Dear diary,
I was in the kitchen preparing a mushroom gratin Jamess favourite dish while the little ones were already fast asleep. The house was warm, scented with the herbs and spices drifting from the oven. 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 shattered my world in an instant. Ten years of marriage seemed to crumble in that single moment.
I stared at the screen until it went dark, then another notification appeared. I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slid the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we had built together or rather, one he had built while I gave myself up.
Darling, the most important thing now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, he had said.
I 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 replied, eyes glued to his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to more me or himself?
Are you alright? he noticed my silence.
Yes, just tired, I said, forcing a smile.
Inside, everything was falling apart.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, eyes shut, replaying how we first met, how he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came the marriage, the first pregnancy, the second pregnancy, the evergrowing demands of the company.
You see, the priority is for us to become stable, he would say.
I understood. I ran the household, organised appointments, answered calls, and tucked my sketches away in a drawer for a better day.
The next morning I began noticing the little things I had missed: the way he chose his shirt, the extra minutes he spent combing his hair, the way his gaze darted away when he read messages.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, asked, tugging at my sleeve.
Sorry, love, Ive got an important meeting, I told him.
An important meeting. I wondered would she be wearing a blue dress? The same dress I had worn at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in the closet, far too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the endless errands. Yet inside, one question burned why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter, Poppy, whispered, wrapping her arms around me.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I replied, but I no longer believed my own excuse.
We need to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketchbooks from the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects I found a drawing of a childrens bedroom Id made when I was pregnant with Poppy bright colours, suspended swings, modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a childrens room.
Just what? When did my dreams become just?
The phone buzzed again. A message from him:
Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and suddenly realised I could not go on like this.
The following night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I waited for him, a clear decision humming in my chest.
When he walked in, coat still on, I asked, Who is she?
The words slipped out soft but cut the silence like a knife.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands trembled.
Claire, he began.
Tell me the truth. I have the right to know, I pressed.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It means nothing, he said.
Nothing?
Its just that you see, between us everything has been cold for ages.
Cold?
I remembered everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I asked.
When what? he replied.
When did it all become cold? I pressed.
When I stopped wearing nice dresses? he guessed.
When I sacrificed my own dream for your business? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he muttered.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our children. Is that what you call a housewife?! I snapped.
Sophie, listen he tried, reaching for my hand.
We can sort this out. Ill quit. We can start again, he offered.
But the man in front of me felt like a stranger.
Whats the worst part? I asked, voice steadier now.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman, I continued. Its that you cant even see what youve done.
I will become myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I collected the kids, and a new chapter began.
I am no longer someones shadow. I am myself again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now feels wonderful. After all, the greatest betrayal is betraying yourself.
