Dear Diary,
I was putting the oven on for a mushroom casseroleMarks favourite dish. The kids were already asleep, and the house was warm, scented with the herbs Id been simmering all day. My phone buzzed on the kitchen table.
The screen lit up with a brief message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they turned my world upsidedown in an instant. Ten years of marriage collapsed in a heartbeat.
I stared at the screen until it went dark, then a new notification arrived. I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slid the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business wed built togetheror rather, one hed built while I sacrificed my own ambitions.
Darling, the most important thing now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing more often lately, I didnt ask any questions.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he said.
I watched him in silence, his eyes fixed on his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to the mostme or himself?
Are you alright? he asked, noticing my quiet.
Yes, just tired, I replied with a smile, while everything inside me was crumbling.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I couldnt sleep. With my eyes closed I recalled how we met, how hed admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and a business that demanded more and more of his time.
You understand, dont you? The priority now is that we stabilise, hed urged.
I understood. I ran the household, organised appointments, answered calls, and tucked my sketches away in a drawerfor better days.
The next morning I began to notice the little things Id missed before: the way he carefully chose his shirt, the extra minutes he spent fixing his hair, the way his gaze darted away when he read messages on his phone.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? my younger son, Harry, asked, grabbing my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting.
An important meeting. I wonderedwould she be wearing a blue dress? The same blue dress Id worn at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in my closet, too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as beforemaking breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet inside, one question burned: why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my older daughter, Grace, whispered, hugging me tightly.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I said, but I no longer believed my own excuses.
We needed 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 created when I was pregnant with Gracea colourful, whimsical room with hanging swings and modular walls.
And James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
Just
When had my dreams turned into 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 children staying with their grandmother, I waited for him with a clear decision in my heart.
When he walked in, coat still on, I asked, Who is she?
The question Id held inside finally slipped out, cutting the silence like a blade.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands trembled.
Claire he whispered.
Tell me the truth. I have the right to know, I demanded.
He sat opposite me, fidgeting with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing? I pressed.
Its just you see, things have been cold between us for a long time.
Cold.
I recalled everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to London 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 muttered.
When I sacrificed my own dream for your company? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our children. Is that what being a housewife means? I roared.
SophieI mean, Marklisten to me he tried to take my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over, he promised.
But I saw a stranger across the table.
Whats the worst part? I asked.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman, I said. Its that you cant even understand what youve done.
I opened my sketchbook for the first time in years. The next morning I collected the kids and, for the first time in a long while, felt a spark of something new.
A new chapter began. I was no longer living in someone elses shadow; I was finally myself again. The uncertainty that once frightened me now seemed beautiful.
The greatest betrayal, Ive learned, is betraying yourself.
