on site, be so clueless at home?
Later that evening his voice crackled over the line, panicked.
Ethel, I dont get it I got home and my stuffs gone. The accounts are empty. Whats happened? Did we get robbed?
We werent robbed, Simon, she replied, voice as cold as steel. Just a redesign. Ive cleared out the clutter.
What clutter? Wheres my stuff? Wheres the money?!
Your things are with your mother. As for the money consider it child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity ward today very touching, congratulations. Hope the fishing was fruitful.
Silence stretched for a few seconds.
Ethel Ill explain! Its not what you think!
I dont need explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will be in touch about the divorce tomorrow. Dont look for me, and delete this number.
She hung up, blocked his contact, and walked into the kitchen. From a cupboard she pulled out a stack of drafting paper and her favourite coloured pencils. She began to sketch a new life plan no him, no lies, no compromises. This would be her best project yet, painted not in almost the same shades but in the true colour of freedom.
Betrayal from someone close cuts deep, but sometimes that cut is the point where a genuine new chapter begins. How would you have reacted in Ethels place? Would you have listened to explanations or taken the same decisive route? Share your thoughts it matters. And if this story struck a chord, do consider subscribing and giving it a like.
