I was pulling a mushroom gratin out of the oven Jamess favourite dish while the house hummed with the warmth of latesummer and the scent of thyme. The kids were already tucked in, dreaming of dragons, and my phone buzzed on the kitchen table.
A brief message lit up the screen:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they knocked my whole reality off its perch. Ten years of marriage seemed to crumble in an instant.
I stared at the phone until the display faded, then another notification appeared. I didnt even bother reading it.
My hands trembled as I slid the gratin onto the middle rack. Ten years. Two children. A business wed supposedly built together or rather, one hed built while I was busy being the familys unpaid secretary.
Darling, right now the most important thing is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed said.
Id believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing a lot lately, I didnt ask any questions.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he muttered, eyes glued to his plate.
I watched him in silence, wondering whether he was lying to me or to himself.
Everything alright? he finally asked, noticing my quiet.
Yeah, just exhausted, I replied with a smile, even though inside I felt the kitchen walls collapsing.
When had I stopped existing for my own sake?
That night I lay awake, eyes closed, replaying how wed met. The way hed admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future, the wedding, the first pregnancy, the second, the everexpanding company that seemed to eat up every spare minute.
You understand, dont you? All we need now is stability, hed said.
I understood all too well. I ran the household, juggled appointments, answered endless emails, and shoved my sketches into a drawer for later.
The next morning, details that had once escaped me started to stand out: the way he meticulously chose his shirt, how he spent ages fixing his hair, how his gaze kept flickering to his phone.
Dad, can you play with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, begged, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I said, trying not to think about whether the woman at that meeting would be wearing a blue dress the same dress Id worn at the start of our romance, now gathering dust in the back of my wardrobe, far too fancy for grocery runs or PTA evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the endless paperwork. Yet a single question smouldered inside me: why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter, Poppy, whispered, pulling me into a hug.
Its fine, love. Im just tired, I replied, but my usual excuses no longer felt convincing.
We needed to talk.
That evening I dug out my old sketchbook from the drawer, brimming with ideas and plans. I found a design for a childs bedroom Id drawn when I was pregnant with Poppy bright colours, hanging swings, modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
When did my dreams become just simple?
The phone buzzed again. A message from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and, for the first time, felt a clear decision forming.
The following night, with the children at Grandmas, I waited for him, heart steady.
He slipped in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The words left my mouth like a quiet knife cutting through the silence.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky, his hands shaking.
Claire he began.
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I pressed, watching him fidget with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing?
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for ages.
Cold?
I recalled everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters sorting his files.
Skipping a holiday to Paris because of his meeting.
When? I asked.
When what?
When did it all get so cold?
When I stopped wearing nice dresses?
When I gave up my own dreams for his company?
He winced.
Dont dramatise it. You chose to be a housewife, he replied.
A housewife? I snapped. I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Thats what you call being a housewife?
Sophie, listen he tried to reach for my hand.
No, James. Im not listening to promises about well fix it later. I see a stranger sitting across from me.
He swallowed. You know whats worst?
Silence stretched.
Its not that youve met someone else, I said. Its that you dont even recognise what youve done.
I opened my sketchbook again, for the first time in years. The next morning I gathered the kids, and then a new chapter began.
I was no longer a shadow of anyone else. I was me again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt exhilarating.
Because the worst betrayal isnt cheating on a partner its cheating on yourself.
